Shining Big-Sea-Water

28

Shining Big-Sea-Water

    The ecolodge basked under a clear blue afternoon sky. A silver Lexus drew up on the front sweep and a middle-aged couple got out. Andrew came out of the front door looking hostly and helped them inside with their bags, what time a silver Mitsubishi crunched past slowly on the gravel from the direction of the crafts boutique and headed down the drive. After a few moments two obvious retirees came out of the front door, the one in a floral blouse, polyester slacks and low-heeled white sandals, the other in a fawn tee-shirt, crisply ironed grey shorts, knee-socks and giant sneakers. They proceeded to consult earnestly over the knee-high, eco-friendly pokerwork sign that read “Pohutukawa Trail, 2 K”. After a certain amount of pointing and nodding, they headed off slowly down the indicated little track.

    Nothing moved outside the ecolodge. The air was still, filled with the constant zinging of cicadas. From somewhere in the distance came the roar of an outboard motor…

    Two more retirees emerged from the front door, the one in neat khaki slacks, neat green tee-shirt, droopy cotton camouflage hat and suede safari boots, the other in neat khaki shorts, droopy camouflage tee-shirt, droopy cotton camouflage hat, rolled-down, heavy-ribbed khaki socks and suede safari boots. Consultation over the “Pohutukawa Trail, 2 K” pokerwork sign ensued. After a certain amount of pointing and wrist-consulting, they marched off briskly down the little track.

    After that nothing more moved outside the ecolodge and nothing was heard apart from the constant zinging of cicadas and the distant roar of an outboard motor.

    Further round the lakeshore Livia Briggs relaxed in a deckchair on Pete’s and Jan’s very new patio under their very new sun-umbrella and announced happily: “This is nice!”

    It’d be nicer if that row of eco-friendly planting that was supposed to screen their little house from the view of the bushwalkers on the last curve of the Rewarewa Trail had actually grown up enough to do so: they’d already had at least a dozen enquiries from self-guided cretins wondering if they were on the right track for the trail’s end or, conversely, the ecolodge, or even the crafts boutique, but Jan agreed mildly from another deckchair: “Mm.”

    Livia peered out at the lake but the aluminium dinghy with the two macho male cretins in it was still there, still motionless, so she relaxed again.

    “Are they fishing?” asked Jan, smothering a yawn.

    “Well, they’ve got their fishing-rods out, dear.”

    “Mm-hm,” she murmured.

    Silence reigned, except for the constant zinging of the cicadas and the faint roar of an outboard…

    Livia sat up with a gasp. “What’s that?”

    Jan had also woken up with a jump. “Calm down, only the Tallulah Tub.”

    “Pete called it that himself the other day!” said Livia with a giggle.

    “Yeah, he’s given up that mania. Got a few new ones,” explained Jan drily.

    Livia wasn’t listening: she was looking eagerly at the lake. “Here she comes!”

    They watched, smiling, as the Taupo Shores Tallulah pottered past with Libby at the helm. They waved. She waved back—

    “Help, has Andrew made her wear a uniform?” gaped Livia, suddenly bolt upright and peering.

    “He doesn’t make, Livia,” said Jan wryly. “He suggests nicely and somehow it happens.”

    “I know, darling, I saw Michelle in such a neat, smart yellow uniform with little white cuffs: I nearly died!” she confessed.

    “She thinks she’s Christmas in it; don’t ask me how he does it. But that get-up of Libby’s isn’t quite a uniform, it’s a mixture of Tamsin’s notion of smart boating wear for the twenty-first century, Jayne’s tactful tempering of same, and Andrew’s I’m not sure what, but telling Libby that that ruddy peaked cap Tamsin bought at that poncy boating-supplies place would help keep the sun off her nose if she was worried about skin cancer with her Scotch blood certainly helped.”

    “My dear, and she took it from him?” she gasped.

    “She does like him, you know. No, well, Bob asked what on earth Scotch blood had to do with the price of fish, and somehow, by the time they’d all finished telling him”—she gave Livia a very dry look—“somehow Libby had decided that a neat yachting cap would be much more practical than a floppy straw hat.”

    There was a short silence.

    “I see!” said Livia with a great deal of meaning.

    “Uh-huh. Can’t judge a book by its cover, eh? Not all that many flies on Bob.”

