Rallying Round

21

Rallying Round

    “You’ve come round again, eh?” said Pete’s voice glumly.

    “Yes,” admitted Jan groggily. “What the Hell— Am I in hospital?”

    “Mm. Sorry, my fault,” he said, clutching her hand very tight. “Let ya do too much. Played up over them eels.”

    “Eels?” said Jan groggily.

    “Yeah—never mind. Um, it’s ya heart, love.”

    “Eh?”

    “Mm,” said Pete, sniffling slightly. “—Bugger.” He wiped the back of his free hand across his eyes. “Same like your dad, eh? Should of thought of it: made ya go to the doc regular.”

    “Dad lived to be eighty-two,” said Jan feebly.

    “I know. Hadda take it pretty easy, though, didn’t he, after the first attack? And that was when ’e was in his early seventies.”

    “Mm,” said Jan as a nurse came in, checked her pulse and blood pressure and told her she was doing fine and she’d been very lucky that there’d been a doctor on the premises.

    “Right, ’cos the fucking ambulance takes twenny minutes, min’, to get to our place,” said Pete grimly.

    “Right,” Jan agreed feebly. “Oh, yes: Dr Grainger.”

    “Yeah,” he said, squeezing her hand hard as the nurse went out. “Anyway, I’m sorry.”

    “It’s not your fault.”

    “No. Um, prolly shouldn’t be talking,” he admitted. “Um, Tamsin’s coming down.”

    “Pete, the kids aren’t driving down on that bloody main highway in a panic, are they?”

    “Nah, Dave Reilly took a load of freight up for Taupo Organic Produce so they’re flying down with him: be here early this arvo. And don’t start worrying, the doc says ya been having too much mental stress as well as doing much round the place. Always thought it’d be me that’d go first,” he admitted glumly.

    Jan had always thought so, too. Well, heck, he was quite a lot older than her. “Stringy type,” she said faintly. “But I haven’t gone yet.”

    “No. Ya give us all a fright, though, love. –It’s that Indian bloke,” he warned. “But he seems to know what ’e’s doing.”

    “Right,” said Jan faintly. “Hullo, Dr Rao,” she said faintly as the young Indian doctor came in.

    After that it got all medical so she just lay back and left them to it.

    “There you are, dear,” said Janet composedly as a tear-stained Tamsin came into the ecolodge’s kitchen. “Now, there’s no need to cry, Jan’s doing fine!”

    Tamsin stuck her chin out. “I’m not crying. But I don’t reckon these local doctors know what they’re doing. Soon as she’s stronger we’re gonna get her up to Auckland and get a specialist to look at her. She might need a by-pass operation or a pacemaker or something: some people live perfectly normal lives after a heart attack.”

    “That’s right, dear, they do: that nice Mr Bainbridge that was here over New Year’s, he had a pacemaker. He’s from New Plymouth but they had it done privately at the Mater in Auckland,” said Janet on a smug note.

    Tamsin looked at her in a baffled way.

    “Now, dear Jan was going to do a lovely roast for them for dinner, so I thought we could just do that. It’s easy, isn’t it, and everyone loves a roast!”

    Loads of people didn’t, actually: roasts were greasy and stuffed full of the wrong sort of fats. On the other hand Tamsin had never in her life made a meal for four adults—well, seven if you counted her and Neil and Pete. And Bob was here, too, so that made eight.

    “Um, yeah,” she said in a small voice.

    Smugly Janet decided that Tamsin could peel the kumaras while she herself did the potatoes.

    Tamsin’s mum didn’t peel potatoes, not even when she did a roast: she usually cut them in half and just washed and dried them for that. Even Dad had got the point that most of the vitamins were just under the skin and the skins themselves were good for you. She looked dubiously at Janet peeling great chunks off Pete’s beautiful homegrown potatoes but didn’t say anything. Let alone that the kumaras were quite hard to peel because of their irregular shapes.

    Once the potatoes, pumpkin, kumaras, and parsnips were all peeled and sitting in bowls of water and Janet had explained that it wasn’t quite time to put them in yet, dear, she’d tell her when, she ventured: “Janet, what about pudding?”

    Janet looked superior. “Dear Jan is always so organised, of course: she’d planned to make them a lovely pudding. One of her shortcakes with our own Golden Queen peaches!”

    Tamsin looked at her in horror: Jan had given her her opinion of Janet’s deadly hand with pastry, shortcake and, in fact, any dough at all except scones, which oddly enough she was a whizz at—they weren’t nearly as easy as you might think. Experimentation had verified this last claim.

    “I could do it, of course, but my shortcake doesn’t come nearly up to her standards!” continued Janet with a titter.—Tamsin sagged.—“So what say we just make them some nice fruit salad with meringues?”

    “Meringues?” echoed Tamsin very, very faintly.

    Janet looked down her nose. “Girls these days just don’t learn anything, do they? When I was a kiddie, Mum always made meringues for birthday parties and Christmas! Of course, we had our own chooks: we were never short of eggs. Ideally you’d use the dying oven, of course,”—Tamsin looked in horror at the oven with the roast in it, from which the most gorgeous smell of roasting meat was proceeding: roast-lamb-flavoured meringues?—“but since there are two lovely ovens, I’ll just put this one on very low, and then the meringues will have plenty of time to cool down, won’t they?”—Tamsin sagged, nodding weakly and trying to smile.—“Now, I don’t need the recipe, dear, I’ve been making meringues since I was a kiddie of ten—and back in those days we didn’t have an electric beater, either!—though mind you Mum always claimed that there’s nothing like hand beating to give you a perfect meringue—or pavlova, dear, I’ll show you how to do that another day. But why don’t you get the book down, and then you can read it for yourself! The little old one, Tamsin, next to that Graham Kerr one at this end of the shelf.”

    Most of them looked old to Tamsin, but she found the right little book. It looked like the sort of thing the schools sometimes produced back home as a fundraiser: kind of a paperback, not a proper cover, and just stapled down the middle. “Edmonds,” she read uncertainly.

    “That’s right, dear: Edmonds baking powder, of course!”

    The thing looked about as old as Janet was and had very obviously had heavy use in its time. She floundered through it but found the recipe. Wasn’t it gonna waste an awful lot of egg yolks? She watched in silent horror as Janet broke egg after egg into two bowls. She was ace at it, the yolks went into the little bowl and the whites into the big one, and she didn’t break any of the yolks.

    Jan held out her hand, smiling. Tamsin took it gratefully.

    “I am okay, you know. Well, Dr Rao thinks I probably will need a pacemaker, but at the moment I’m doing fine.”

    “Mm,” she agreed, sniffing.

    “So what did Janet give them for tea last night?” asked Jan with a twinkle.

    “The lamb roast you were gonna do. Just—just plain,” said Tamsin uncertainly.

    “Never let a sprig of rosemary or a sliver of garlic near it—right. Go on.”

    “Roast veggies. They were lovely, actually. Potatoes, kumaras, pumpkin and parsnips. I did try to stop her turning them all round in the fat in the big roasting pan but she wouldn’t listen to me.”

    “Never mind, it’s one step better than using the lard from last week’s roast: re-used mutton fat hardens the arteries like nobody’s biz. Dunno that I dare to ask this: did she let anything like a green vegetable near the table?”

    Tamsin swallowed. “Yes. Spinach—I mean silverbeet, of course. Out of the garden.”

    “And?”

    “Um, well, it went very small, but silverbeet does that, doesn’t it? Um, well, I dunno why, but it didn’t taste anything like yours, Jan! –She put some butter on it,” she reported glumly.

