Mission Impossible

22

Mission Impossible

    Bob stood morosely in the swamping humidity of the Auckland International Airport. He’d been far too early, of course, but shit, the plane had landed, she must be off soon!

    He looked sourly at a huge gaggle of middle-aged dames in floral blouses and them non-crease slacks, polyester or something, Coral always bought them. They were all yodelling: “Yoo-hoo, Shirley!” and waving madly at the other gaggle of middle-aged dames in floral blouses and non-crease slacks, his side of the barrier, that were waving a sign—to the imminent danger of the populace, at least those with eyes a normal height above the ground—that said “SHIRLEYS,” and yodelling back: “Yoo-hoo, Shirley!” Mad. Totally barmy.

    “Sorry!” said a breathless voice. “Have you been waiting long? I couldn’t get through, the plane was full of Shirleys!”

    Bob looked weakly at Libby in a crumpled grey tee-shirt that was doing its best to hide the tits and a pair of very old jeans that were nice and tight round the thighs. “Not long. Hullo, Libby.” He looked uncertainly at her small zippered holdall. Didn’t you usually have your baggage with you when you got off an international flight, because you’d of had to go through Customs? Yeah, that was right, Tamsin had been complaining about the lack of trolleys, last time. “Uh—that the only bag ya brung?”

    “Yes!” gasped Libby. “Sorry, I got stuck behind all those Shirleys, the actual Customs inspection was very quick but it took ages because of the queue!”

    “Yeah.” There didn’t seem to be anyone else coming through at all: she must have been about the last through. Let them bloody moos with all those bags push in front of her, that was what. “What in Hell’s a Shirley, when it’s at home?”

    Libby had had more than time on the flight to become very, very nervous about being met at the airport by Bob Kenny and by having to go all the way down to Taupo in his company and just generally by the thought of having to see Bob Kenny again. She kept remembering what he’d said—and done—that time on the boat, hard though she tried not to. And what Janet had said to her about him. Now she was so surprised that she forget her nerves and gave a sudden laugh.

    “Don’t you know? It’s a Shirley, of course! A lady that’s called Shirley: there’s a world-wide club of them.”

    “Very funny,” growled Bob, turning very red.

    “No, honest!”

    “Um—oh. Ya mean it’s like the Lions?”

    “No, their names aren’t all Lion!” said Libby with a loud giggle.

    “Of course their names aren’t bloody well— Cripes,” said Bob, goggling at her.

    Libby nodded hard. “Yes! Isn’t it mad? Why would you want to have a club with people just because you’ve got the same first name? The original ones would all have been named after Shirley Temple, of course, but these’d be the second or third generation. They do sometimes have international conventions, but these ones are just a group of the Queensland ones that decided to have a nice holiday in Rotorua with some of the New Zealand ones. They’re going to go on bus tours: you know.”

    He nodded groggily. “Shirleys,” he croaked. “Now I seen everything.”

    Libby laughed. “Yes! It does give you that feeling, doesn’t it?”

    “Yeah. Um, the waggon’s in the parking lot.”

    “Yes, of course,” she agreed.

    Bob waited but she didn’t tell him to bring it round to the exit, not that he’d really thought she would, but still, ya never could tell, with females. So he said: “I gotta pick up some stuff for Taupo Organic Produce. I’ll have to collect it next. Shouldn’t take too long, the place is in South Auckland somewhere, not that far from here. It’s a load of pavers, they can just bung them in the trailer.”

    “Yes. Um, in that case,” said Libby, turning pink, “I think I’d better go to the toilet.”

    “Yeah, sure.” Bob knew where the bogs were: he’d been so early he’d had plenty of time to suss the place out. “Over there.”

    “Um, where?”

    He took her gently by the elbow, feeling his ears go very red as he did so. “Just over here. Come on, I’ll show you.”

    “Thanks,” said Libby faintly. It was a very strange sensation, having Bob Kenny hold her arm like that. Not that he wasn’t doing it quite—quite impersonally, but…

    As she disappeared into the Ladies’ Bob found his knees were trembling. Shit! Thought he was—well, not over it, exactly. Getting over it, anyway. Well, would he of done those other bloody dames if he really wanted her? Unfortunately at the moment the answer seemed to be “Yes.” Well, shit!

    “I don’t remember all these fields,” said Libby faintly after they’d been driving for some time.

    They were in the wilds of South Auckland—would it be technically Manukau City hereabouts? Well, whatever it was, there weren’t enough road signs.

    “Uh—no, didn’t come this way, last time,” said Bob in a vague voice. “…Bugger,” he concluded as another intersection approached and turned out not to be what he’d thought it might be. “Sorry, have to stop and look at the map.” He drew in to the side, taking care not to end in the ditch. The grass in it was higher than the road surface, and there was of course grass on the verge as well. Not that the rest of the country wasn’t similar.

    “More ditches,” said Libby, peering.

    “Mm-hm…” Okay, that was north, so… No. How old was this ruddy map, anyway? Uh—he distinctly remembered having it back that long-gone summer when him, a whingeing Coral, who’d wanted to stand outside the Taupo souvenir shops all summer with a clipboard in her hand taking statistics, and a whingeing Neil, whose mother had unilaterally decided that a four-year-old didn’t need to bring his Fozzie Bear on holiday, had come up to stay at Coral’s cousins’ bach at Laingholm. Other side of the Manukau, which was a huge harbour, and very shallow and silted up. It hadn’t been a success: Hellishly humid, millions of sandflies, and if they wanted a view of nothing but water they might just as well have camped down by the lake on that piece of land his father was letting go to waste, unquote.

    The map was useless. “I’ll back up and take another dekko at that roa—”

    “No!” hissed Libby frantically.

    “Eh?”

    “Ssh! Look! Swamp hens!” she hissed.

    Bob looked. Three dark navy forms with long pink legs were walking calmly along the opposite verge as if they owned the place. Which if ya thought about it, they ruddy well did. More so then a pair of pakehas in a rusty Australian-made heap, that was for sure.

    “Um, yeah, pukekos,” he said weakly. Common as muck, all over the North Island, the minute you got out of the more populated areas.

    “Are they native birds, then?” she breathed.

    “Uh—yeah, ’course,” said Bob limply.

    Libby watched, holding her breath. The pukekos just pottered on, and eventually disappeared amongst some taller grasses. She let out her breath in a deep sigh. “I think their legs are longer and pinker than our ones’,” she decided.

    “So ya got them over there?” said Bob feebly.

    “Um—yes. Well, I’ve seen them. Actually I’m not sure whether they’re Australian natives or not.”

    Could well of been imported from New Zealand—well, the early settlers were mad enough to bring wallabies and flaming possums over here from Australia: could have been mad enough to take New Zealand birds over to Oz, eh?

    “Um, what?” said Libby timidly, looking at his expression.

    Feebly Bob said it.

    “Yes!” she squeaked, collapsing in giggles. “And gorse from England!” she gasped.

    “Yeah, too flaming right. Did they over there, too?”

    “Yes, but the climate’s either too dry or too tropical for it to take hold, in most parts.”

    “Right; in that case, either Pete or Vern will’ve been giving you an earful,” he concluded.

    “Both. And Wal Briggs!” gasped Libby, collapsing again.

    Shit, he’d’ve said Wal Briggs was as urbanised as they came. Well, used to get out in the bush after deer or pig with Pete and Jake Carrano when he was younger, yeah. But that apart—

    “Yeah. Brainwashed by the farming lobby, eh?” he said with a weak grin.