    “No, exactly, dear!” she agreed eagerly. “It’s working out so well, Jan, dear!”

    “We think so,” agreed Jan mildly. “Given that she’s as keen as he is.”

    “Um, I didn’t just mean sex, Jan,” said Livia cautiously.

    “No, but don’t let’s kid ourselves, he’s the type that can’t do without it. And at his age, if the woman won’t give it to him there’s no way he’d stick it out with her.”

    “No, you’re perfectly correct, Jan. Just like Wallace,” said Livia on a complacent note.

    Er—yes: they had always realised she was married to one of them. Wal had had four wives, after all, with God knew how many women in between. But it was certainly true he’d never shown any signs of straying since he met Livia.

    “Mm. Funny, you know: I wouldn’t have spotted Libby for the type—well, Hell, you can’t claim she’s anything like that awful Lucille creature Bob did last Christmas—Christmas before last, I mean—or that flashy Rhoda dame from Seattle! Um, you might not’ve met her. Well, let’s just say they’re the sort that hang out a sign,” said Jan drily. “Ever met Cloris Witherspoon?”—Livia shook her head.—“Oh. Well, she’s another. Libby’s nothing like them. Though Pete reckons she is a bit like the blonde woman that used to work at the library—this was back when Bob was still married, when Neil was in his early teens, I think. I can’t say I recall her particularly—well, no macho cretin opened his gob and let it out to the little woman that there might be a reason to,” she ended drily.

    “No, they do stick together, dear… Not just because she was a librarian?”

    “Uh—no, don’t think so,” said Jan a trifle weakly. “Same sort of figure and something about loads of fluffy hair. Quiet sort of woman, evidently.”

    “I see, dear; well, that’s promising! But you’re only looking at the surface of things, Jan,” she explained earnestly. “We should have been warned when Libby took up with Aidan, just like that.”

    “Threw herself at him?” suggest Jan drily.

    “No, quite the reverse: let him pick her up on very short acquaintance. Never mind what you said about hanging out a sign, Jan, she’s as keen as the type that does! And you see, if you forget all the surface nonsense, Bob and Aidan are very much alike: the sort that can see it in a woman immediately.”

    Uh— “Cripes, you’re right, Livia.”

    Livia smirked and nodded. “You see? She and Bob are perfect for each other!”

    Given that she didn’t seem to care if he got round in rags and neglected that tangle of weeds in his back yard misnamed a vege garden and he didn’t seem to care that she couldn’t cook—yeah.

    “And he’s very easy-going, Jan. He won’t mind if she’s a hopeless housekeeper.”

    “And a rotten cook,” noted Jan before she could stop herself.

    Fortunately Livia didn’t take this the wrong way. “They’re eating lots of salads in this lovely weather: Hugh and Bettany Throgmorton make sure he goes home with a box of veges whenever he does some work for them, you know; and in the winter he’ll make lovely roasts for them like he did when he was looking after the ecolodge: it’ll be fine, you’ll see! Let me make you a cuppa, Jan!” she smiled, getting up.

    Jan peered groggily at her watch. “Uh—heck, is that the time? Well, yes, a cuppa’d be nice—ta, Livia. There’s a bottle of chilled white in the fridge, too, and I made a cheesecake, if you want to bring it out.”

    “Ooh, yummy!” Livia tottered inside on the usual high-heeled wedgies.

    Jan leaned back in her deckchair, closing her eyes. It was all pretty much okay. Livia was spot-on about Libby and Bob—as usual: when had she ever been wrong about relations between the sexes? Jayne was fine, too. Personally she’d take an axe to nice, considerate, quietly managing Andrew Barker if she had to live with him for more than two days, but he seemed to suit Jayne down to the ground. And he certainly wasn’t bullying her. Managing her tactfully—possibly. Bullying her—no way. As for Patty and her lovely David—she’d never seen two people better suited to each other! Though God knew if the Harmonic Vitality stuff would actually make their fortunes… That idiot Aidan seemed to be convinced it was going to, but she had an idea that neither David nor Patty really wanted it to, they just wanted something interesting that they could both be involved in… Yes, Aidan Vine was a nong, really, wasn’t he? Never mind the high-falutin’, Lord of all he surveyed, smoothie stuff, that was just acquired manner. Thank God Libby hadn’t seriously taken up with him…

    “Wakey-wakey, Sleeping Beauty!”