    “A vegetable dish of silverbeet with one little knob of butter sitting in solitary splendour? Right. Probably just as well: the guests didn’t need more animal fats,” she said drily.

    “No,” agreed Tamsin feebly. “I—I couldn’t stop her, Jan, and—and she was awfully good: I mean, she stayed on until everything was ready and she set the table herself.”

    Janet liked setting the tables with the ecolodge’s best napery and silverware, but never mind. Jan nodded kindly. “Did Pete eat anything?”

    “Yes, he was hungry. Him and Bob and Neil had theirs in the kitchen.”

    “Uh-huh, the male peer group: that was only to be expected. Well, I’m glad he’s eating.”

    “Yes. Um, Janet made some meringues and a fruit salad for pudding. I did say that that rockmelon you had in the Tupperware bowl in the fridge might, um, dominate it, but she ignored me.”

    “Mm. It was gonna be a starter, with ginger, to counteract the roast, but never mind. What else? Tinned peaches?”

    “No, um, the big Golden Queen peaches from the orchard, and tinned pineapple.”

    “That’s all right, fresh pineapple costs a bomb here, I never buy it,” said Jan kindly. “That it?”

    “Um, no, some pears from the orchard and a banana and, um, some funny cherries she found in a little jar in the pantry: were you saving them for something special?” asked Tamsin fearfully.

    Jan’s precious Maraschino cherries. Oh, well. She had known that Janet’s idea of fruit salad was something that approximated as nearly as was humanly possible to Mr Wattie’s tinned offering. She didn’t asked if everything had been diced up very, very small because she knew what the answer was. Or, indeed, why the melon had been sacrificed, when Mr Wattie didn’t do melon. “No, no, they were there to be used,” she lied. “How were the meringues?”

    “Nice,” said Tamsin definitely.

    Jan smiled a little. “Good. She can do meringues and a decent pav.”

    “Yes, um, there were an awful lot of egg yolks left over though, Jan.”

    “Scrambled egg for brekkie tomorrow all round, then, I’d say, Tamsin,” said Jan cheerfully, “and don’t let her turn them into a custard, because hers is sweet scrambled egg!”

    Tamsin smiled feebly, didn’t say anything about nobody needing more cholesterol, and nodded meekly.

    “So what’s on the menu for this evening?”

    Tamsin took a deep breath. “Um, Pete said not to bother you and you have to stop worrying about it and everything’s under control. Lots of people have rung up offering to help, actually.”

    “You’d better tell me,” said Jan faintly, “or I’ll be worrying over it for hours.”

    “Well, um, the chef from Fern Gully rung up and he was very nice and said he’d send something over for tonight, and your friend Livia rung to say she’s getting hold of Aidan Vine and you mustn’t worry, because he’s a superb cook. And—and your friend Lady Carrano,” said Tamsin, swallowing hard, “she rung from Auckland and she’s coming down herself with, um, she said a Fortnum’s hamper, but isn’t that English?”

    It was English, but that wouldn’t stop Sir Jake Carrano from having one—or several—flown out express freight. “Yeah, um, I think that’s a joke. Um, listen, Polly Carrano’s got pots but she has got her own family to look after, and she spent ages helping us a couple of years back—”

    “Oy, you were supposed to get some rest and not to worry!” said Pete’s voice from the doorway.

    Tamsin stumbled up looking guilty. “I’m suh-sorry, Granddad, she wanted to know!” She burst into tears.

    “Yeah. No need to bawl, she’s like that. Always been too strong-minded for her own good,” said Pete, patting a scrawny arm round her. “See: called me Granddad!” he said over her head to Jan. “Polly is coming down;—here, you take yer old granddad’s hanky, lovey,” he said, fishing out a horribly grimy one: “they both are, in the helicopter, and Jake’s bringing a cardiologist from Auckland—bloke that owes him a favour, before ya start—and if he gives you the thumbs up you’re going up to the Mater for him to fit you with a pacemaker and no arguments. Jake’s paying, and don’t say anything, ’cos he’ll never miss it and he won’t take ‘no’ for an answer and I have known ’im for fifty years, after all. And if he wasn’t paying it’d be Wal.”

    “Mm,” said Jan faintly. “Okay, Pete.”

    Tamsin blew her nose hard. “Yes. She—she was very nice. Um, can I tell Jan about Mum, Granddad?”

    “Already told ’er she’s got a rotten cold and Barker won’t let her fly back from England; must be some good in ’im after all, eh? But go on, you can tell ’er the rest,” he said kindly.

    “She rung up again this morning and I told her the guests are going soon and there’s no more bookings until Easter, so she said she’d get Andrew to make her a booking for then. And—and you mustn’t worry, she said don’t worry about losing the income if you do have to turn a few guests away, she’ll take care of you and Granddad,” said Tamsin, going very pink.

    “That’s very sweet of her,” said Jan faintly.

    “Right,” agreed Pete firmly. “Your ruddy dad’s money’s gonna do some good, after all!”

    Tamsin nodded hard. “So don’t worry.”

    “No,” agreed Jan faintly, closing her eyes.

    “Come on, pet,” she heard Pete say firmly. “Let ’er get some rest, eh? –No, she is all right, lovey,” she heard him say over by the door, “the gizzmos’d start pinging if she wasn’t, see?” The door closed and Jan thought that was it and then he bent over her and kissed her forehead.

    “Fuck the bloody ecolodge, eh? We’ll let the young ones have it. You just concentrate on getting well.”

    He still smelled of smoke and eel, he oughta change out of… “Mm,” agreed Jan faintly. “Okay, Pete.”

    They’d had about a week of all the moos in Taupo—no, all the moos from Taupo to Auckland—rallying round, and that ruddy wife of Wal Briggs’s had jacked up that flaming ponce Vine to cook for the ecolodge, the thunderstruck expressions on the guests’ faces as the results appeared in front them indicating pretty clearly that they didn’t have a clue what the stuff was and they might just as well have stuck with ruddy Janet Barber’s packet ham, potato salad and minced lettuce. Oh, and tinned beetroot with commercial mayonnaise—too right. But Jan was now up in Auckland, she’d had the op, come through it fine, Pete was up there with her, and he, Bob Kenny, had packed off Tamsin and Neil as well.

    “You’re going! The ecolodge is fine, we don’t need you, Tamsin, this lot’ll be gone in a couple of days and you’ve got to do your course, and you’re GOING!” –Like that.

    And: “You do have to get back to Auckland, Neil, anything that needs doing in the garden here I’ll do and Sean can give me a hand with, and get them notes for ya bloody thesis WRITTEN UP PRONTO!” –Like that, as well.

    So by this time everyone had pretty much stopped rallying round. Though the gay chef from Fern Gully had rung up a couple of times just to make sure they didn’t need anything sent over: proved ya couldn’t judge a book by its cover, eh? Or by its “y’knows?” and its earrings, in this particular instance.

    No, well, those that were still rallying round weren’t doing it just to help out Pete and Jan. Not quite. Though just at first Bob had been mug enough to assume they were.