    “Mm,” agreed Libby, wiping her eyes and looking at him in some surprise. Well, perhaps the expression “farming lobby” was a commonplace, here? It was an agricultural country, after all.

    Bob didn’t notice her reaction to his use of the phrase: he was looking at the map again. He could see where they hadda go, and where they’d come from, but not where they were!

    “Um, if the road’s clear of pukekos I will check that corner.”

    “Mm,” she agreed, smiling.

    He looked but it still made no sense. Uh—hang on. “Does this road we’re on look new to you?” he said in a weak voice.

    “Well, there’s a lot of grass along it, Bob. Um, the surface is good, isn’t it? Um, newish?”

    “That’ll be it,” said Bob with a sigh. “This road what we come on’ll be newer than me flaming map.”

    Libby gulped.

    “So that road there is this one on the map, and if we turn into it it’ll take us more or less straight there. –I hope,” he admitted, turning into it.

    He waited but she didn’t officiously pick the map up and tell him he was wrong. Well, that was a first!

    Libby looked out at a view of flat fields with their barbed-wire fences—ooh, there was a clump of the dreaded gorse!—and no animals. “It’s very flat: we must be on the Auckland isthmus, is that right?”

    He’d never actually heard anybody use that word. “Uh—right. Um, woulda been all swampland round here, originally: the Maoris used to drag their canoes overland between the harbours, quite easily. Well, explains the pukekos, I suppose,” he ended on a weak note.

    “Mm, of course… Look, there’s some cows!” she said pleasedly.

    “Mm-hm: Friesians. Town milk supply, they’ll be. When we get down into the Waikato you’ll see lots of Jerseys.”

    Libby’s mind immediately produced a very feeble joke relating the concepts of Shirleys all being called Shirley and Jerseys all wearing— Um, no.

    Bob glanced sideways at her. “’Member them Shirleys?”

    “Mm,” agreed Libby in a squashed voice.

    “Well, Jerseys aren’t the same. They don’t all have to be wearing jerseys just because they’re called—”

    “Oh!” she cried loudly. “That’s just what I was thinking!”

    “Then we both got feebleized senses of humour, eh?” said Bob, grinning.

    “Exactly!” she beamed.

    They drove on through the wilds of South Auckland, both smiling…

    “I’m fine,” said Jan with a smile. She hadn’t failed to note how pale and nervous Libby had been as she came in and how relieved she’d looked to see her sitting up in her dressing-gown on top of the bed, rather than tucked up in it. “I won’t offer to show you me scar,” she added with a leer.

    Libby blenched. “Ugh, do people?”

    “All the time,” admitted Jan with a grin.

    “Favourite hobby of most what end up in hospital,” added Pete. “Old bloke in the next room, don’t know ’im from Adam, merely said gidday and he’s hauling up ’is pyjama top, and hauling down ’is pyjama—”

    “Yes, all right; Libby doesn’t wanna know,” said Jan.

    “Triple by-pass, this time, and prostate last time,” explained Pete with a certain relish.

    His daughter turned puce. “Surely he wouldn’t—”

    “Yeah,” he said definitely.

    “Shut up, Pete, don’t make me laugh,” warned Jan.

    Pete didn’t shut up but he did change the subject. “What’ve ya done with Bob?”

    “Nothing,” said Libby faintly. “He said he wouldn’t barge in.”

    “That was very thoughtful of him,” said Jan firmly.

    “Mad, ya mean,” corrected Pete. “Where is ’e? In the carpark?”

    “No, he said he’d wait in the lobby.”

    “Mad,” he repeated. “Hang on; I’ll get him.” He vanished.

    Libby looked limply at Jan.

    “He’s a bit up, it’s the relief. Caricaturing himself,” she said mildly.

    His daughter had to swallow hard. “I see.”

    “I’m not allowed to give you any instructions about the ecolodge,” said Jan with a twinkle in her eye, “or Pete’ll remove me pacemaker with his bare hands and Polly’ll hold his coat while he does it, but I will just say, if anything does go wrong, just remember the guests are human, too, they won’t mind a few booboos if you explain you’re new to it; and Bob’s completely reliable.”

    “Mm,” Libby admitted, gnawing on her lip. “I suppose he is.”

    Jan swallowed a sigh. “Look, whatever crap Janet may have come out with in that regard—and I don’t wanna know what it was—just ignore ninety percent of it, okay? She’s a prejudiced man-hater who’d never even have got married if her social milieu had suggested there could be any alternative.”

    “She likes some men,” replied Libby dubiously. “She likes Dad.”

    “She tolerates him, that’s all. He’s older, so she doesn’t see him as a dangerous male—little does she know,” added Jan drily, “and he’s eccentric enough for her to be able to dismiss him comfortably as merely mildly amusing.”

    “Mm. I see. What about the other ten percent?” said Libby, going very red.

    “Uh—oh! Bob?” said Jan with a cautious eye on the door. “He likes sex, what’s wrong with that? And Coral wouldn’t give it to him, so after some years of making a real effort at monogamy without the usual rewards—bet Janet didn’t bother to mention that bit—he looked for it elsewhere. And at the moment he’s as free as you are. And—well, it isn’t really the male nature to dodge when a female throws herself at them. Why not cut him some slack, poor bloke?”

    “Mm,” she muttered, glaring at the floor.

    Jan sighed, conscious, not for the first time, of a strong desire to wring Janet’s scrawny neck for her. “And as I say, he’s completely reliable. Not to say, bloody generous: God knows he doesn’t owe us anything on the strength of having signed that ruddy agreement to run the tours for us.”

    “No,” agreed Libby faintly. “He said that Vern’s much better.”

    “Yes: having lots of physio. They’ve let him go home, but he’s not fully mobile yet, needs help getting in and out of his wheelchair, so poor Cheryl has had to rally round. –Dave’s wife: his eldest son, the one who runs Central Air Freight. She can’t stand her ma-in-law,” she explained, making a face.

    “No-one can,” admitted Pete from the doorway. “Here he is, the great nana.”

    “Hullo, Bob,” said Jan, smiling at him. “I know you don’t want to be thanked again, but ta anyway.”

    “That’s okay,” he growled. “How are ya, today?”

    “Good! Looking forward to getting out of here tomorrow and staying in the lap of luxury!”

    “Yeah.” Bob cleared his throat. “They sent down a load of stuff.”

    “The Carranos? Trust them. Well, use whatever you recognise and chuck the rest out, eh?”

    “Don’t chuck out any tins with Russian writing on ’em and a picture of what looks like fish eggs!” put in Pete quickly.

    “There aren’t any of them, but there’s one with a picture of a hare and Froggy writing on it,” replied Bob stolidly. “Any idea what that might be, Pete?”

    “Hare?” he suggested weakly.

    Libby clapped her hand over her mouth and gave a smothered snigger.

    “Hah, hah!” said Jan. “Just drop the wisecracks, eh, Pete? Is it a small tin, Bob?”

    “Yeah.”

    “It’ll be pâté de lièvre—um, sorry, hare pâté, they’ve given us some before. Polly reckons it’s cheap in France,” she noted drily. “My advice’d be, don’t waste it on the punters.”

    “Then what shall we do with it?” asked Libby on a weak note.

    “Spread it real thick on brown toast, and eat it,” said Pete before Jan could utter.

    “Mm. That,” she admitted. “You can read French, can’t you, Libby?”

    Libby looked uneasy. “Quite well, but I don’t know cookery terms that well.”