    Jan opened her eyes with a gasp. “Oh, hullo, Wal,” she said sheepishly.

    Wal pulled up a deckchair, grinning. “Sweet dreams?”

    The mists hadn’t dissipated: Jan replied groggily: “Mr Darcy.”

    Grinning, Wal returned: “Thought we’d agreed it wasn’t, after all? Though I’ll grant ya Jayne and her Bingley.”

    Jan blinked and sat up straighter. “Ssh! Don’t call him that! Anyway, he’s much more capable than Bingley ever was.”

    “Yeah. And as I was saying, Aidan turned out not to be your Elizabeth’s Mr Darcy after all.”

    “No. Um, do you remember that bloody TV series?”

    “Tried not to watch it,” replied Wal cheerfully. “She was glued to it, of course. What about it?”

    “I was having this stupid dream… Which one of them was it that rode the bloody white charger?”

    “Actually I specially noticed that. It was both of them. Bingley had a turn and Darcy had a turn. Think it was actually the same nag, too. Wondered if it was a subtle joke by the producers, then I decided that the thing was so humourless it couldn’t be, so it came down to a choice between a deliberate romantic motif, which I’d’ve said they were too cretinous to think of, or mere fuckwittedness.”

    “Good. I sort of thought it was both, and then I thought maybe my eyes had gone fuzzy.”

    “Why’d ya watch it?” he asked idly.

    “Kept hoping it’d get better,” admitted Jan glumly. “That and a slight case of yer Colin Firths.”

    “Eh?”

    “Mr Darcy,” she said heavily.

    “Aw, him. Thought he made quite a good fist of it, actually. Unlike the bloody Collins—”

    “Can we not talk about it, please?” interrupted Jan, shuddering.

    “No, all right.” He eyed her cautiously. “Not brooding about Libby and Aidan, are ya?”

    “Heck, no! In fact I was just thanking God she didn’t take up with him permanently!”

    “Yep. Bit of a follower—always was,” said Wal comfortably, leaning back in his deckchair.

    In a nutshell! Jan of course had known Wal for some years; nevertheless she just gaped limply. “Why didn’t you say so before?” she eventually croaked.

    “Eh? Dunno. Well, who knows? Thought ’e mighta suited one of them,” he said with his eyes shut.

    Jan gave up. “Mm. –Where’s Pete, or didja drown him?”

    “Nah—well, I was tempted,” he admitted. “Putting stuff away in the new shed,”—Jan winced horribly—“and as Livia’s in the kitchen the next step’ll be to tell ’er what she’s doing wrong, if so be as ’e ever gets out of the shed before sundown, that is.”—Jan winced horribly.—“Yeah. Why the fuck didja let ’im have a new one?”

    “I didn’t! Jake had got Carrano Development to put the ruddy thing up before I realized!”

    “That explains it, then,” he said, satisfied.

    Jan breathed heavily. After some time she managed to say: “He’s lined it.”

    “Noticed that.”

    Jan breathed heavily

    “Little metal bottle-tops,” suggested Wal delicately.

    She gulped. “Not quite! He’s got one of those bloody tool-shadow boards, though, kindly don’t correct my terminology. All his own work: Steve Garber at Taupo Hardware & Electrical had an old-fashioned one that wasn’t nearly good enough and Rog Sprott at Mitre 10 had a much posher modern one that was crap, unquote—”

    “Yeah. Keep ya hair on.”

    “And now that’s done, he’s making tiny-weeny, dinky little shelves for his dinky wee jars of rusting screws and minute broken pieces of hinge and unnecessary rusty washers!”

    “Can washers rust?”

    “Pete’s can!” replied Jan fervently.

    “Mm.—Used an old Vegemite jar as a spacer: thought that was quite nifty, meself. Well, an old Vegemite jar plus a 6-millimetre slip of offcut, to be strictly—” He caught Jan’s eye. “Anal, finicky and unnecessary,” he admitted drily.

    “Yeah,” she conceded, sighing. “Oh, well, every man has to have a hobby.”

    “Jan, love, the blighter had a shed when ya took up with him!” said Pete’s old mate in considerable amusement.

    “Yep. At that stage I was too besotted, silly wee feminine me, to realise that as the years went on the shed would assume more importance in his life.”

    “Balls. It’s only because he’s retired, you twit. Have some afternoon tea,” he said, hauling himself up and relieving Livia of her tray.