    The first one to turn up had been good ole Joanne Thompson. It was the day after the last guests had gone and him and Janet had decided she wouldn’t need to come in, and Michelle would only need to tidy up the guests’ rooms and give the main rooms a going-over with the vacuum. Michelle turned up at sparrow-fart, like usual, and made herself the usual cuppa, and then got on with it and had finished the lot by eight ack-emma. Feebly Bob offered to make her a hot brekkie—well, Hell, she did the work of ten women in half the time and with a hundredth of the fuss—but no, she’d had hers hours ago, and she pushed off with a cheery “See ya!” Joanne turned up around eleven-thirty, when he was in the kitchen taking the opportunity, which he hadn’t mentioned to either Janet or Michelle, to give Jan’s ovens and the almost empty fridges a really good clean. They were in fairly good nick, but you could tell no-one had had the time to really strip them down—the seal round one of the fridge doors needed replacing, too, so he’d done that while he was at it. Ole Steve Garber from Taupo Hardware & Electrical, that had sold him the stuff, had kindly offered to do it for him. Charity only went so far, so Bob had asked suspiciously what he charged for labour and as the answer, even at mates’ rates, was a lemon, told him he could keep his labour.

    “Yoo-hoo!” she carolled from the back porch. Before Bob could yell out they were closed, she was in the kitchen. Peter the Dalmatian gave a suspicious sort of growl and hid under the table—which, on looking back, Bob was to reflect shoulda warned him.

    “I’ve just brought you a casserole, Bob, love,” she said kindly.

    “Oh, it’s you,” said Bob feebly, sitting back on his heels. “Ta, Joanne, that’s really decent of you.”

    “That’s okay! I’d’ve come over before, but Janet said you had plenty of help with the cooking.”

    “Um, yeah: that Mrs Briggs, you know, that’s married to that friend of Pete’s from the other side of the lake, she jacked up a bloke that does fancy cooking, and the chef from Fern Gully, he’s been really great, he’s sent over a lot of stuff, too. Only the guests have all pushed off, now.”

    “Yes, of course: this is for you! Keep your strength up!” she cooed.

    “Uh—yeah. Well, ta very much. There isn’t very much grub left, and I’m gonna clean the fridges.”

    “And Jan’s big ovens! Well! I’m sure there’s no need to go that far!”

    “Uh—well, you know,” said Bob awkwardly.

    “Goodness, I wish someone’d clean my oven!” said Mrs Thompson with a girlish giggle.

    Bob wasn’t too sure that wasn’t one of those double entendres—y’know? He scrambled up, eyeing her cautiously. “Those new spray-on oven cleaners, they do quite a good job. Don’t stink like the old ones used to, either.”

    “Mm…” She drifted over to the stove top—as much as a woman of her bulk could drift. “And you’ve got the stove top sparkling clean!” she approved.

    Bob had pretty much taken it to bits—well, much easier to clean that way. “Yeah, come up quite well.”

    “You’ve been working all morning, I suppose,” she said severely.

    “Eh? Pretty much, Joanne, yeah, haven’t you?”

    Mrs Thompson gave a coy giggle. “Well, almost, dear! It’s a slow time of year for us. Maureen’s holding the fort. But it is about time for smoko!” Another coy giggle.

    “Uh—yeah, righto. I’ll put the kettle on.” He filled the jug and plugged it in, wishing she’d stop calling him “dear”—though on the other hand she did say it to almost everybody that came into the dry-cleaner’s: probably just a habit.

    “Um, well, siddown, Joanne. Hang on: look out for the dog under the table!”

    She bent, peered, and gave a little scream. Poor old Peter backed off, and slunk out with his tail between his legs.

    “He’s one of those Disney dogs!” she gasped. “A Hundred and One Dalmatians!”

    Several people had mentioned the phrase by now, so Bob was able to reply stolidly, not that he didn’t have a flaming clue what she was on about, but: “Right. Spotty dog. Belongs to Tamsin—Pete’s granddaughter.”

    Joanne sat down, beaming at him. “I see! Neil’s little girlfriend, isn’t she? Janet was saying she’s finishing her study up in Auckland with him: isn’t that nice?”

    Bob didn’t mind chatting about the kids: at least it was better than dubious remarks about her oven, so he sat down opposite her with some relief and replied: “Yeah, they both seem pretty keen. Gotta see how it goes, eh? But Neil’s not a boy any more: seems pretty serious.”

    “That’s lovely, Bob! And it’ll give him a base, won’t it, if she takes over the ecolodge!”

    Bob looked at her limply. Who the Hell—? Not Coral, she was far too bloody cagey for that. Flaming Janet? “Something like that. But he’s got a base with me, if he needs one.”

    “You’re much too apt to put yourself last, Bob, dear,” she said severely.

    “Eh? Balls.”

    “There does come a point when the kids have got to stand on their own two feet,” she said with a gusty sigh. “Len was saying just the other day, we mustn’t let Garry think he’s gonna build on with our money: we’re thinking of shouting ourselves a trip to Japan, and I must say… Well, between you and me, Bob, he has had a fair bit out of us over the years.”

    This was perfectly true: she and Len had always been very good to their kids, so Bob just nodded.

    “Yes…” said Joanne with another sigh. “And it’s true that Karen’s little Hugh is going to need orthodontic work before long, he’s inherited Len’s buck teeth, poor little soul, but after all, its not as if her Darren isn’t earning a very good income…”

    He was a land agent up in the Big Smoke, so yeah, he was raking it in! Started off learning the ropes in a big firm, went out on his own with the help of a lump sum from his mum and a big loan from Len and Joanne, and never looked back. Had three big offices and employed a team of female slaves that he expected to jump to it and work all hours. Not that he didn’t work like stink himself, to be fair.

    “Well, yeah, Joanne, I wouldn’t’ve thought they’d need your help these days,” he said kindly.

    “No… Oh, dear, it’s so silly, but it does make you feel sort of… old and unwanted!” To his horror, she unsnapped her huge bright blue purse and produced a hanky, sniffing loudly.

    “Cripes, don’t bawl, Joanne! No-one coulda done more for their kids than you and Len, over the years! If anyone deserves a nice overseas trip it’s you two!”

    “Yes,” said Joanne, dabbing at her well-mascara-ed eyes. “Blow, this stuff’s coming off, so much for waterproof! No, it’s just that sometimes I feel as if no-one needs me, any more.”

    “Rats, the grandkids are down here every holidays, aren’t they?” he said robustly, reflecting it probably didn't help that the two kids that had so far produced any for her had both moved away.

    “Mm.” She blew her nose again. “Len told me it was my age, the other day!” she said crossly, going very red.

    She was a naturally high-coloured woman anyway, so the effect was fairly frightening: Bob reflected drily that if he’d been a dog he’d of slunk out with his belly lowered, too, and his tail between his— Uh, not quite. She always wore the same perfume, not the fruity sort of scent you might expect a dame like her to use, but really nice and light: flowery, ya might call it. There’d been a gust of it when she opened the purse. Every time he caught a whiff of it, it brought back memories of the times Maureen had been sent on an errand or told she could go home early and him and Joanne had nipped into the tiny passage at the back of the shop that led to the dunny and a sort of cupboard space with a sink and a plug for the jug in it. There had always been a strong smell of dry-cleaning fluid, too, of course, and for a while he’d thought that it was the smell it was getting stiff for, weird though ya mighta said it was, only one day he’d come across a dame at the supermarket that was wearing the exact same perfume and realised it was definitely that. ’Cos he’d got one before he’d even turned round and seen it wasn’t Joanne.

    “Well, uh, s’pose we’re all getting on, Joanne,” he said uneasily. “Doesn’t mean you’re not entitled to your feelings, eh? Well, cripes, I came over a bit funny meself not long since, when it dawned I’d probably had the last of me Christmases with Neil to meself.”

    “Mm. Kittens all grow into cats,” said Mrs Thompson—tearfully, but smiling with it, thank God!

    “Yeah,” said Bob feebly, getting up to make the tea.