    “Never mind, you’ll manage. Anything that looks perishable, it’ll be for you two to eat: don’t try saving it till the weekend. Oh—and I’d get Janet going on the potato salad on Thursday, Libby—”

    “That’ll do,” said Pete firmly. “Not our job any more, ’member? You’ll be right, love!” he said bracingly to his daughter.

    “Yes,” agreed Libby quickly. “’Course.”

    “Mm.” Jan yawned suddenly. “Sorry. They give ya lunch so bloody early in these places, and then you tend to pass out mid-afternoon.”

    “Yeah.” Pete got up. “Have a nap, love. –Come on, I’ll see you two to the carpark.”

    In the carpark he said: “She is okay, ya know. That surgeon Jake found’s the best, and he does that sort of op every day of the week. Bit of a rest up at Jake’s place, plenny of fresh air, nice easy walks: she’ll soon be her old self again. They’re on the cliff top, it’s nice up there. But there’s no way I’m letting her work herself into the ground like before, so you can tell Tamsin from me if she wants to drop the flaming B.A. crap and just finish her hospitality and small business stuff and get on down to the ecolodge permanent by next Christmas, it’s okay by me. More than okay,” he admitted, as Bob got in and leaned across to unlock Libby’s door.

    “Yes,” said Libby faintly. “She did say when she rang up that she’ll have finished by Christmas, only I think Jayne wants her to go on with her B.A.”

    “Yeah. Well, if Andrew does wanna take over, I s’pose that’ll be okay,” he said heavily. “How was Jayne, when ya last spoke to her, love?”

    “She sounded very choked up, still, but she reckoned the cold was getting better and she’d be okay by Easter,” reported Libby dubiously.

    Pete sniffed. “Yeah. Well, last I heard—and ya needn’t tell Jan this bit, ta—Andrew reckoned the doc had told him they hadda be careful it didn’t turn to bronchitis and no way should she be travelling on ruddy planes. So he’s put his foot down and she’s not coming out for Easter after all.”

    Libby looked at him in horror. “But she was gonna do the cooking, Dad!”

    “Too bad. Give them plain roasts. Janet’ll help, she’s not a bad hand with a roast. And listen: just in case Tamsin starts telling her she’s doing it wrong, you sit on ’er good an’ proper, okay?”

    “Sit on Tamsin?” she said faintly. “I’ll try, but she doesn’t take any notice of me, Dad.”

    “Will ya stop fussing, Pete!” said Bob loudly at this point. “The kid’s not gonna tell ’er she’s doing it wrong: she lapped up every word the moo told her, last time! Come on, Libby, it’ll be dark by the time we get there.”

    “Yes,” said Libby faintly. “We’d better go, Dad.”

    “Right. Well, give us a hug, eh?” he said, enveloping her in a bear hug and awarding her a smacking kiss. “You’ll be right, lovey!”

    “Yes.” Libby kissed his cheek. “Don’t worry. And—and you will see Jan takes it easy, won’t you?”

    “Yep. Me and the rest. –Jake and Polly and the professional nurse they’ve hired, not to mention young Katie Maureen—got the determination of her both her parents, that kid. Between you and me, the boys are both a bit useless—Davey’s only interested in sport and cars, not a brain in his head, and Johnny’s the other way: hopeless dreamer, head always in a book or his computer—but little Katie Maureen, she’s on track to take over the company from ’er Dad, lock, stock and barrel! One of them stubborn wee redheads, ya know?”

    “I see,” said Libby, smiling at him. “Good, it sounds as if there’s no chance of Jan overdoing it, then.”

    “Right. Off ya go then, love.”

    Obediently Libby got into the station-waggon.

    Pete closed the door on her, refraining from shaking his head until they were safely out of the carpark. “Well,” he said to himself with a sigh, “just as well Tamsin’s the Katie Maureen sort, ’cos Libby’s more like young Johnny. Which isn’t so bad if you’re only nineteen—though it’s just as well ’is Dad’s got so much he’ll never have to worry about earning a crust—but at turned forty? Shit.”

    On this pessimistic note he went back inside, fully prepared to be bright and chirpy at Jan’s bedside. But fortunately she was asleep. So he popped in next-door and let ole Whatsisface show him his scars—why not? We were all human, after all.

    “I think,” said Bob on a weak note, having driven three yards down the road and pulled in, “that I better head for Newmarket, where the place is that buys the permaculture stuff. ’Cos I know the way to the motorway from there.”

    “That sounds like a good idea.”

    He blinked. “Uh—yeah! Righto, then!” He headed that way. In about ten seconds you could see the bloody motorway flyover up above them but she didn’t say a thing, it was real restful.

    … “It’s a big motorway,” said Libby once they’d been driving on it for some time.

    “S’pose it is, yeah. Compared to the ones in Oz?”

    “Mm.”

    Okay, it was.

    They drove on southwards…

    “Um, how long does it take?” said Libby in a small voice.

    “Well, it’s just on two-eighty K from Auckland, Libby. Well, uh, ya can do it easy in three hours, no speed limit on the highway—well, there is, technically, it’s a hundred K. With a load on behind like we got ya not allowed to do over ninety K, though. Well, under four hours? Um, I can’t stop on the motorway, but if ya need to go to the toilet—”

    “No, I’m all right, thanks,” said Libby in a small voice.

    “Well, just tell us if ya do need to. Aw, hang on,” he remembered. “Look in the glove compartment, will ya? Young Sean gimme a list of really decent places with nice clean ladies’ toilets.”

    “Sean?” said Libby dazedly, obediently scrabbling in the glove compartment. “Is this it?”

    “Yeah, that’s right. Just read it out, will ya?”

     She read it out as best she could: the places mostly had Maori names that she wasn’t sure how to pronounce. Bob didn’t criticise her pronunciation so she felt emboldened to venture: “Did Molly recommend them?”

    “Nope—not quite,” said Bob with a smile in his voice. “Didja meet the little kids from next-door to the ecolodge: the permaculture nuts’ kids?”

    “Um, the Throgmortons’ children?” she said uncertainly.

    “Adopted: that’s the point. Their mum, she was one of the original permaculture nuts and their dad, he was the chief nut. Both drowned in the tsunami, couple of Christmases back.”

    “That’s terrible!” she gasped.

    “Well, losing their mum was, yes, though mind you, she was a bit of a no-hoper, but he was no loss, Had three of ’em.”

    “Yes, I think I’ve seen three childr—”

    “Nope. Three wives. Well, Jan always called ’em concubines, that’d be nearer the mark,” said Bob drily.

    “What?” she gasped.

    “Yeah. –Surprised ruddy Janet hasn’t given you an earful.”

    As he seemed to be waiting for a response to this, Libby ventured: “She—she is very mealy-mouthed, Bob.” Blushing painfully as some of Janet’s remarks about him at Graceland came back vividly to her.

    Bob gave a rich snort. “I should koko! Anyway, there are four kids, and their mum was the middle one. Back just after the tsunami Sean and his sister were pitching in—so were Pete and Jan, of course—and this list dates from the time Sean got landed with the littlest girl on a trip to Auckland with some fruit and veges.” He cleared his throat. “They all got funny names. Nokomis.”

    Libby’s jaw sagged. “Like in Hiawatha?”

    Bob hadn’t expected for a moment she’d recognise it: nobody did, these days. He was so pleased that he replied without thinking: “Too right! ‘There the wrinkled old Nokomis Nursed the little Hiawatha’—don’t think her mum had ever read the poem, she just fancied the name.”