    “Thank you, Wallace, dear!” she gasped. “There’s some beer in the fridge, dear!”

    “Glad to hear it.” He looked interestedly at the bottle of wine that Livia had thoughtfully placed in an ice-bucket which he was ready to take his oath Pete and Jan had forgotten they owned—woulda been a present from that maniac Jake, no doubt, talking of obsessed cretins. “‘Yellow Glen?’ Where’d this come from?”

    “Australia. I think Bob said someone gave it to him,” replied Jan. “I couldn’t tell him we didn’t want it, Wal, it was kind of an apology for letting us down about the goats.”

    “We do want it,” he replied simply, opening it.

    “Wallace, darling, I’ve made a nice pot of tea,” murmured Livia.

    “That’s okay: this won’t go off sitting in the ice,” he replied mildly, shoving it back in the bucket. “Anyway, thought he’d taken the goats back?”

    “He has. Andrew doesn’t like them, so he’s building them a goat palace on his section, further along the lake,” replied Jan calmly. “This was for before.”

    “Right,” said Wal with a twinkle in his shrewd little brown eyes. “What about the milk?”

    “Once it’s been cheesified Andrew may take some, so long as he’s not required to eat it—well, not everybody can stand goats’ cheese,” said Jan fairly. “But David’ll take the bulk of it for Taupo Harmonic Vitality. If the goats have a really good season they’ll use the milk for baths, too.”

    “Goddit: well, that thing they’re building over there looks like a burnished throne,” he acknowledged. “That or a barge.”

    “Shut up!” said Jan with a laugh. “Go and find bloody Pete, tell him it’s now or never if he wants cheesecake.”

    “It does look delicious!” cooed Livia.

    “Yes,” said Jan with satisfaction, “it turned out okay. It’s a new recipe. Bit fiddly to do, but I’ve got the time and that new oven’s a dream!” She began to tell her all about the recipe.

    Wal went off in search of Pete, grinning to himself. Plus ça change, eh? Well, given the pair of them weren’t wearing themselves out running the bloody ecolodge any longer!

    The ecolodge basked in the afternoon sun. A silver Mitsubishi drew up on the sweep, to disgorge a middle-aged couple from the front seat and a young couple from the back. After a certain amount of discussion, “This must be it, John!” and “This is it, Dad!” being heard over the constant zinging of the cicadas, and “Is there a restaurant?” being countered with the reminder that the man at the organic fruit place had sworn there was a restaurant, a doorbell was discovered at the same time as a notice saying “Restaurant” on a small eco-friendly knee-high signpost with a finger pointing that way. So after some further discussion they all headed towards the corner of the building and, after further argument over whether that was only a garage, a second notice was noticed, also only knee-high, why didn’t they put them somewhere noticeable, and they headed off past— Was that a lounge bar? It wouldn’t be licensed, Philip, it wasn’t a pub! Hotel, John. Okay, Maureen, hotel, but it wasn’t. And it was this way to the restaurant, Mum, come on! And the only way to find out if they did do afternoon teas was to ask, Maureen, wasn’t it?

    Down at the end of the Pohutukawa Trail, it having been discovered—twice—that the Pohutukawa Trail unexpectedly debouched onto a stretch of grass near the landing stage not that far from the ecolodge, Mr and Mrs Greene with an E from Torbay, north of Auckland, and Mr and Mrs Coombs from Upper Hutt, north of Wellington, discussed the pros and cons of returning down the trail to the ecolodge or taking the short way back and came to the unanimous decision, never mind the khaki hiking gear on the Upper Hutt side and the polyester on the Torbay side, to head straight back, because it would be an awful pity to risk missing out on the afternoon tea highly recommended by some very nice Australians, Arvidson was their name, that the Coombses had met on a walking tour in Tasmania and, just coincidentally, by Mrs Greene’s cousins, Maeve and Adrian Kitson, who’d been here last Christmas.