    He’d poured the water into both mugs when she came up close behind him and sort of leaned on him, bloody Hell! Talk about tits and belly!

    “Cripes! Don’t do that, Joanne!” he gasped.

    “You never objected before, Bob. Or are ya gonna tell me the same thing as blimmin’ Len?”

    “Eh? Aw! About your age?” he said feebly. “Nah. Well, um, might be making you a bit keen, love, they do say that some dames get ke—Ooh!” he gasped as she put a hand round him and grabbed his dick. “Keener!” he finished weakly. “Don’t do that, lovey.”

    “Why not? Janet won’t be in today, will she? Just a little one, eh?” she said, pressing herself against him, Jesus! “For old times’ sake?”

    When Joanne said “just a little one” she meant a knee-trembler. Which was pretty much what they’d always had. Except one glorious day when it was pouring with rain and he’d had some genuine dry cleaning, a good tweed jacket that had got muck on it, and he’d dashed in just at closing time. Old Doc Morton had just collected a suit and he’d blahed on for ages, Bob meanwhile breathing in the mixture of floral perfume and dry cleaning, in total agony. When the old boy finally pushed off Joanne had closed the shop up, pulled all the blinds down and let him help her up onto the counter…

    “Um, no, I’m sort of… Um, no. ’Tisn’t that I don’t want to—”

    “I can feel that!” she agreed with a snigger, tweaking it.

    “Ooh! Uh, no, um, I’m sort of keen on someone else.”

    “So am I, but Len isn’t here!” said Joanne with a loud giggle.

    How true. Nor was Libby. And as she hadn’t even bothered to say goodbye before she went back to Queensland he didn’t honestly think he had much chance with her. Minibus tours or not. But shit, there was a point when ya hadda make that sort of decision and stick to it, until ya saw if anything came of it.

    “Yeah, um, no, honest—shit, don’t rub me, Joanne! –No, don’t,” he said, pushing her hand away and turning to face her. “Look, there is someone. I dare say she won’t look at me but I gotta give it a try, see?”

    “Yes, all right, Bob,” she said sadly. “Let’s just have a cuppa, then.”

    Phew! Bob collapsed onto his chair and let her put the milk in the mugs and drank his tea blindly. Oblivious to the fact that it wasn’t ordinary tea until she pointed it out. Uh—shit. Some sort of fancy English tea. Explained why it tasted like, talking of which, scent.

    “Never mind, it's nice for a change,” said Joanne, apparently quite cheerful again.

    Actually it was horrible, but he agreed with her anyway, and got up to dump the mugs in the sink.

    When he turned round she was sitting on the table, oh, Christ! Bob turned puce.

    “Remember that time?” she said with a giggle.

    “Yeah, and we aren’t gonna have a repeat of it!” said Bob loudly.

    “Not that, Bob. Just a little treat for me?” Just in case he hadn’t got it, she showed him the tip of her tongue.

    “Ya know perfectly well if I do that, I won’t be able to stop meself getting up there!”

    “Mm,” she admitted, biting her lip, “Okay, I won’t tease you. But—but couldn't you just do something for me, Bob? Just for old times’ sake? Len doesn’t… Well, he doesn’t like to have fun any more.”

    Oh, boy. “If ya mean the poor bastard can’t get it up for ya, Joanne, just say it,” he said heavily.

    “No, not that, but he seems to think I only oughta want it in bed on Wednesdays and Saturdays,” she said glumly.

    Uh—explained why the dry cleaner’s always closed a bit early on Wednesdays, he’d thought it was just because she usually did a roast that night. Well, no doubt she did, she was a good cook, the whole of Taupo knew that, but it’d be so as to get the roast over in good time, and—yeah. “Haven’t ya got a kitchen table in your house?” he said feebly.

    “Yes—well, a nice big dining table, and some lovely solid kitchen benches, but last time I suggested that he said we weren’t kids any more! I don’t—I don’t want to just have a come and go to sleep, I’m not past it!”

    Bob sighed. If he got his tongue up there he would ruddy well fuck her, there were no two ways about it. Oh, well. “We’ll do it once, for old times’ sake, right?”

    Joanne gulped. “Right!”

    “Uh—haven’t got a rubber, Joanne,” he warned.

    “Well, I am past that, Bob, love, so don’t worry about it!”

    All right, if she said so. And he couldn’t even remember when he’d last done it without one, so she wasn’t gonna catch anything off him, that was for sure. “Cummere, ya silly moo,” he said, going up to the table. She immediately put her legs right apart, so he kind of walked between them and gave her a big hug and kiss. Joanne panted like billyo and kind of wrapped the legs around him, so she was ready for it, all right. Actually, so was he, it was quite some time, when ya thought about it, since Mrs Lucille Polaski.

    “You wearing panty-hose?” he said in her ear.

    “Not today!” replied Joanne with a stifled giggle.

    Yeah, well. He got a good handful of tit, since they were there, and shoved his face into them, since they were there, and then, as the thought that it was always possible Sean or Molly could wander over struck him, decided he’d better get on with it and slid his hand up inside her thigh—Jesus, she was soft!

    “Oh, Bob, oh, Bob!” squealed Joanne, shuddering all over.

    Well, okay, what was he waiting for? He bent down, pulled the panties right off, and shoved his face in the bush. Oh—Christ!

    “Oh, Bob, oh, Bob!”

    Well, if Sean or Molly did walk in they’d realise that neither him nor Mrs Thompson were past it, that was what. “Hang on!” he gasped, straightening.

    Helpfully Joanne unzipped him, pushed the jeans down, pulled the underpants off him and bent down to him.

    “JESUS!” shouted Bob. “Do that, do that, lovey!”

    She did it for a bit then paused to say: “Len never bothers with that any more.”

    “More fool him!” he gasped. “Lemme get up on that table with ya, Joanne, and we’ll have a bit of a sixty-nine. And for God’s sake take that dress off, I wanna see your tits!”

    Obligingly she hauled the dress off, and the bra which, with the panties, was all she'd been wearing under it: pity they couldn’t wear a kind of little sign that told ya that, eh? Not that he needed any more encouragement, really… “JESUS!”

    Joanne paused, to giggle and say: “Come on then, Bob! –Oh, BOB!” she shrieked.

    Well, yeah, that other time she’d liked his tongue, too. Shoulda done it a bit more out the back of the shop, really, instead of just shoving— Bob pushed her gently away and sat up, very flushed. “Gotta get in there, lovey,” he said hoarsely.

    “Yes!” she gasped, spreading ’em. Oh, boy!

    He knelt over the acres of pale flesh—never had been a small girl, Joanne—and she pulled him right down onto it all and shoved her legs, up so he— “JESUS! CHRIST!”

    “Do it, Bob!” she shrieked, moving on him like fury.

    “I dunno—can last!” he gasped.

    “Mm—mm—mm!” panted Mrs Thompson. Then she gasped: “Fuck me!” So Bob obliged.

    “I’m gonna come!” he gasped desperately.

    “OH!” shrieked Joanne, shoving herself up at him and clenching like a ruddy suction pump.

    “JESUS! AARGH! Uh—AAARRGH!” he yelled, exploding in her.

    … “Cripes,” he said, quite some later, after he’d managed to roll onto his back and pant a lot.

    “Yes,” said Joanne weakly.

    Bob just lay there and panted a bit more.

    Finally Joanne sat up and said with a sigh: “If it doesn’t work out with whoever she is, Bob, you know where to find me.”

    “Mm. Ta, Joanne, it’s been good,” he said weakly.