    “Well, yes, but what about ‘From the full moon fell Nokomis, Fell the beautiful Nokomis’?” retorted Libby.

    “Ya got me there, Libby,” he replied, grinning. “So you’ve read it, eh?”

    “Yes. I had to catalogue a volume of Longfellow, once, and I started off looking at it scornfully, thinking it was terribly Victorian and ersatz, and then I got interested,” admitted Libby, wondering how on earth he’d happened to read it.

    “Right. Mum was fond of it: her mum used to read it to them when they were little: she’d been a schoolteacher. Very strict little old lady: always wore black. She was game, though: travelled all over the country when she was a young woman, even went to Oz with a friend. Very unusual: this was back in the early 1920s: Gran was born in 1898. Didn’t marry Granddad until she was thirty. He was a widower with three young kids. I’ve often thought it musta been a real shock to their systems, suddenly being landed with a strict little schoolmarm that read books for a mum!” He laughed.

    “I see. Um, how old was she when she died, Bob?” she asked shyly.

    Bob looked very dry. “Hundred and two. Wee bit deaf by the end, but sharp as a needle, still. Saw three centuries, outlived three of her own kids and two of Granddad’s other kids: trust Gran. They reckoned at the nursing-home she’d made up her mind to see the new millennium, ya see!”

    “Help,” said Libby in awe.

    “Yep: ‘determined’ was Gran’s middle name. Think she musta been a bit like your Tamsin, when she was a young girl,” he admitted, smiling.

    Libby nodded hard. “Mm.” So a partiality for strong-minded little women very probably ran in his family: not only Neil falling for Tamsin, but him falling for Coral, too!

    “Mum wasn’t like her at all,” said Bob with a sigh.

    “What was she like, Bob?”

    “Soft,” said Bob with another sigh.

    “Um, a gentle person?”

    “That, too. Very easy-going; wouldn’t of known the word ‘determined’ if she fell over it. But I s’pose I meant physically: that’s how I remember her. One of those big, soft women that seem like born mums. Not house-proud, mind: she used to drive Gran mad. She’d come round and say: ‘Mary! What are those dishes still doing in the sink at this hour?” and Mum’d say: ‘They won’t run away, Mum.’” He laughed. “Chalk and cheese, they were! Used to loathe and fear Gran when I was a wee chap, to tell ya the truth. It wasn’t until I was a lot older that I really got to appreciate her qualities. Well, by that time she was a pretty old lady, and I s’pose I could just shrug the bossiness off, but it beat me how Granddad ever managed to live with her! Think he just liked having his house run competently and three hot meals a day put in front of him. –Don’t say ‘Just like the rest’, he was a timber miller back in the days when they still let ya cut down the native forests, and it was bloody hard yacker. Got a picture of him and me Great-Uncle Bob pit-sawing a ruddy great log, round about 1925.”

    “Pit-sawing?” echoed Libby faintly.

    “Yeah. And don’t say Taupo’s the back of beyond and we shoulda got past that stage by the 1920s!”

    “I wasn’t going to. I—I don’t know what it is.”

    “Oh! Shit, I’m sorry, Libby.” Bob told her all about pit-sawing and for good measure quite a lot of what he remembered about Granddad and Great-Uncle Bob, then diverging onto Uncle Fred, who was his full uncle, and Uncle Toby and Uncle Mike, who were his mum’s half-brothers.

    “It must be nice,” said Libby shyly. “We never knew any of our relations, all the time we were growing up.”

    “Well, dunno about that: ya get invited to an awful lot of weddings and christenings and twenny-firsts and stuff that ya haveta cough up a present for. These days it’s me cousins’ kids that all seem to be getting married.”

    “Of course: they’d all be around Neil’s age,” agreed Libby, smiling at him.

    “Yeah. Well, at least Coral and me never had a girl,” said Bob heavily.

    “Um, no… Oh! I see! Yes, weddings are very expensive. Tamsin’s friend Bronwyn got married last year.” Libby told him in great detail what Tamsin had told her about Bronwyn’s gigantic outdoor wedding. Giant marquees were the least of it: it had had an aquatic theme, with barges, and musicians on the barges, and five million silver and white balloons tied to the barges, and speed boats towing, variously, paragliders and a huge banner that read “Congratulations Scott and Bronwyn.”

    “The ceremony was on one of the barges so they had to hire a loudspeaker system so as the guests could hear it.”

    “Ya mean the minister stood on the barge?” he croaked.

    “Yes. And the bridal party. See, their suburb, it’s on a system of canals. It’s pretty, but they get a lot of crocs.”

    Bob gulped.

    “Tamsin said that Bronwyn’s Dad reckoned it set him back over a hundred thousand dollars.”

    “I can well believe it!” he said with feeling. “How do these people afford that sort of dough?”

    “I don’t know,” said Libby simply. “I’ve always just been a wage-earner.”

    “Yeah. Um, Jayne wouldn’t be mad enough to want a fancy do like that for Tamsin, would she?” he asked uneasily.

    “No, of course not! She’s not into conspicuous consumption. Though I have to admit she’s designed several weddings for her, over the years—starting when she was about two!” said Libby with a little laugh. “It was great fun, actually: she had a little white dress for best, and Jayne was looking at some pictures of brides in a fashion magazine and she suddenly said, ‘Let’s have a wedding!’ So Tamsin was the bride, and we picked lots of flowers, and Teddy was the groom and Panda was the minister, and she had two lovely dolls that Bill wouldn’t let her play with until she was a bit older, so we got them out and they were the bridesmaids, and of course Snowy Bear always had to go everywhere with her—he was sort of pale grey by that time, even though Jayne did wash him—so he was the page boy! And Jayne took some photos, and then we had the delicious wedding breakfast! Fairy bread!” She collapsed in giggles.

    Bob smiled. “Fairy bread, eh? Never heard of that.”

    “Well, Tamsin was just old enough to have it, you see. Um—heck!” discovered Libby. “All the kids have it for parties in Australia, I’ve never had to describe it… Well, white bread, cut up into small squares, and those cake-sprinkle things on it. Um, hundreds and thousands?” she offered, as Bob was looking completely blank.

    “Oh! Cripes! Mum always did that for our birthday parties! So ya got a name for it, eh? Fairy bread!”

    “Yes, of course. I don’t see how you could have it without the name,” said Libby dubiously. “What did you call it?”

    “Bread with hundreds and thousands, far’s I remember. Well, it was a fair way back.”

    Libby nodded, but still looked dubious.

    “Thing is,” said Bob, his lips twitching, “Mum always made it without being asked, so we never had to refer to it.”

    “Hah, hah,” she replied weakly.

    Somehow Bob felt immensely cheered by this response, though he couldn’t honestly have said why. “So ya reckon she’d want a white wedding with flowers, eh?”

    “What? Oh,” she said limply. “Jayne will, yeah. I dunno about Tamsin: she isn’t two any more. She is pretty level-headed, but all girls seem to want white weddings, don’t they?”

    “Too right,” agreed Bob with a wince. Well, look at the huge fuss that had gone on over his and Coral’s—and if ya could get more level-headed than her, he’d like to meet it! Ugh, no, he wouldn’t, on second thoughts.

    “Um, it is the bride’s side that pays,” said Libby kindly.

    “Yeah. Not that. I was thinking more of the monkey suits they always seem to shove the blokes into, these days. See, Cherie and Rog Martin, their Caitlin, she just got married to Damian Stevens, he was in Neil’s class at school. They had a huge white wedding and they made all the blokes, even Damian’s dad, get dressed up in monkey suits.”