    Down at the end of the Rimu Trail the sweating Tamsin looked at her watch, made a firm announcement that there’d be a ten-minute break, photographs of the lake could be taken if they wished, and please do not touch the pumice: the natural environment must be left pristine as they’d found it. In so many words. The cowed trekkers duly refreshed themselves from their water bottles, took snaps of the lake, murmured amongst themselves, and looked wistfully at the huge amounts of pumice lying around on the shore. One more energetic soul, in genuine worn-in hiking boots and grungy, crumpled shorts, did raise the point that she’d expected them to reach the end of the trail by lunchtime but Tamsin merely returned grimly: “We would have if the group had been able to keep up,” so she subsided. Nobody asked if there was a shorter way back: they’d already been told there wasn’t.

    Down at the end of the Rewarewa Trail two energetic middle-aged Canadian women in genuine worn-in hiking boots and proper backpacks emerged into the sunshine and looked around them in astonishment. Was this it? This couldn’t be it! Get the map out, Judy! Consultation over Andrew’s enlargement of Jan’s and Pete’s original plan of the trail ensued. This must be it! But it couldn’t be! Already? Look, Carrie, we must’ve taken the wrong turn back, uh, maybe back there—well, gee, there was a house just there, that wasn’t on the map! More consulting of the map… Look around, the man had said there’d be a sign! Considerable hunting in the undergrowth at the sides of the path eventually resulted in: “Oh, yeah! ‘Rewarewa Trail Ends’! Gee, already?” Watches were consulted, a brief discussion ensued, the map was checked, and, turning their backs on the glorious view of the placid blue lake, they hiked rapidly down the widened path that was the short way back to the ecolodge and the afternoon tea warmly recommended by the friends who’d been out here on a walking holiday some years back. Carb- and cholesterol-laden though they had previously decided it would be.

    The ecolodge basked in the westering sun of late afternoon. The sounds of car doors slamming were heard on the warm air over the zinging of the cicadas. Vehicles crunched slowly away from the crafts boutique and the ecolodge, full of satisfied craft buyers and/or afternoon tea-ers. Gradually peace descended again…

    The party of four in Room 4 emerged onto the verandah draped in towels over their bathing-suits and, telling one another pleasedly how warm it was, it had been the right decision to take their holiday in February this year, crossed the sweep and disappeared in the direction of the landing stage and the lake. Then all was still…

    Andrew came out of the front door, looking at his watch. He smiled and waved as an ancient but serviceable Combie van crunched up the drive, turned carefully to its left and disappeared in the direction of the guests’ carpark. Bunkhousers. He looked at his watch again. He was just going to go inside again when there was the sound of a vehicle crunching up the drive, and the minibus appeared, drawing up carefully by the verandah in a convenient position for the passengers to be helped up the steps. Andrew hurried forward, smiling. He didn’t have to ask how they’d enjoyed their trip, they were full of it. He helped the more infirm ones up the steps, assured them there was plenty of time for a little rest and a shower before dinner, and there’d be drinks in the lounge if they fancied them, and turned to speak to the driver.

    “How’d it go, Bob?”

    “Good-oh,” replied Bob stolidly. He liked the joker but the smoothly understated managerial bit caused him considerable silent amusement. Not that Andrew wasn’t making a bloody good fist of things. “Went round Whaka’ with them like what you said. You were right, Mrs Mason did need a bit of help, but we just took it slow and she was okay. It was ruddy hot, mind you: miles hotter than here. Let them take loads of photos of the geysers and mud pools, that gave ’em a breather.”

    “Good. And how was the lunch?”

    “Bonzer. That mixture of Jayne’s with the cream cheese and dates went over good, once they’d found out them walnuts were good and minced.”

    Andrew’s nice brown eyes twinkled. “Yes, Janet’s a great hand with finely chopping walnuts. No problems at all, then?”

    “Nope,” said Bob stolidly.

    “Great. You want to park the bus, then, Bob?”

    Instead of leaving it out the front to sully the sweep? Bob eyed him drily but replied: “Righto. Libby back yet?”

    “Not yet. Due back any minute,” he replied, checking his watch.

    “Okay, I’ll get down there and wait for her. See ya later.”

    The minibus headed off to the carpark. Andrew smiled and waved again, and hurried indoors to check the lounge and its little bar.

    The westering sun shone, the ecolodge basked, and all was still…

    The Taupo Shores Tallulah pulled in slowly to the landing stage. Bob unfolded his considerable length of denim leg and stood up without haste.

    “There you are,” he said. The tone was stolid but the grin stretched from ear to ear.

    “Hullo, Bob!” replied Libby, beaming, very flushed. “Can you grab the bow rope?”

