Just Another Ecolodge Morning

13

Just Another Ecolodge Morning

    The January scrum had just about cleared: the Bainbridges had taken off a bit back, just after Livia’s barbecue, but the Johnstones had now gone, too, with reassurances that they’d be back—threats, more like. Good old Marilyn Cunninghame and Shirley Albright had presented Jan with a joint thank-you present before winging their way back to the States. A really nice pottery bowl. Jan had thanked them quite genuinely: the ecolodge could always do with more salad bowls; and bunged it in the cupboard with all the other genuine EnZed hand-thrown pottery thank-you bowls. Even the Coopers had expressed great appreciation of the lovely time they’d had, before pointing the silver Toyota’s nose towards Wellington, the Cook Strait ferry and the long haul home to Christchurch—why they didn’t just fly, in their income bracket—! Oh, well, it enabled old Cooper to upstage such as Johnstone and Bainbridge in the mileage stakes as the rest of the guests’ faces glazed over with boredom…

    The Arvidsons of course had scheduled themselves to leave at crack of dawn, so Jan got up shortly before crack of dawn in order to give them a decent breakfast, even though both Erin and Pete had told her not to bother. Pete usually got up at crack of dawn anyway, unless he’d tied one on the night before, so it didn’t make much difference to him. In fact he’d offered to feed them, but his idea of breakfast varied wildly between a few bent, blackened slices of toast and fresh-poached trout, with nothing in between ’em, so Jan had rejected his well meant offer.

    “Phew!” she said, sagging, as the rental 4WD headed down the drive. –Even though they’d been on a long off-road trek across the desert yesterday it was spanking clean, thanks almost entirely to Erin’s ministrations with the hose and the polishing equipment and very little to ruddy Keith’s pathetic mini-vacuuming of the interior, useless wanker that he was.

    Pete sniffed. “Yeah. Well, at least Leanne pushed off home last week.”

    “What’s she got to do with it?” said Jan blankly.

    He cleared his throat. “Nothing.”

    “What? I thought she was throwing herself at that bloke with the launch-hire business!”

    “Mike Short. Yeah. Was.”

    “Not Keith Arvidson?” said Jan dazedly.

    Pete shrugged. “Can’t be completely useless in all departments, eh?”

    “Poor Erin! The woman’s devoted to him, Pete!”

    “Yeah, but luckily for her she’s not the sort that’d ever suspect him of anything. And at least the bitch didn’t throw herself at Vine or Barker. Not that personally I’d’ve minded if she’d removed the both of them for good.”

    That had dawned. Jan sighed. “I’m with you, as far as Aidan’s concerned, but what’s wrong with Andrew?”

    “That’s what I’d like to know,” returned Pete sourly. “Ya know he was up that tarty bitch that was staying with them?”

    “Mm.” He was looking very downcast; oh, dear. “Um, Pete, Livia and I came to the conclusion that she threw herself at him. And, um, the thing is, Jayne hasn’t given him all that much encouragement. Well, um, she’s so sweet to all the bloody wankers, isn’t she?” ended Jan limply.

    “Bainbridge,” said Pete evilly, beginning to tick them off on his fingers. “Johnstone. Fucking Cooper. Even them two fairies—”

    “Ssh!”

    “Look, their last night—the very night Andrew and Aidan come over for dinner with Wal and Livia, if you’re overlooking the fact—they had her sit with them while they wised her up on the food!”

    “Yes, well, there was no need for her or Libby to serve, we only had a few people in that night, most of them went on that daft ‘Hangi Under the Stars’ tour of Vern’s.”

    “It’s a bloody good notion: gets ’em out from under your feet!” he said strongly.

    Yeah. Jan wasn’t enquiring too closely whose notion it was, ’cos while old Vern Reilly had bought that minibus off his own bat and started the tours of the desert flora off his own bat as well, she had a strong feeling that that had been the bottom of his initiative barrel.

    “Yes. Ssh,” she replied mildly.

    “Anyway, what I’m saying is,” said Pete, glaring at a dandelion that had stuck its head up in the middle of the gravel sweep, “there’s a fucking dandelion!—what I’m saying is, why’d she have to decide to sit with them?”

    Jan sighed. “She promised them, Pete, and we didn’t know until Wal rang up at the last moment that they were thinking of coming over. Or possibly Libby might not have opted for the Hangi Under the Stars,” she noted.