    “Yes. Um, I think I’d better have a shower.”

    “Yeah, sure. Use the one in Pete and Jan’s suite. There’ll be clean towels: Michelle changes them every time she turns up.”

    “She’s a treasure: they’re lucky to have her,” Joanne replied seriously, vanishing.

    Bob just sagged for a bit: he felt—well, drained. And if Libby turned him down he would bloody well take Joanne up on her offer, why let a good thing go to waste? Poor old Len was a mug, to get so set in his ways.

    About ten seconds after he’d given the tabletop a bit of a wipe with some paper towels, young Sean turned up, so there ya were. It had been pretty bloody risky, hadn’t it? Mind you, good old Joanne came back about two seconds after that, didn’t turn a hair, and thanked him nicely for the use of the toilet. Reminding him that the casserole was for him, she went off with not so much as a look at the flaming table!

    “Eh?” he said feebly, as the young fellow bleated something about the book.

    “The book says,”—Bob braced himself—“that when you’ve finished harvesting ya Golden Queens, ya gotta prune them.”

    “Well, not that same day, Sean.”

    “Oh. Well, um, when?”

    “Soonish. Week or two,” said Bob feebly.

    “Aw. But can I do them today?”

    Jesus, had poor old Pete had to put up with this ever since the kid started working for him? “It, they’ve only got one Golden Queen. Hang on, I’ll come with you.”

    “Ta, Bob,” he said gratefully.

    Bob wasn’t too sure that his knees were in working order, what with one thing and another, but they took him down the orchard, all right. …It wouldn’t have been true to say he regretted it, mind. Only it had been pretty bloody silly, take it for all in all.

    Funnily enough in the wake of this episode, when Cloris Witherspoon came round with a Tupperware container of cold fried chicken for him, it was quite easy to resist her. Well, fairly easy. Given that, though the bust was as good as ever, and she certainly wriggled it enough, the legs were as skinny as they always had been.

    “Not into that no more, ta, Cloris,” he said firmly as she got very close and wriggled the bust. –How the fuck did she do it? Something to do with the shoulder blades, was it?

    “We are both free, Bob,” she said, batting the lashes and licking the over-lipsticked lips.

    Uh—yeah? Mal W. had long since got rid, of course. And he’d never thought that thing with Mike Short had been going to go anywhere, whatever Cloris might have thought. For one thing, if she’d of taken the trouble to look, all his summer ones were younger than her. He’d only fallen back on her because the winter pickings were pretty meagre in Taupo. That tarty dame that was some sort of cousin of Jan’s was about the oldest he let himself do, these summers, and good old Cloris might not of looked it, but she was a good ten years older than her. On the other hand most of Ruapekapeka Street was under the impression that she was semi-officially involved with Paul Gibson: her car was outside his house six nights of the week: that didn’t count as free, exactly, did it?

    “Don’t think Paul would say ya were, Cloris,” he said stolidly.

    “He isn’t as good at it as you are, Bob!” she cooed.

    “Look, you aren’t getting any, so give over. There’s someone else, if ya must know.”

    “And you’re saving it for her,” said Cloris with a pout.

    “Yeah.”

    “Pigs might fly!” she snorted.

    Uh—the rumour that him and Joanne had been at it couldn’t be all round the place already, surely? No, he was getting paranoid. Just going on his past track record. “I’m saving it for her until I know for sure she doesn’t want it, and then if you are free I might give you a bit, if you’re still interested.”

    “Promises, promises!” said Cloris with a giggle and a pout. “Well, have the chicken, Bob, you always did like my fried chicken, and at least it won’t go to waste!” With that she pouted and wriggled herself out.

    He did eat the chicken. It was as good as ever but most unfortunately it brought back vivid memories—very vivid—of that time on the boat when she’d brought her cold fried chicken and some potato salad—which mind you, wasn’t as good as Jan’s, but not bad—and he’d had a bottle of real French fizz that just happened to be left over from Christmas because him and Coral had had a row instead of Christmas. Part of the row being over the cost of the fizz—yeah.

    The Hooper brothers’ wives were next. Not in tandem—no. Melanie was first, but as she turned up while he was milking the goats watched by Molly and her little boy, all she could do was hand over the casserole, ask nicely after Jan, and push off. Which she did.

    “You seem to be getting a lot of casseroles, Bob!” said Molly with a smile.

    “Right. That one isn’t even divorced,” said Bob grimly.

    At that she collapsed in giggles. Okay, Sean wasn’t a gossip and his mum certainly wasn’t a gossip but his dad, ruddy Dan Jackson, most certainly was, so guess who had given the girl an earful?

    Linda Hooper, Bill’s wife, turned up next day. Possibly only a coincidence. Bob was down the orchard, he’d pruned a few other trees that Sean hadn’t seemed to realise needed doing along with the Golden Queen—his book couldn’t of mentioned them—and was grimly clipping the hedge that Sean didn’t seem to realise needed clipping or the ecolodge would be growing hedge, not fruit.

    “Hullo, Bob!” she said with a loud giggle. “We do seem to bump into each other in orchards, don’t we?”

    Linda Hooper, as might be remembered, was the dame he’d given the knee-trembler at Vern Reilly’s Cousin Dave Sheldon’s wedding to his second. In the old orchard—yeah.

    She propped herself suggestively against an apple tree and added: “I heard you were pitching in here while poor Jan’s in hospital, so I just thought I’d pop over with a casserole. It’s just some pasta with a bit of chicken and some Chicken Tonight sauce, but I always add a bit of bacon to brighten it up.”

    Bob smothered a sigh. “Ta, Linda, that’s real nice of you.” It was also real nice of her to wear that tight cotton dress under that very tight cardy that was artfully unbuttoned to just under ’em. And exactly why bringing someone a casserole meant ya hadda wear very high-heeled blue sandals, don’t ask.

    “So it’s true you’re all on your lonesome?” she asked, looking soulful.

    “Wouldn’t say that. Sean and Molly are just over the way. And I’ve had a few visitors,” he added drily before he could stop himself.

    “That’s good. It’s rather lonely, isn’t it? I hadn’t realised how isolated it is.”

    “Um, well, Taupo Organic Produce are just next-door,” said Bob feebly.

    “Yes, but not close,” said Linda, slapping at her shapely right calf. “Ow! Something bit me!”

    Well, it hadn't been him. “Might’ve been a mozzie—bit late in the year for them. Sandfly? Gnat?”

    “Is there a mark?” she asked, pouting, and twisting to look.

    Bob came a bit closer and gave it a cursory look. “Don’t think so. If it starts itching later, put some calamine lotion on it.”

    Linda raised the leg even further against the trunk of the tree—this made the tight dress ride up, surprisingly enough—and said: “That works with bad itches, does it, Bob?”

    Bob had to clear his throat. “Pretty much, yeah.”

    “Not all, I don’t think,” she said, licking her lips. “’Member that wedding reception we went to?”

    Wasn’t it pretty bloody clear he did? “Yeah,” he said shortly.

    “It was awfully good for me!” said Linda with a smothered giggle. “But really unfair on you, wasn’t it?”

    “That’s the way the cookie crumbles.”

    “Not necessarily. You could have another bite at the cookie, if you felt like it,” she said, looking soulfully at the bulge in his pants.

    Cripes, she could see he flaming well felt like it! “Look, there’s someone else, Linda, so ta but no, ta.”

    “That’s not the way I heard it,” she said, licking her lips and managing to get the leg up a bit more. Okay, pale blue lacy panties, matched the cardy.