    “Um, morning dress?” said Libby weakly

    “Yeah. Think so. Pale grey toppers.”

    She gulped.

    “See, Damian’s dad, he thought he was pretty safe, ’cos the groom’s father isn’t in the ceremony. But nope: he hadda sit at the top table, see, so he hadda be in the gear. Said he felt like a right nana, and I can tell ya, he looked it!”

    “Bob, no-one could make you,” said Libby faintly.

    “They could make ya life Hell if ya didn’t!” he returned with feeling.

    “You’re thinking generically,” said Libby firmly. “Think of the specifics instead. Jayne would never force anyone into something they didn’t want to wear! And I know Tamsin can be very bossy, but she isn’t silly. She thought Bronwyn’s wedding was way over the top.”

    “Glad to hear it,” he admitted feebly.

    They drove southwards in silence for a bit.

    Bob cleared his throat. “This Bronwyn: s’pose she didn’t have a few uninvited guests turn up, eh?”

    “I don’t think so,” said Libby in surprise.

    His mouth twitched. “Aw, no crocs on the lawn?”

    Gratifyingly, Libby collapsed in helpless splutters, gasping: “I wondered that!”

    Bob drove southwards, smiling.

    She needed to go to the lav just north of Ngaruawahia, so he found the place on Sean’s list. The list said “bloke in black singlet” and he was there, all present and correct, complete with the five o’clock shadow and the tatts, omitted from the list, maybe the words “black singlet” were supposed to be fair warning. But she came back smiling and reported that the list was right, the Ladies’ was pale pink and very clean, and smelled of air freshener. Good, chalk one up to the bloke in the black singlet! He drove on, smiling.

    She was asleep twenty minutes after that. He had been going to grab something to eat, but he skipped it and just headed home.

    It was dark when they got there but the ecolodge had a couple of outside lights on a time-switch that he’d forgotten to re-set to save Pete and Jan’s electricity, so they were on. Libby came to and said in a muddled voice: “We’re here. Are they expecting us?”

    “Uh—no. Them lights are automatic. There’s only you and me, Libby,” said Bob awkwardly.

    Libby went very red. “Yes, of course,” she said in a strangled voice.

    Bob hadn’t thought, actually, that it was gonna be all that easy, the two of them stuck here on their ownsome, but at about this point it occurred forcibly that it was gonna be bloody awkward. Bloody awkward. He got out, saying nothing, and grabbed her bag from the back seat.

    “Am I gonna be in here?” she said in a small voice, not meeting his eye, as he unlocked the front door.

    He hadn’t at all fancied the thought of her stuck out in the loft, the place was just too ruddy isolated. He’d never hear her if she screamed, over there. “Yeah. Be easier,” he said firmly.

    “But I don’t want to take up a guest room, Bob,” said Libby faintly.

    “You can have Pete and Jan’s room. Don’t suggest the loft, you aren’t gonna be stuck out there by yourself, and that’s flat.”

    She looked up at him doubtfully. He looked very cross, oh, dear. “Okay. So—so are you sleeping in the loft?”

    He had been sleeping in Pete and Jan’s big bed. It was really comfortable: not like that lumpy thing of his. Neil was right: he oughta replace that bloody mattress, it didn’t owe him a thing, Coral’s parents had given it to them, with the bedstead, as a wedding present. Only new ones were so bloody expensive! “Nope. Stretcher in the office.”

    The office was very small. “But there’s no room in there,” said Libby faintly.

    “There’s room for a stretcher. I’ll fold it up during the day.” He turned away from her and gave a loud whistle.

    While Libby was still gaping at him there was a patter of paws and Peter rushed in with his usual soft “Woof!”

    “Help, have you got him coming when you whistle?” she gasped, as he fawned on Bob and had his ears ruffled.

    “Yeah, sure. Good boy!” he said, giving him a pat. Libby looked at him doubtfully: wasn’t that too hard? “Here’s yer Aunty Libby, eh? Say hullo to Aunty Libby!”

    “Yes, hullo, Peter,” said Libby dazedly, coming to pat his back gently and stroke his head. “Yes, lovely boy! So you came on a big plane!”

    Bob looked at her limply. Did she think he was a cat or something? The panting Peter was kindly licking her hand. He could see she didn’t like it. “Oy! That’ll do! Sit! Peter! Sit!”

    Libby gaped as Peter sat, panting. “You’ve taught him commands,” she croaked.

    “Just a couple, yeah. A dog that won’t obey you’s useless, Libby.”

    “Y— Um, I dunno about that; I mean, he’s a pet. I mean, all he used to do was—”

    “Lie on the flaming sofa: I know!” he said loudly. “Getting fat as butter! He’s a big dog, Libby: he needs to be taken out and given some decent exercise; and ya let an untrained dog run free, you’re asking for trouble!”

    “You haven’t been letting him run around without his lead, have you?” she gasped.

    Not exactly, no. Peter hadn’t got the point that if the door was open ya streaked for the hills: he’d wait until Bob went outside, and then stick closer than a brother. Except for the one time he’d taken him on what he’d fondly imagined was gonna be a good long walk, when he’d suddenly got the point and dashed off. Tim eventually found him next-door, digging to Spain in the middle of the bed he’d just dug over for Taupo Organic Produce’s new crop of broccoli. Luckily he hadn’t got the seedlings in yet. Bob didn’t try to explain all this to her, just said: “He’s okay if we’re on the property. No cows he can annoy, and he’s scared of the goats. Once I can be sure he’ll come when he’s called and knows his way around a bit I’ll let him out: sure.”

    “But there’s the road just over there, and there’s always people coming to buy stuff from Taupo Organic Produce,” she faltered.

    “He’s not that dumb! He knows what traffic is, don’tcha, boy?” he said, ruffling his ears.

    “Jayne did use to take him to the supermarket, that’s true.”

    Bob eyed her ironically but not unkindly. “Yeah: don’t tell me: couple of walks a week to the supermarket, if ’e was lucky, with an ice cream in the middle of ’em!”

    She gulped. “He didn’t always get an ice cream.”

    “Woof!”

    “Shut up! Sit! –Then how come he knows the word?” he said sweetly.

    She swallowed. “Mm.”

    “He’s a dog, not a cat,” said Bob on a note of finality.

    Libby looked at him doubtfully. Was he bullying poor, gentle Peter? “Mm.”

    “Come on, you can unpack your bag and then we’ll see if any of that stuff the Carranos sent down’s actually edible, eh?”

    Libby followed him obediently. She wouldn’t know if it was or it wasn’t.

    “There’s loads of hot water; have a shower if you feel like it,” said Bob, leaving her in Dad’s and Jan’s sitting-room.

    Did that mean she was supposed to? Libby went wanly through to the bedroom with her bag and sat down limply on the bed. Why had she come? She was gonna be useless! He was obviously miles more competent than her, he didn’t even need her, and there was nice Michelle to clean the rooms, and Janet to do the roasts and the potato salads and help out with the vacuuming. Um, well, there was the waitressing… After quite some time of glum sitting she got up and went through to the ensuite. Okay, he’d put out fresh towels and a clean bathmat—help, and a new cake of soap! That certainly proved he wasn’t helpless, and he knew where Jan kept everything, and he didn’t need her at all!

    The subsequent proceedings pretty well proved it. Bob sliced some of the ham the Carranos had sent and served it with mashed potatoes and some really nice steamed broccoli that he said Tim from next-door had given him: they were harvesting the broccoli they’d planted in December and early January.