    “I can if someone’d have the nous to chuck it to me. –Oy! Chuck us that rope, mate!” he said loudly to the elderly grey-cotton-hatted, be-shorted, knee-socked figure sitting up the front of the thing like it was a bloody armchair in his bloody living-room.

    Before the silly joker had even realized it was him that was being shouted at a thin, wiry female figure in a kangaroo pouch over camouflage cargo pants had sprung forward, grabbed the rope, leapt ashore and was slinging it round the post.

    “Ta, Missus,” said Bob feebly.

    “Helen,” she corrected him firmly, striding off to grab the stern rope before he could move.

    “Uh—yeah, Helen. Ta,” said Bob feebly in her wake. He tottered over to help the rest of the passengers off. Lovely time, eh? Good-oh. Beautiful lake? Yep, it was. Wonderful view of the mountains—uh-huh. Delicious afternoon tea! Good show, he’d pass it on to Jayne. Lovely time? Good-oh, Mrs—Marilyn, right.

    “Hullo, again,” he said limply as the captain got off. “Know what?”

    “No, what?” she replied placidly.

    “They’re just the same as my ones.”

    “Yep!”

    “You have a slightly infirm but game one that needed a bit of a—? Yeah. Saw your really keen one with the kangaroo p— Yeah. My one was a Karen. Been to Whaka’ before and could of guided the lot with both hands tied behind—”

    Alas, instead of expressing sympathy with his lot, the captain of the Taupo Shores Tallulah collapsed in helpless giggles, finally gasping: “Yeah! They’re always like that!”

    Bob put his arm round her waist, grinning. “Yeah. Never mind, there’s loads of worse ways of earning a living. Most Sat’dee jobs I’ve had before wouldn’t of let me get home in time for a nice fuck before tea, neither.”

    “Ssh!” hissed Libby, turning puce.

    “They’ve all pushed off,” he said mildly. Somehow the arm that was round her waist slipped down a bit and the hand got onto her bum. Oo-ooh, good. “I’m up for it if you are,” he said conversationally.

    “Um, what about this evening?” replied Libby on a weak note.

    “Have a heart! Tonight—yeah, probably.”

    “No!” she hissed, turning purple. “I mean, doesn’t Andrew want me to help in the restaurant?”

    “He may want, but I’ve told ’im he’s not getting,” replied Bob. “Not after a morning helping in the garden and the whole afternoon on the lake.”

    “How do you know I helped in the garden?” asked Libby limply.

    “Because I saw it on ’is ruddy timetable and ’e’s Andrew Barker!”

    “Mm. Well, I did, actually. Only, if he’s expecting me to help out with the waiting—”

    Sighing, he transferred the hand from the bum to the waist again and pulled her into his side as they headed for the carpark. “I checked out ’is flaming timetable yesterday and told him in so many words he wasn’t getting you tonight: geddit?”

    “Really? Thanks awfully, Bob,” replied Libby in tones of huge relief.

    Bob didn’t point out that the joker was practically her flaming brother-in-law and she coulda told him that working the morning, the afternoon and the evening as well was too much for her: he already knew that she couldn’t handle him at all. “Any time,” he said, squeezing her a bit. “So, think about what you’d like to do this evening after this nice fuck.”

    She gulped, but offered: “Well, tea?”

    “Tea’d be good,” replied Bob placidly. “Any thoughts on what to have?”

    “Um, no; sorry, Bob,” said Libby apologetically.

    “Don’t apologise, you been working. Did we finish that cheese?”

    “Yes, we had cheese on toast with little bits of bacon on it last night, ’member?”

    “Aw, yeah. That woulda been the last of the bacon, then. Well, uh, nice salad?”

    “Mm,” agreed Libby glumly.

    “Clot! Do ya wanna nice salad, or shall we give it away and see what Charlie Slocombe can do for us, like half of Taupo on a Sat’dee night?”

    The big brown eyes looked up at him hopefully. “Could we, Bob? We seem to be having an awful lot of takeaways. Can we afford it?”

    “Uh—yeah,” croaked Bob as his senses swam. “Come on, hop into the minibus.” He helped her in, not neglecting the hand on the bum, since it was there, and went round to the driver’s side. “If ya work out the cost of a proper cooked dinner, or bought ham from the ruddy supermarket, come to that, fish and chips from Charlie’s are a really cheap option.”