    “Not that I’m doing, that I wanna get involved with!” said Bob rather loudly, very flushed.

    “In that case you are free. And I’m certainly fancy-free! And I’ve always felt I owed you, Bob.”

    A trifle unfortunately Bob knew that Molly was out, she’d stopped in on her way to the supermarkets. And Sean was also out, hunting down some craft contacts of his mother’s that lived way over Napier-Hastings somewhere. So there was no chance of being interrupted.

    “Um, look, it’d be stupid. For one thing, I haven’t got any protection,” he muttered.

    “That’s all right, I was a Girl Guide!” said Linda with giggle. She was quite a lot younger than good ole Joanne so she didn’t go in for quite the same style of rib-crushing great purse, but she had a large, squashy sort of pinky thing hanging over her left arm. She fished in it and produced a packet. Managing to leave that leg up and flash the panties as she did it, too right.

    Oh, blow it! He might get run over by a truck tomorrow! Or drop down with heart, like poor Jan, or a stroke like poor old Vern! And what was a knee-trembler, after all? Bob unzipped his jeans.

    “Ooh!” said Linda with a giggle.

    “Yeah,” replied Bib vaguely, pressing himself against her and crushing the pale blue cardy but good. “Gi’s a nice wet kiss, eh?”

    She threw her arms round his neck and did that, meantime hooking that leg behind his bum, so she wasn’t kidding, ya know? Then she grabbed his cock—Christ!—and she definitely wasn’t kidding.

    “Oh, Christ, Linda,” groaned Bob as she rubbed him. “Come on, lovey, lemme—” His fingers probed the blue panties.

    “Oh, Bob!” she gasped.

    Gee, flattering, and he’d hardly touched her… His finger slid in.

    “Oh, BOB!” she shrieked.

    “Good one,” said Bob thickly, kissing her again with his eyes shut. “Boy, ya wet up there, love.”

    “Oh, Bob, oh, Bob!”

    “Listen, can I do it?” he said in her ear.

    “Yes, quick!” she gasped.

    Okay. If she said so. He got the condom on, meantime she pulled the panties right down without being prompted, and spread ’em.

    “Yeah—come on,” said Bob hoarsely, stepping in. He got both hands round her waist and, propping her against the tree, hoisted her up a bit, and—“JESUS!”—got up there.

    Linda gave a sort of long, wailing moan, bit unusual, that. Well, slightly different, ya know? Not a mew, and not a shriek, and not exactly a moan, as such. “Oh, Bob! Do it! Hard!” she gasped.

    Obligingly Bob fucked hard. Well, pretty hard. Uh—Jesus! Oh—Christ! Oh— “JESUS!”

    She let out a shriek like the old whistle at the timber factory and—

    “ARRGH! Uh—AAARGH! he roared, while Linda clawed at his shoulders and shrieked.

    Then they both panted for ages and ages.

    “I don’t—think—ya owe me one—no more!” he gasped.

    “No,” said Linda faintly. “I mean—ta.”

    Bob sagged all over her, panting. “Don’t thank me,” he said feebly at last.

    “It was great. I s’pose Bill and me are in a rut, really.”

    Yeah? Would they of been in this rut about three years back, round the time of that wedding? But they weren’t the first married couple to get into a rut, so he didn’t argue the point.

    That pasta casserole was pretty good, too. She was right: the bacon brightened it up.

    … When ya thought about it, the funny thing was, he was as much a lonely bachelor as he had been these past several years, and they hadn’t brought him relays of casseroles then. Um, on the other hand three of them were married women, and Miser Ron Reilly’s bloody wife spent most of her days glued to her front curtains next-door to his place, and ole Ma Dutton over the road’d be well in the running for Chief Taupo Gossip. Whereas the ecolodge was, as Linda had so rightly pointed out, quite isolated—and then, the rallying round thing was a really good excuse, eh? Human nature—yeah. Theirs and his, quite.

    The real rallying round, however, had slackened off. Bob had had some experience of family crises and he knew that this was what generally happened: everyone was all over you for a bit and then they all seemed to conclude that was it, and stopped rallying round and went back to their own lives. Which was fair enough, but usually it was after the initial fuss had died down that you could really do with some help. Like now. Sure there weren’t any guests: Tamsin had rung and told the three couples that had booked for the week before Easter not to come—but people kept ringing up to make bookings or check on bookings or ask about orders or invoices and stuff and there was only him here to deal with it. Not to say with the mail. Well, Sean and Molly were just over the way, but his face went sort of glassy and bug-eyed when Bob asked him how you checked if a bill had actually been paid and Molly just said faintly: “It’ll be in the computer.”

    Peter the Dalmatian was about as much help as they were, actually. Well, more: he didn’t have stupid panics, he just went round with you meekly or lay meekly on a sofa dozing. Stupid panic Number One had been Molly’s: the electricity went off in the middle of a glass-blowing demo. The flaming electricity bill hadn’t been paid and it turned out Pete hadn’t yet got round to getting her shed put on a separate bill. Bob wasn’t gonna ask why Coral hadn’t seen to it because he knew the answer, it started in “skin” and ended in “flint.” Stupid panic Number Two was Sean’s: the cucumbers had come down with a mysterious disease that wasn’t after all the dew on the leaves. Powdery mildew, and if he’d ever listened to a word his dad and Pete had said to him about gardening he’d of picked the last ones before this. And don’t plant anything like pumpkins or cucumbers anywhere near that spot for the next few years. YES, zucchinis as well, whaddareya, Sean, THICK?

    There was, alas, only one person Bob knew that knew about business stuff and was a whizz with a computer. He rang Coral.

    Oh, Christ.

    “Look! This is how you check for an invoice—Bob! Pay attention!”—“Look! I’ve shown you this! You’re not paying attention!”—“Get the invoice—the PAPER invoice, you idiot!”—“This is receipted—YES! I know it says ‘Invoice’ at the top, Bob, but this is a receipt!” A stupid blurred stamp down the bottom. All right, it was a receipt. Then it was: “What do you mean, cancelled bookings? You haven’t cancelled them!” Yes, they had, Tamsin had rung up—“They’re still in here!” All right, the kid didn’t know about flaming computers either. What? –Sorry, Coral, what was that? “You haven’t even checked the email bookings!” She was right, there. What was an email, when it was at home? “Have you been in touch with their website host?” Eh? “If you can’t manage the email bookings until further notice, Bob, you need to put a notice on the website—” And blah, blah, blah.

    “Ta, Coral,” he said miserably when it was more or less over. “You’re a brick.”

    Coral gave him a hard look. “I need my head read, more like. Look, I don’t mind helping out but I can’t run their business as well as the shops and the crafts boutique.”

    “No, I know,” he muttered. “I didn’t realise Jan did all this stuff.”

    Coral sniffed. “Well, eventually Tamsin will be able to do it, but she needs to finish those courses of hers first. You’ll either have to find somebody else to help or shut the place down until Jayne can stay permanently.”

    “I don’t think she knows anything about computers, either.”

    “Then you’ll have to find somebody else or close until Tamsin’s ready. That bookkeeping course of hers isn’t much but it’s a start: it’ll teach her the basics. But she’ll need to do a course in using a business management program as well. I’ve found her one but it doesn’t start until after the mid-year break. And in any case if we want her and Neil to make a go of it I don’t advise hauling her down here at this stage of the relationship.” Another hard look. “He is your son, after all, and I haven’t forgotten what happened that time that stupid Melanie girl he reckoned he wanted a permanent relationship with decided to take that six-months posting in Rarotonga, if you have!”