    “I thought you said you couldn’t cook?” she said limply.

    “Eh? Wouldn’t call a bit of broccoli cooking.”

    “I would!” replied Libby with feeling. “And the mashed potato’s wonderful!”

    Bob looked at her limply. “It’s just mash. Neil reckons you oughta eat the skins, but sometimes I fancy mash, the way Mum used to make it.”

    “I see, it’s a secret family recipe.”

    “No!” he said in amazement. “Add a little bit of milk, a pinch of salt and a good dollop of butter, and just mash them!”

    “Is it a special sort of masher, then?”

    “No, a fork. Well, ya can use a masher first, to get ’em started, then ya whip ’em with the—” He took a look at Libby’s small hands and dainty wrists. “Think ya gotta have the strength in the wrists,” he admitted. “Mum passed that job on to me, once I was about eleven.”

    “It’ll be partly that, then, and probably the species. Our supermarkets usually only have those smallish, white-skinned ones.”

    To Bob potatoes were brown, unless they were Red Dakotas. “Eh?”

    “Yes. When you mash them—well, when I do—they go sort of slimy.”

    “Ugh! Uh—they’d be the wrong sort for mashing, then. But King Edwards mash up good.”

    Right. Only what was the betting, not when she did them? “Yes. How long did you steam the broccoli for?”

    “Uh—dunno,” said Bob limply. “Five minutes, maybe? Well, until it looked done.”

    Aw, gee, that was the way she did broccoli, too, and guess what? It always came out either raw or mushy and dead-tasting. Similarly when she microwaved it: only in that case it was either raw or rock-hard and dehydrated.

    “Mm. Maybe you’ve got a magic eye, then,” she said dully.

    “Yeah. –That’ll do: sit!”

    Peter sat obediently, but with his eyes fixed firmly on Libby’s face. Bob swallowed a sigh. All three of them bloody woman would’ve been spoiling the poor brute rotten. “Don’t feed him from your plate,” he said heavily. “It’s not kindness, it’s cruelty: an overweight dog’ll die before his time.”

    “I know that, really,” said Libby in a tiny voice.

    “Yeah. Try teaching him to know it, too. And listen: raw bones are fine, but don’t ever give him cooked bones: like chop bones or that. Or the bone from the joint, either.”

    “The—the bone from a leg of lamb, you mean? But why?” she faltered.

    Bob took a deep breath. “Like I told Neil and Tamsin: dogs’ stomachs can’t digest cooked bones. They’re built so as they can digest raw bones, geddit? Like in the wild, dogs hunt in packs, they can bring down quite a decent-sized animal, they're not gonna cook it, are they? Well, for Pete’s sake, you come from the country where they got dingoes!” he added on an exasperated noted, as she was looking completely blank. “He could get real sick if ya gave him cooked bones.”

    “Wouldn’t his stomach acid—”

    “No!”

    “Last time Jayne and Tamsin had a barbie I did give him the rest of my T-bone steak, it was miles too much for me,” said Libby in a trembling voice.

    “Ya lucky he survived it, then,” replied Bob flatly. He took another look at her face. “No, well, barbecuing doesn’t cook them right through, dare say he took it in his stride. Only don’t risk it again, okay?”

    “No,” said Libby in a trembling voice. “I’m sorry, Peter.”

    “Woof!” he replied, getting up and coming to pant at her knee.

    “That’ll do. Sit,” said Bob firmly.

    Obediently Peter sat.

    “It—it seems mean to eat in front of him,” said Libby faintly.

    “He’ll have to get used to it, won’t he? He’s been fed today. Oh, and just in case you dames were feeding him twice day like a ruddy cat, don’t. A grown dog needs one decent meal a day and that’s it.”

    “Stop telling me things!” she cried, jumping up and bursting into tears.

    “Eh?” croaked Bob in dismay. “Look, don’t—”

    But Libby had run out.

    Bob looked limply at Peter. The pooch looked about as disconcerted as he felt. “Fuck,” he concluded sourly. “I knew this was gonna be a flaming disaster.”

    Coral turned up at sparrow-fart next day, when he was sitting morosely in the kitchen looking at Peter, instead of getting on with it, and Peter, having wolfed his breakfast, was just sitting there looking mildly at him, not seeming to mind that it had had to be a tin of the stuff Tamsin had bought him.

    “Yeah. Well, I’ll get over to Mastercut today and get some real food for ya off ole Dave Murr— Fuck!” He gasped as Coral came in and Peter shot under the table.

    “Don’t swear, thanks,” she said on a sour note. “And get that brute out of here: this is a hospitality establishment, they’d close you down if you were caught with a dog in the kitchen.”

    “We aren’t even open!” replied Bob crossly.

    “That’s got nothing to do with it.” She waited.

    He stood up reluctantly. “All right, but move away from the bloody door, he won’t go near ya.”

    She shrugged but moved away, and Bob whistled him up. Nothing. He tried again.

    “Just stop it, Bob!” said Coral loudly with her hands over her ears.

    Sighing, Bob bent down, grabbed the poor, cowering pooch by his collar, and hauled him out bodily. Some nit had left the back door open after he’d milked the goats: that’d be how she’d got in. He grabbed the lead that was hanging in the little enclosed back porch on a hook, ’cos what was the betting if he left him to it he wouldn’t just come and sit by the back door until it was opened, like he usually did if left to his own devices, he’d head for the hills? The poor mutt gave a “Woof!”—thought ’e was being taken “walkies”: which was the only word he’d known besides “ice cream” and his name when Bob had taken him on.

    “Yeah, poor fella!” Bob agreed, squatting on the concrete to ruffle his ears. “Ya don’t like her, eh? Ya not the only one. Well, she’s got her good points, only they aren’t the ones a dog’s likely to sniff out. –Come on, we’ll hook you up to the washing-line.”

    The lines were over behind the bunkhouse: a good pozzie, they got the north-westerly exposure. And handy for the trampers that wanted to do their own washing rather than pay to have it done by the ecolodge.

    “What are you doing here?” he said limply to the sturdy figure that was hanging up great lengths of denim.

    “Hullo, Bob,” replied Michelle Callaghan placidly. “I just thought I’d give the bunkhouse curtains a bit of a wash before the Easter lot come in.”

    She was supposed to be on holiday, for Chrissakes! “Right, and when were ya gonna let on you were doing work for the ecolodge, Michelle?”

    She looked vague.

    Bob took a deep breath. “Ya can’t work for nothing!”

    “Balls. Once in a while won’t hurt. And you should talk.”

    He sighed. “Okay, but that’s it, all right? Anything else ya do, you put in a timesheet for it.”

    “Keep ya hair on,” returned Michelle calmly. “Libby get here okay?”

    “Yeah,” he admitted glumly.

    “And didja see Jan?”

    “Uh—yeah. Sorry, Michelle. Yeah, we did, and she’s miles better; much pinker in the face—ya know? Sounding just like her old self, too.”

    “Good. –I brought a pumpkin over,” she added, pegging up more lengths of denim. “You reckon Jayne’ll know how to cook it?”

    “Uh—she’s not coming after all,” he said feebly. “That’s a really bad cold she’s got and that Barker bloke seems to’ve put his foot down.”

    “Right. Well, just cut it up and roast it.”

    “Yeah, ta, Michelle.” Once upon a time Michelle’s old dad had grown the biggest pumpkins in the district. Bob cleared his throat. “Biggish, is it?”