    “She’s safer with ole Vern than with that up-himself wanker Vine, I can tell ya!”

    “Yeah. Fancy a real coffee rather than that dandelion muck of Erin’s?”

    “Yeah, ta, love. But talking of dandelions,” he said, giving it an evil look, “I’ll just get me wand.”

    Swallowing a sigh, Jan retreated inside while Pete went off to the dreaded shed to get his dreaded wand. He’d held out against the things for years, but Rog Sprott, his old mate from Mitre 10, had finally talked him into trying one, at which point they’d become a mania.

    The last lot from the bunkhouse had gone but been replaced by half a dozen varsity students of varied sexes who’d stay until they had to go off for Enrolment Week in February. They were all keen trampers who’d be off early to National Park, so once Jan and Pete had had their coffee they set the big table in the restaurant for their “buffet” breakfast. It was optional but even if they hadn’t originally opted for the all-inclusive price, once they got here most of the bunkhousers settled for it, as it dawned there were no cooking facilities in the bunkhouse and the only other choices were Pete’s battered barbecues with their own sausages or trail into Taupo where, as all the motels did breakfasts, about the only option was McDonald’s. They were, of course, perfectly entitled to pay for an à la carte breakfast but most of them weren’t in that income bracket.

    Vast amounts of healthful home-compiled muesli had been set out, as had the obligatory bowls of Wattie’s tinned peaches—all the motels provided them, so why not? Wattie’s sold them in the giant economy size tins specially for the purpose—with two toasters plus several loaves of sliced bread, a large jar of Vegemite, since they’d all absorbed that at their mother’s knees and asked for it if it wasn’t there, a fancy pottery honey jar with the cheapest supermarket honey in it, and a large jar of Jan’s homemade blackberry jam. Pete had originally queried the cost-effectiveness of this last practice, but collapsed in helpless sniggers once Jan had pointed out that the jars were all recycled, they’d cost them nothing, and the blackberries weren’t organic ones from next-door, they were from that jungle down the back of the vege garden and that jungle on Bob Kenny’s place. That left the price of the sugar, the power, the rubber bands and the cellophane tops. No, the wax she used on the top of the jam was all recycled from previous years: she had feeling that it would have already paid for itse— That was the point at which the tears had started streaming down his face and he’d groped blindly for his hanky.

    The goats’ yoghurt was of course their own. The milk wasn’t but that was compensated for by the fact that they didn’t need to provide cream for health-conscious ecolodge bunkhousers. Likewise butter. There was marg, but never mind it was in a smart pottery marg-pot holder, it was actually a very cheap supermarket brand. All in all it was a pretty cost-effective exercise, never mind that they all inevitably ate like horses. Some days they got healthful prunes as well, if the supermarket had had a really good special offer on prunes. And very occasionally bananas if ditto.

    Pete was running his hand dubiously over the table’s surface by the nearest toaster. Jan swallowed a sigh. “If you must, you can resurface the thing next winter. But not now, okay?”

    “We need to think of something better they can go on.”

    Right. They’d had the flammable flax mats do—some cretin had let his toast burn, yeah. And the pottery platters do—scratched the surface, EnZed potters tended to concentrate on the artistic top of the thing, not its utilitarian under-surface. And the modern white chopping-boards in possibly a plastic substance—all right, some sort of nylon, if he said so. Not a meltdown, no. They’d looked so hideous that even he’d conceded they weren’t that good an idea. Janet’s suggestion of just ordinary placemats had worked until they’d run out of placemats one very wet summer. Jan had bought a new set but hadn’t been able to match anything the ecolodge owned. The toasters were sitting on them but Pete’s claim was they still heated the tabletop up too much. Fortunately for her aesthetic sensibilities he pre-dated yer wipeable plastic placemats for messy kiddies and so far, though she wasn’t holding her breath, Janet hadn’t suggested them.

    “Take the toasters off the table and put them on—” All right, not his sacred dresser. That was It, then. Jan shrugged.

    Pete rubbed his chin. “Vern was saying he saw a nice sideboard in one of them antique shops—”

    “No!” gasped Jan in horror.

    “Eh? Nah, not at them prices, whaddaya think I am? Could find a nice bit of kauri, fake one up?”

    “If you’ve left any kauri within a five-hundred-mile radius, yes. Why not? Just make sure it doesn’t turn out to be another sacred cow. Or possibly a sacred white elephant,” she noted with a glare at the huge under-utilised dresser.