    Bob smiled feebly. What had happened was, more or less, Mandy, Candy and Bandy. No, well, he’d forgotten the last one’s name but she definitely had been bandy, legs like bananas, and he wouldn’t of sworn the middle one was Candy, but there’d been at least three of ’em to his certain knowledge.

    With a last admonition to think about it, Coral pushed off. Whaddelse was he gonna do but think about it? Bob stared glumly at the phone. Someone that knew about computers… Neil used computers a lot but of course not for this sort of stuff. Mind you, Coral had said that anyone that was computer-literate, presumably that meant could use the bloody things, why couldn’t people that knew about computers talk English, would be able to pick it up easily, it wasn’t a hard program, but for the harder bits like knowing what forms to fill in—not the expression she’d used—what forms to fill in at the end of the financial year you hadda know about accounts—not the way she’d put it…

    After a long time staring gloomily in front of him he picked up the phone. Then he put it down again. Then he picked up the phone book. Shit! You what? Then he realised he didn’t have the number anyway. Coral had said there was a whatsit in the computer that had phone numbers but no way was he gonna try that lark, he’d bust the thing, sure as eggs were… He rang Neil’s number.

    “I don’t wanna hear it’s easy, Neil, I’ve just had two hours of yer bloody mother telling me I’m a computer-illiterate! And don’t tell me about prefixes and crap, just tell me exactly what numbers to dial!”

    He must of got the point because he read out a great long list of numbers, and checked them carefully to make sure his dumb dad had got them right. Then he started telling him about prefixes again but Bob said tiredly: “Leave it out, will ya? Aw, and tell Tamsin that ordinary bones from the butcher are better for Peter’s teeth than them expensive pet-shop things, she can stop spending money on them, Dave Murray down at Taupo Mastercut’ll give me some bones any time I care to ask ’im. And just in case she was doing it, tell ’er ya don’t give dogs cooked bones from a barbecue or anything, they’re bad for their insides. –YES!” he said loudly as Neil began to object. “I may not know about the innards of computers, but I know about dogs’ innards! No cooked bones! –Yeah, a bit of cooked meat won’t hurt him, but not as a regular thing. And she does know that onions are poisonous to dogs, does she? No leftover stew, okay?”

    “Dad, she’s never given him that sort of muck, anyway,” he said in kindly, tolerant tones, “but I’ll tell her. Her aunty found that book, by the way, she’s sent it over, Tamsin’s posting it to you today.”

    Bob didn’t actually need a book on “You and Your Dalmatian” but never mind. “Yeah. Righto. Getting your notes written up, are ya? –Good. –Went to what?” He let him tell him all about some ruddy modern jazz thing they’d been to up the varsity, better hope young Tamsin liked flaming modern jazz, eh, ’cos if she hitched her star to his waggon that was all she was gonna hear for the rest of her life, and finally rang off.

    “Good boy,” he said to Peter, who, since there was no handy sofa in Jan’s office, was just lying meekly at his feet. Having emerged from the spot against the wall between the filing cabinet and the writing desk in which he’d lurked all the time Coral was here. Dogs didn’t like Coral. Peter panted a bit, moved his tail slightly, and licked his hand.

    “Yeah,” he said with a sigh. “Hope she doesn’t wanna take you, eh, boy? Well, here goes nothing…” He dialled.

    Libby was in the Dahlenburgs’ kitchen, sorting and packing stuff. She straightened with something in her hand, very flushed. “What is this?” she panted.

    Jim Cooper looked at it without interest, and at the flushed and panting Libby with considerable interest. “Dunno,” he said cheerfully. “There’s a phone call for you.”

    “It’s not the land agent, is it?” said Libby in a hollow tone.

    Everyone had explained to Libby, several times over, that the sale of her house was final, the people had taken vacant possession, the money was in her bank account, for Chrissakes! Nevertheless she was still having panics over it.

    “It won’t be yours, will ya stop panicking! Didn’t say who ’e was. And if it’s an agent wanting to handle this place, tell him Kev O’Reilly’s selling it exclusively, okay?”

    “Exclusively,” repeated Libby glumly. “Yes. Are you sure he asked for me?”

    “Yes,” said Jim firmly.

    Looking resigned, she went out to the passage. Well, true, it was nearer than the study, where Bill Dahlenburg’s extension was: and why the mean sod hadn’t put one in the kitchen for his wife—! Not for the first time Jim Cooper found himself wishing he’d worked up the guts to sock the bastard while he was still fit and in the land of the living. He looked dubiously at the thing Libby had found in Jayne’s cupboard. Some sort of coffeemaker? Oh, well, who cared? He wrapped it in newsprint and bunged it in the nearest big carton. –He could have got a firm to do all this, in fact he was more than willing to get a firm to do it all, but he’d been and gone and let on to Libby what they charged for packing and that had been it, I,T. According to her she owed Jayne more than enough already and she wasn’t gonna let her in for any more unnecessary expense… Oh, well, it was true Kev hadn’t yet found anyone to offer a fair price for the house. That spotted and striped black and white stuff in the family-room wasn’t helping, though several dames had admired the plants and the indoors-outdoors effect. But anyway, there was no hurry, with Jayne off in England: she could afford to wait to get her price. And he didn’t mind coming over and giving Libby a bit of a hand with the packing. Better than staying at home listening to Madeleine nag him about “upgrading” the pool: what she meant was, ripping the whole bloody thing out and replacing it with something even more expensive…

    “Hullo?” said Libby fearfully.

    There was a strange sort of echoing silence on the line. Then a man’s voice said: “Is that Libby?”

    “Yes,” said Libby in a small voice. It must be a land agent: they always called you by your first name even if you hadn’t asked them to, in fact especially if—

    “Then who the Hell was that that answered the phone?” said the voice angrily.

    “The—the neighbour: Jim Cooper!” she gasped. “If it’s about the house, Mr O’Reilly’s selling it exclusively.”

    There was a another strange, echoing silence and then the voice said: “Um, no. Um, sorry, it’s Bob Kenny here.”

    “Is Jan all right?” she gasped.

    “Yeah. Sorry, didn’t mean to give you a fright. It’s not about her, or Pete, they’re both fine. Jan’s doing real good and Tamsin and Neil are going in to see her every day and the doc’s letting her out next week. And her and Pete’ll stay with the Carranos for a bit. Ya don’t need to worry, they can afford everything that opens and shuts and they’re even getting her a private nurse.”

    “Yes. Good,” said Libby faintly.

    Bob took a deep breath. “Thought ya might’ve come over, actually.”

    “They—they all rang up and told me not to,” said Libby in a voice that trembled. “Tamsin, and—and Lady Carrano, and Jayne rang me all the way from England—she’s got a terrible cold—and Janet rang from the ecolodge and said everything was under control. And then Dad rang, too, and he said the same thing. I—I am supposed to be packing up Jayne’s stuff but I—I could have got a flight, only… They all told me not to,” she repeated.

    “Yeah,” said Bob limply.

    “Have I—have I done the wrong thing?” said Libby fearfully.

    Oh, boy. He took a very deep breath. “It doesn’t sound to me like ya done what you wanted to do, Libby: personally I’d say that was the wrong thing. But ya done the sensible thing, yeah.”

    “Mm. Usually the sensible people are right and everyone always tells me I’m not sensible—well, I know that, so… Um, is that why you rang, to tell me that?”