    “Yeah, one of those ones of Dad’s that’ve self-seeded like billyo down the back.”

    Right, fair warning. “I’ll bring it in; where is it?”

    She’d left it on the front verandah ’cos it was a wee bit heavy. Heavy to the female Terminator of Taupo? Okay, he’d lift the bloody thing very carefully: last thing he wanted at this point was to put his back out.

    He had been going to untie one of the washing-lines, loop it onto another and tie Peter’s lead to it, give him a good area to move around in, but she’d used all the lines. He just tied him up to one of posts instead: he’d only wanna lie down anyway, who was he kidding?

    “Uh, Michelle, I’d say come and have a cuppa or something to eat, but I gotta warn you, Coral’s just turned up—don’t ask me what for!”

    “Prolly come to learn Libby up about the computer,” she replied calmly. “I wouldn’t mind a cuppa.”

    “Well, if you wanna risk it you’re more than welcome.”

    “Good-oh, I’ll be over in a wee bit,” she replied cheerfully.

    What was that poem, “You’re a better man than I am, Gungha Din”? Yeah. Bob agreed feebly: “See ya,” and tottered back to the kitchen.

    “I suppose you do know there’s a huge pumpkin sitting on the front verandah?” Coral greeted him acidly.

    “Yeah, Michelle just brung it over. I’ll haul it in, in a bit. Don’t want a bit of pumpkin, I s’pose, do ya?”

    “No, thanks,” she said grimly. “Where’s Libby?”

    Bob sighed. “She isn’t up yet. Go and roust ’er out by all means.”

    Looking grim, Coral marched off. Bob sat down limply at the table. Hard to say, really, whether it was better or worse, having her turn up. At least he wouldn’t have to face Libby by himself.

    As his ex didn’t bother to close the kitchen door behind her he heard everything that followed. Coral simply marched across the little back porch, through the unlocked door to Pete and Jan’s suite, across the sitting-room and knocked briskly on the bedroom door, calling loudly: “Libby! Wake up!” Bob couldn’t take it: he went out to the front and very slowly rescued the pumpkin. It was so huge he could only just get his arms round it.

    “The woman must be mad,” said Coral acidly as he dumped it on the table, trying not to pant. “It’ll be inedible, they always are when they get that big. Watery and stringy.”

    “Shut up!” he panted.

    Coral promptly told him a lot he didn’t want to know about back care, his age, and etcetera.

    “I know all that, will ya just shut up?” he groaned. He went over to the bench and slowly made a fresh pot of tea and some toast for Libby, with his back to Coral.

    “I can find Mum’s recipe for pumpkin soup, if you like, but I’m not guaranteeing it’ll make that thing edible,” she warned.

    “Didn’t I tell you to shut— Oh, there you are, Libby,” he said feebly.

    “Yes,” said Libby looking numbly at the giant pumpkin. “Where did that come from?”

    “Michelle. Self-sown.”

    “Its gigantic! How’ll we ever cut it up, Bob?”

    “Chainsaw,” said Bob promptly.

    She gave a startled giggle and clapped her hand over her mouth.

    Bob began to feel marginally better. “Sleep all right?”

    When she’d rushed out of the kitchen Libby had felt she’d never be able to sleep but in fact she’d more or less passed out, and slept like a log all night. “Yes, I slept like a log, thanks. I—I’m sorry about last night,” she said in a small voice.

    “That’s all right, you were tired. And he isn’t your dog, shouldn’t of had a go at you.”

    “What? No, you shouldn’t!” said Coral sharply.

    “He was right, Coral. We’ve all been spoiling Peter, I suppose,” admitted Libby miserably.

    Coral sniffed. “Just ignore him. –Pour that tea, Bob, it’ll be stewed!”

    Jumping, Bob poured the tea.

    Michelle came in when he was at the point of wondering whether he had the guts to have a slice of that coffee cake of the Carranos’ that wasn’t gonna keep and deciding the answer was “No.” So he got up and plonked a big slice for each of them on a couple of plates, adding before Coral could start telling them about cholesterol and starch and their ages: “Piece of cake, Coral?”

    “At this hour? No!” she snapped. “And nor should you!”

    “I expect he’s been out and milked the goats already, Coral,” said Libby timidly.

    “That’s right, and Michelle’s washed all them ruddy denim curtains from the bunkhouse and got them on the line and I’m not taking any bets she hasn’t washed the lino in there as well.”

    “Then don’t forget to fill in a timesheet, Michelle!” said Coral swiftly.

    Michelle slurped tea. “Rats. Hey, Libby, you know what to do with green tomatoes?”

    “Um, no,” said Libby faintly.

    “Blow. Thing is, if ya leave them the frost’ll get them and they’ll go kinda mushy.”

    “Mum always used to make chutney from them,” noted Coral.

    “Ya want some, Coral?” she said generously.

    “No, thanks, I haven’t got time for that sort of thing.”

    “Look,” said Bob heavily, “if ya wanna get rid of them bring them over, I’ll give the chutney a go.”

    “You’re dissipating your energies, Bob, you need to focus on your core task—”

    “Coral, will ya just SHUT UP!”

    Into the ringing silence Libby said timidly: “You mustn’t do too much, Bob. Um, well, I have helped Jayne with chutney, I could do the basic stuff like chopping.”

    “Righto, I’ll bring some over,” said Michelle instantly. “What sort of chutney does she make, Libby?”

    “Well, tomato, usually, only not with green ones…” Suddenly that scene in the loft before Livia’s party came back to her with horrid vividness. She’d been in that blue outfit, wondering if Aidan would think she looked awful in it. “She’s got a recipe for kiwifruit chutney, too,” she said faintly.

    “Ugh!” cried Coral, shuddering.

    “Yeah: Jan tried making that one year, it was really horrible,” agreed Michelle. “Pity, eh? It wasted an awful lot of kiwifruit. Only they weren’t ripe, ya see, and the jam, it’s peculiar, too. One of them de factos next-door, she gave them to her, the head permaculture nut, he never knew.”

    Libby swallowed. “I see,” she said faintly. “I don’t think you’ve ever mentioned the de factos before, Michelle.”

    “Well, they’ve gone, now, Libby,” she explained kindly. “Three, he had. Like a Mormon, eh? Only he wasn’t.”

    “I did tell you,” said Bob mildly.

    “Mm. It just seems strange that no-one else has,” said Libby weakly.

    Coral sniffed. “Taupo’s well rid of them, Libby!”

    “They were all right. Bit hopeless, ya know?” offered Michelle.

    Bob finished his cake. “Yeah. I’d say the reason the rest of Taupo hasn’t given you an earful, Libby, is that most of them are still feeling bloody guilty about the way they went on about the poor moos before one of them and the bloke were drowned in the tsunami. Leaving all those fatherless kids that, if anyone was looking, no-one offered to adopt accept a pair of Poms that had been out here about five minutes.” He stood up, as the phone rang. “Taupo Shores Ecolodge,” he said into the receiver.

    Libby looked numbly from Coral’s unmoved face to Michelle’s broad, flushed one.

    “Hang on,” said Bob into the receiver. “Oy, Coral!” he said loudly. “If you’ve come over to show Libby that ruddy computer, now’s the time, because this here’s a lady wanting to know if we can fit her in over Easter.”

    Coral got up, looking grim. “I gave you that printout— Give it here.” She grabbed the receiver. “Good morning, madam; may I help you?” she cooed. …“I see. Please hold the line, Mrs Jackson, I’ll just check the computer records.” Competently she put the caller on hold. “Don’t touch that,” she ordered her ex. “Come on, Libby.”