    “Eh? No! That’s a genuine—”

    Yeah, yeah. If they had a proper sideboard, all sorts of useful things could be put on it! Added to which it’d solve the problem of the electric cords and the small table that someone had to remember to position carefully over them every morning so as the bunkhousers wouldn’t trip over them and electrocute and/or scald themselves and their mates.

    “Tell ya what, Pete, what about a marble top?”

    He brightened. “Real marble?”

    God! Why had she ever— She looked at his beaming face. “Well, whatever. Fake something up, by all means. I just thought, um, something that wouldn’t be ruined by heat or dripping electric jugs.”

    He was making plans to get over to Miser Ron Reilly’s recycling yard immediately, followed by a tour of all the tips of the North Island...

    “Yeah. Don’t forget you promised Sean to help him finish the interior of the crafts shop this week.”

    “Aw. Yeah.” He scratched his chin. “Um, saw Coral Kenny when I took the four-wheel-drive into town to do those messages for ya the other day, love. She seemed real keen about coming in on it with us. Loads of good ideas about websites and, um signboards, was it? Think so. Advertising and stuff.”

    Mm, well, clearly Coral had known there was no risk of her marketing ideas being pinched if she mentioned them to him! “I see. Well, it’s definitely worth thinking about, isn’t it? But the thing is, if this thing of Tamsin’s and Neil’s comes to nothing, it might be awkward down the track.”

    “Don’t think so. Coral’s never been that sort.”

    Uh—the sort to let personal considerations of any kind get in the way of the cash nexus? No, he was right, there. In a way she was quite a restful person to know, never mind the go-getting and the bags of energy. They’d come to a mutually satisfactory agreement over advertising her first shop in one of their brochures at the very time her and Bob had been wrangling over the house and Bob, having been temporarily evicted, had been staying in their loft at Pete’s urgent invitation.

    “No, you’re right, love,” Jan agreed. “We’d better have a meeting with her, I think. And Sean and Molly, of course.”

    “Yeah; he’s real keen on getting more involved in the crafts boutique scheme.”

    “Mm. Um, if he pulls out of helping with the ecolodge we’re gonna have to rethink the basis on which they live on our land, ya know, Pete.”

    “Yeah. Well, he likes doing the trails and taking them on trips in the Tallulah. And them fly-fishing lessons of his went down good, too. Not dependant on the time of year, either. I mean ya can learn how to do it any ole time, doesn’t have to be the season.”

    “Well, yes, but the average punter might like to catch something, Pete! Is he capable of writing up a proper proposal with all the variables taken into consideration?”

    “Uh—dunno. S’pose he must of had to write scientific stuff for his degree.”

    “Yes. Well, if he’s serious about the fly-fishing crap, tell him he can put it in writing. I don’t wanna be done for poaching, ta. Those morons down at Turangi have got a website, Neil was telling me about it just the other day: tell him he can start there. Don’t look like that, we’re not living in the nineteenth century any more!”

    “No. Pity he’s not a bit keener on the garden, eh? Always used to give ’is dad a bit of a hand. Oh, well.”

    It was surely his boss’s job to point out that Sean had contracted to help with the garden and he’d better ruddy well pull his finger out, keen or not! Jan looked again at the droop of Pete’s shoulders and bit her lip. “It’s okay, I’ll speak to him, love.”

    “Ta. You’re better at all that sort of stuff than me, anyway,” he said gratefully. “Now, how’s this? Do a bit of hard yacker on the crafts shop this morning, nip over to the recycling yard around lunchtime, nip home for a bite, don’t need to take them morons from Room 4 down the Rimu Trail, Libby’ll do that, and get out to a few of the dumps this arvo!”

    It was a preferable alternative to wanding weeds on the sweep for the rest of the day, yeah. There was the small point that there were onions and garlic that had been lifted and now needed to be properly clipped and stored, millions of beans that needed to be picked and frozen before they went hoary, tomatoes that needed to be picked so as she could turn them into sauce, kumaras that needed to be lifted and cured before there was any risk of rain ruining them—and it was him that had planted up so many last year, please note—seedlings that needed planting out without delay or they’d have no silverbeet, more corn to pick, more potatoes to lift, those bloody parsnips he’d planted a giant row of to lift, they were already gigantic and almost useless for anything but cream of parsnip soup, which nobody in the universe except Jake Carrano and few mates of his at Maxim’s actually liked— Oh, dear.