    Eh? “Uh, no. Um, well, I do think you’d do better doing what you want to. I’m ringing about the ecolodge. I mean, it was okay at first, only now that Jan’s doing fine everyone’s sort of given up rallying round, if ya see what I mean,”—this was a lot harder than what he’d imagined, not that he’d imagined it was gonna be easy—“and, um, well, see, I’m looking after the place, only I can’t tell what bills have been paid and stuff, and Coral reckons there are email bookings and stuff, too, only I don't know how to use the computer. And the electricity got cut off the other day,” he admitted glumly.

    “All the electricity?” she gasped.

    “Y—Uh, not Sean and Molly’s house. Or the garage and the dairy, they’re on Pete’s generator. Um, the main building and the bunkhouse and Molly’s glass-blowing shed.”

    “What about all the stuff in the freezers?” she gasped.

    “Big freezers are usually okay for twenty-four hours, and I paid the bill and got it turned on again in time. Lucky the buggers didn’t do it at five o’clock on a Friday, eh?”

    “I’ll say!” she breathed.

    “Yeah. Um, well, Coral explained that all that stuff’s in the computer. You can pay the bills with the computer, too, only I dunno how that works, I just got Pete to sign a load of blank cheques.”

    “Internet banking: I can do that, it’s really easy, I pay most of my bills that way.”

    “It’s easy if you aren’t a computer-illiterate like me—yeah. Um, well, that’s the thing, see: even though there won’t be any guests until Easter and at a pinch I could ring them up and tell them the place is closed, stuff needs to be done all the time and all the records are in the computer, so I never know if I’m paying a bill twice. And—and Coral come over and sorted things out for the time being, but she reckons I’m stupid,” he ended dully.

    Unexpectedly Libby’s eyes sparkled with tears. She blinked hard and said as firmly as she could: “You’re not stupid. You know about loads of things, like complicated cisterns and electricity and stuff. And goats’ cheese: you can’t say that’s easy! It’s just different stuff from the sort of things she knows.”

    “Yeah, something like that,” said Bob on a sour note. “So can ya come?”

    Libby gulped. “Me? It—it’s Easter at the end of next week, Bob.”

    “Well, yeah. I didn’t mean wait until Easter, I meant soon as ya can. Tamsin and Neil can come down for Easter, and I think they’ve got a mid-term break or something, but it’s not like staying for good. And actually Neil doesn’t need to be taking long varsity holidays, he needs to keep his nose to the grindstone, his professor told me that, that last time he rung.”

    Libby swallowed. “Yes. Doing your Ph.D.’s like that. I see, you want me to—to get the next available flight?”

    “Yeah. –It’s too complicated, I can’t do it!” he burst out. “I mean, it’s not like typing, I can sort of do that. People like you that’ve been using computers for years can’t see that it’s not easy if ya’ve never done any of it before!”

    People like Coral, was what he meant, wasn’t it? Libby’s mouth firmed. “I can see that, actually, Bob: it’d be like me looking at the cistern, a complete mystery. It’s okay, I’ll come straight away. But Jan was always pretty much up-to-date with the bills, so if there’s one of those awful red ‘You are about to be disconnected’ notices you’d better pay it.”

    “Yeah, that finally dawned,” he said ruefully. “Okay, great: ring me back soon as you’ve booked your flight and I’ll meet you at the airport, okay?”

    “It’s a lot of driving for you, Bob,” she said timidly.

    “Nah, I’ll take the chance to see Neil and chew his ear a bit about keeping his nose to the grindstone this year, and quite likely Taupo Organic Produce’ll have a load for me to take up anyway. Ta, Libby. See ya!”

    “See ya,” said Libby limply to the humming receiver. Um, ring him back where? Presumably at the ecolodge? Oh, well, she’d try there first; if necessary she could always look up his number in the White Pages onli… Oh, dear! Poor Bob! You just didn’t realise, once you’d got used to using computers, how much you tended to do with them, did you?

    She found Jim, told him she had to go to New Zealand after all, thanked him for all his help, agreed he could get the packers in to finish the job, and booked a seat on a flight that left first thing tomorrow morning. Help, would that mean it’d get in earlier or later in New Zealand: which way did the time difference work? Libby looked dubiously at the computer print-out of her “electronic ticket”.—The computer had been Bill’s. Tamsin had simply transferred it and its printer to her own room, then discovering there was no phone connection and having to buy a long modem cord.—The printout was no help; she gave up and made the call. Getting the strange response: “You have reached Taupo Shores Ecolodge. Please leave a m—Blast! Are ya there?”

    “Yes. It’s Libby McLeod. Is that Bob?”

    “Yeah!” he gasped, panting. “Sorry! Didn’t expect ya to ring back so soon!”

    “I’ve got a booking on the early flight tomorrow. But it—it doesn’t give you much notice.”

    “No—uh, that’s okay! So when’s it get in at Auckland, Libby?”

    “I’m not sure: all I can tell you is what the printout says. I don’t know whether the time’s New Zealand time or ours. And I can’t remember how the time difference works.”

    “We’re two hours ahead of you. One time we had this TV ad saying the vineyards over on the East Coast are the first in the world to see the sun. The sun comes up earlier here, see?”

    “Ye-es…”

    “Like when it’s six o’clock here it’ll only be four in the morning over there and you lot’ll still be tucked up snoring your heads off,” said Bob with a smile in his voice.

    “Um, I see,” said Libby dubiously. “Have you got a pen?”

    “Yeah—hang on, Janet musta moved the flaming phone pad again.” Libby heard him grunt. Then he said: “She keeps putting it on that shelf underneath the desk, ya know?”

    “Jan said that Dad put that shelf in specially for the phone books.”

    “Right. Well, that’s bloody Janet for ya. Mind you, she’s really been pulling her weight, but the minute ya turn round ya find she—she’s undermining you in little things!”

    “Yes. She’s that sort of person. It’s a strange psychological phenomenon, isn’t it? Personally I think it indicates she’s got a grudge against the world, which with her awful ex-husband and sons isn’t surprising, and as well as that, it’s a way of asserting her personality, because her life has never given her any chance to. Um, that doesn’t put it very well. Partly she’s doing it to spite the world, and partly she’s doing it to say ‘This is Janet’; you see?”

    “Ya mean she’s saying ‘This is Janet and I’m spiting the lot of you?’” he croaked.

    “Yes, I think so.”

    Bob swallowed. “As a matter of fact I’d say you’re not wrong! Uh—well, go on, give us these times. And ya flight number,” he added weakly.

    He wrote it all down, reassured her he’d meet her, and hung up feeling quite numb. Shit, this time tomorrow she’d be down here! …Well, possibly. Unless they stopped off to see Jan at the Mater hospital. Um, hang on, was it tomorrow she’d be going to stay with the Carranos, though? Uh, no, hang on: tomorrow was only Sunday! Jan wasn’t due to leave hospital until the Monday.

    He sagged weakly in the old varnished captain’s chair at Jan’s writing desk. After a moment a warm, panting presence pressed against his leg. Peter must have decided they’d stopped washing Pete’s 4WD on the sweep.

    “Yeah, good boy,” he said, automatically patting him. “Ya don’t just lie on a sofa if there’s something to do, do ya, fella? The silly moos never took you around with them, eh? Well, probably nowhere much to take you in them plutey Brisbane suburbs,” he recognised. “Yer Aunty Libby’ll be here tomorrow, boy: that’s nice, eh?” He ruffled his ears. Peter licked his hand. “Well, I suppose it’s nice,” amended Bob uneasily.

Next chapter:

https://summerseason-anovel.blogspot.com/2022/08/mission-impossible.html