    “Really? Great!” she beamed. “Um, single chips, though, Bob, you mustn’t eat too much starch and grease.”

    “Okay, how’s this? Four fish, single chips, pineapple ring.”

    “A pineapple ring’s an extravagance, though,” said Libby sadly.

    “Aw, yes, you’re right,” he said gloomily. “Blow. Have to sell the house.”

    “Silly!” she gulped with a startled giggle.

     Smiling, Bob felt in his pocket.

    “What are you doing?” said Libby faintly.

    “Not getting it out—yet,” he grunted. “Here!” He opened his fist, smiling.

    “Greenbacks?” she croaked.

    “Uh-huh. Them pair of Yanks from Room 6. Chuck and Suzie. Mr and Mrs Oppenheimer to youse. Thanked me real nice for guiding them round Whaka’ and tipped me.”

    Gulping, Libby looked at the numbers on the greenbacks. “Forty dollars?”

    “Uh-huh.”

    “Did you guide them?” she croaked.

    “Nope. Walked round with them—yeah. Stopped old Ma Mason from tumbling into the odd geyser or mud pool—yeah. Advised that Australian tit with the unnecessary Akubra that if ’e stuck ’is foot into a three-thousand-degree mud pool it’d reliably take it off for ’im—yeah. Guided, no.”

    “Help. Forty dollars!”

    “Yep. See, what I thought was,” he said, the face solemn but the azure eyes twinkling, “we could start a tips jar, eh? Use ’em for extravagances like pineapple rings and the odd Bacardi and Coke like what the normal budget can’t be expected to cover.”

    “And those whiskies with the labels,” said Libby firmly.

    His shoulders shook but he managed to agree: “Right, definitely the odd Black Label for me when you’re having the odd Bacardi and Coke.”

    “That’s a really great idea, Bob!” she beamed.

    “Good. A pineapple ring it is, then!” he said cheerfully, stowing the greenbacks away again. “There is one more thing, before ya do your seatbelt up nice and tight,” he warned.

    “Mm?” replied Libby, smiling up at him trustingly.

    Bob’s senses swam again. “Just give us a hug, love,” he said huskily.

    They put their arms round each other and he pulled her tightly against his chest.

    After a while Libby said: “Your heart’s hammering like anything.”

    “Mm.”

    She waited but he didn’t put her hand anywhere rude or stick the tip of his tongue in her ear or anything. So she said cautiously: “Are you all right?”

    “Mm,” replied Bob, sniffing a bit.

    Libby looked up at him anxiously. “You’re not all right! What’s the matter?”

    The azure eyes were swimming with tears. “Nothing. Stupid. Just—just come all over me. Just keep hugging me, lovey.”

    Libby put her head back against his chest and tightened her grip.

    Eventually she noted: “Your heart’s still hammering.”

    “Mm,” said Bob, drawing a deep breath. “Feel like that bit in Hiawatha: ‘my heart sings to thee, Sings with joy when thou art near me, As the sighing, singing branches’.”

    Libby was silent.

    “Uh—over the top,” he said glumly. “Sorry.”

    “No,” she said in a strangled voice, hugging him fiercely.

    The westering sun warmed the minibus and the two in the front seats were silent for a long time.

    Finally Bob released her and sat back and Libby sat up, smiling at him.

    “Ya don’t mind if it sometimes come all over me, then?” he said ruefully.

    She shook her head hard.

    “Good. –Dunno where the ‘Moon of Strawberries’ comes into it, I must admit.”

    Libby did her seatbelt up, smiling. “I do! It’s the song to Onaway, isn’t it? Didn’t you read the footnotes? ‘Onaway! my heart sings to thee, Sings with joy when thou art near me, As the sighing, singing branches In the pleasant Moon of Strawberries!’ The pleasant Moon of Strawberries is June. Summer, you see?”

    “Right,” he said weakly, fastening his seatbelt and starting the minibus.

    Libby looked at him shyly. “That’d be December, out here. Actually, my heart does it any time, it doesn’t have to be the Moon of Strawberries.”

    Bob put one hand on her denim knee and squeezed very hard. “Good. Me, too.”

    “I—I do love you, I think, Bob,” she said shyly.

    “Good. Me, too,” agreed Bob.

    The minibus crunched slowly over the gravel, rounded the ecolodge, and headed for home.