    Numbly Libby stumbled out in her wake.

    After a moment Michelle said: “Lots of us have got kids of our own, Bob.”

    “Eh? Aw, shit, not you, Michelle! But there’s a few around that aren’t short of a few bucks and could have afforded to really help them kids, not looking at anyone, Miser Ron Reilly. And bloody Coral’s got a huge whack in the bank and God knows how much invested in flaming shares. I said to her when it happened: ‘Whaddare ya saving it for, it’ll only come to Neil in the end, you can afford more than a measly tenner for tsunami relief, what about helping out the permaculture nuts’ poor little kids?’ But it went over like a lead balloon.”

    “Yeah. Jan said charity begins at home and shot over there right away, even though we were full up for Christmas,” replied Michelle wryly. “Ta for the tea. That’s a great cake, too.”

    “Take the rest of it,” said Bob with a smile, handing her the Tupperware container. “And I’ll shut Coral up if she starts in on timesheets again, eh?”

    “All right; ta,” she agreed, grinning. “You got any onions or spinach in yet?”

    “Uh—here? Um, no. I was gonna dig a new bed for the onions today,” said Bob feebly.

    “Pete always gets his onions and spinach sown around Easter. Jan really likes spinach. Ya need plenny of compost: you turned it lately?”

    “Uh—no.”

    “Right, I’ll get onto it. You can do the onion bed.”

    “Michelle, ya don’t have to,” said Bob feebly.

    Michelle paused in the doorway. “I know that. You coming?”

    Feebly Bob followed her out.

    Michelle pushed off around twelve, having done a huge amount of work, and he went into the kitchen with Peter, not expecting very much, which was just as well, because precisely nothing was what he got. Was ruddy Coral still here? Okay, given the layout of the ecolodge he now had three choices. Creep out of the kitchen and down the rear exit passage, which led from the back porch between the restaurant and its bogs, coming out beside the office into the corridor to the guest rooms, with no view of the sweep, so he’d have to nip into the main lounge and peer through the front windows, or creep out of the kitchen and out the back door, turn right and go round the corner, passing the restaurant and crossing the patio under the main lounge’s picture window and getting as far as the front corner of the main building, where he could peer round the corner to get a view of the front sweep, or creep out of the kitchen and outside, turn left instead of right, go right round Pete and Jan’s suite at that end of the building and through the guests’ carpark and peer round that corner…

    Or as a fourth option he could just walk down the rear passage, giving the creeping away, turn right instead of left and see if Coral was still in the office. Yeah. He did that.

    “Aw, there you are,” he said feebly. Libby was sitting at the computer and there was no sign of Coral.

    “Yes. –Hang on,” she said as the phone rang. “Taupo Shores Ecolodge. No, it’s Libby, Erin. …Yes, lovely to talk to you, too! …No, actually Jan hasn’t been too well, we’ve had a bit of a fright.” Bob leaned in the doorway, watching her with a little smile as she told the caller all about it. “Next Christmas? I’m sure we can. Just a minute, I’ll check the computer for you. …Yes, there’s stacks of rooms available, I’ll book your friends in provisionally, shall I? What was the name? …McHale?” She tapped busily. “Fine, I’ve made a provisional booking for Mr and Mrs McHale from the twenty-third of December to the fourth of January. …Yes, ’tis a good jumping-off point for the thermal region: very central. And what are you and Keith doing for Christmas, Erin?” The phone quacked at length. Libby smiled vaguely at Bob. “Really? Gee, that sounds exciting! …Of course, email or phone or fax, or they could write, whichever they like. Bye-bye!” She hung up.

    “Will anything come of that, do ya reckon?” said Bob mildly.

    “Well, I dunno, it depends whether this Mr and Mrs McHale really want to come to Taupo for Christmas or it’s just Erin Arvidson jockeying them into it!” said Libby with a laugh. “Never mind: I’ve made a provisional booking and if they don’t confirm and we get a definite booking they’ll lose out, won’t they?”

    “Yeah,” he said feebly. “Um, this Erin dame been before, has she?”

    “Yes, a couple of times, actually. Don’t you remember her? She was here at New Year’s. Her and her husband were the ones that had to go in the loft.”

    “Uh—right. The skinny Australian dame with the kangaroo-pouch,” he said feebly. “Cripes, was she ringing from Australia?”

    “Yes. They live in Adelaide. Why not?” replied Libby placidly.

    Well, okay, if you could afford to take trans-Tasman holidays you probably could afford to make long-distance phone calls whenever the fancy took you. “Yeah,” he said feebly. “Coral pushed off, has she?”

    “Yes, she’s checking up on her shop in Rotorua, today.”

    Right. Poor them. Bob nodded feebly. “So you’re on top of the booking stuff, eh?”

    “Yes; it’s not hard: Jan’s only been managing it in spreadsheets, one for each week. And you can see at a glance which rooms are available if you remember to colour-code the cells correctly. Coral says there is proper hospitality management software available but with only six rooms and the bunkhouse it wouldn’t be cost-effective.”

    “No,” said Bob faintly. “Right.”

    “Actually I think you could probably use database management software to do it, and link to your clients’ and suppliers’ directories, and even the accounts.”

    “Um, yeah. She shown you the accounts?”

    “Yes. I know how to check to see whether the bills have been paid and how to enter a bill as paid, and how to enter up people’s timesheets and generate a payslip, and tomorrow she’s going to show me how to issue an invoice and a receipt for a client.”

    Bob winced. “Right. At sparrow-fart, would this be?”

    “She did say in the morning,” returned Libby dubiously.

    Forewarned was forearmed, then. “Yeah. Well, you feel like lunch?”

    “Heck, is it lunchtime already?”

    “Pretty much. Given you’ve been up since sparrow-fart, thanks to Coral. Um, there isn’t much. Well, I mean, there’s tins of stuff the Carranos sent down, and the rest of that wholemeal loaf. And the rest of that piece of ham, only I thought we better save that for tea.”

    “Yes,” agreed Libby meekly. He was looking at her expectantly. “Well, um, toast, Bob? Or, um, is there any cheese?”

    “Nope, finished it the other day. Meant to get down the supermarket this morning, only Michelle reminded me the spinach and onion beds needed doing, and then we hadda prune some of the fruit trees. Maybe I oughta make a list of stuff to do,” he ended glumly.

    “That’s a good idea. And what if we had a set day for going to the supermarkets? Jan used to just sort of fit it in or get Dad or Janet to go, but I don’t think I could manage like that. See, it’s a matter of mentally prioritising your tasks, and Jan’s got the sort of mind that does it automatically, only I can’t.”

    “Me, neither,” said Bob gratefully. “What’d be a good day, ya reckon?”

    “It won’t matter so much over winter… Probably not Monday, because of the public holidays that seem to fall on a Monday. And Friday’s the day guests tend to arrive for the weekend. Um, mid-week? We could go tomorrow and make Tuesday the day.”

    “Sounds good to me. Um, but ya got Coral coming tomorrow,” he reminded her uneasily.

    “Soon as she’s gone, then,” said Libby comfortably.

    “Right. Well, uh, toast with, uh, Vegemite? No, tell ya what: that hare pâté stuff!”

    “Ooh, yes!” said Libby with a sudden giggle.

    Bob smiled slowly. Maybe this wasn’t gonna be a disaster after all. “Righto, you’re on!”

Next chapter:

https://summerseason-anovel.blogspot.com/2022/08/ecolodge-management.html