    “Yeah, but there’s the potatoes to lift and the beans to pick, to name only two,” said Jan weakly.

    “The girls can pick a few beans for ya, love!”

    “I mean to freeze. Ten kilos or so.”

    “Well, they can do that!”

    “You’ve got Libby slated to take the Rimu Trail, it is an all-day thing, Pete!”

    “Okay: Jayne. The potatoes can wait.”

    “I was going to ask her to do the shopping for me, we’re running out of basics again and the February lot’ll be trickling in as from this evening.”

    “Get her going on the beans this morning,” he advised briskly. “While it’s cooler, eh? Then she can nip down the supermarket for you this arvo!”

    Macho moron! Jan’s idea had been that Jayne would give her a hand with the blanching and freezing, the things wouldn’t do it themselves! “All right. Unlock that French window, would you, they’ll be coming over from the bunkhouse any minute now.”

    Pete ambled over to the French window, unlocked it, said: “See ya,” and ambled out.

    Jan sighed. “And who the Hell’s gonna dig fifty kilos of potatoes and kumaras, just by the by?” she muttered.

    “I will,” said a deep voice from behind her.

    She spun round with a gasp.

    “Um, hullo,” said Bob sheepishly. “Didn’t mean to give you a fright. I’ll dig the flaming potatoes and kumaras for ya. What bee’s he got in his bonnet now?”

    “Well, it’s my fault, I suggested it. Faked-up semi-recycled sideboard for in here with a marble, possibly faked-up marble, top.”

    “It’s a bit more use than wanding specks of grass,” he noted laconically.

     Jan tried to smile. “Yeah. Um, but we have had this conversation before, haven’t we? You can’t dig our potatoes and kumaras, Bob—”

    “Yeah, I can. Hasn’t he even got started on the kumaras, yet?”

    “No. Well, it’s barely February.”

    “Yeah, and they gotta cure properly or you’ll end up with slime.”

    Jan took a deep breath. “Look, if you dig them, I’m gonna pay you, Bob!”

    “Make me a casserole,” he replied unemotionally.

    “Eh?”

    “Payment in kind, is it? A casserole,” he repeated. “Something I can heat up.”

    “Sure! Um, it isn’t really casserole weather, but of course I will if that’s what you’d like.”

    “Yeah, ta. –Here,” he said, holding out the huge basket he was clutching.

    Jan had to use both hands to hold it. Beautiful peaches, there must be about three dozen of them, and oodles of cape gooseberries. “Where did all this come from?” she croaked.

    “Down the back. We got more peaches than we can eat, this year. Neil reckons those lantern things are sicky and Coral always reckoned they were a decorative plant, but Mum used to make really nice jam from them. Anyway, biff them out if ya don’t want them.”

    “Uh, yeah, they make wonderful jam, though I agree they taste sicky raw,” said Jan dazedly. “Are you sure you can spare all these peaches, though?”

    “Yeah. They’ll only go to waste otherwise.”

    “But you could bottle them, Bob, or freeze them!”

    “Dunno how. Anyhow they’re nicer fresh.”

    “Yes. Look, stay for lunch, there’ll be no-one in today, all the bunkhouse lot are due to tramp off down National Park and Libby’s taking some of the others down the Rimu Trail and the rest are going to Rotorua with Vern.”

    “Yeah, okay, ta. Um, look, if you could use Tamsin’s help, Jan, I’ll tell Neil where ’e gets off.”

    “No!” said Jan with a laugh. “That’s very kind of you, Bob, but good Heavens, you’re only young once!”

    “Right.” Two skinny young trampers, putatively female, had come in by the French windows; he gave them a wary look but said: “Um, Coral been onto you at all?”

    “No, but she had a word with Pete.”

    “Yeah. Well, be warned: she’s got the bit between ’er teeth,” he said glumly.

    “Bob, believe you me, I’d be only too happy for her to manage the whole kit and caboodle!” said Jan with feeling. “The crafts boutique seemed like a good idea at the time but it’s becoming an albatross round our necks!”

    “Uh—yeah. Aw, yeah, I geddit: like in that ruddy poem they made us do at school. Well, good. Only, um, if she starts going on about Tamsin and Neil,” he said, going a dull red, “ignore her, won’t you?”

    What in God’s name was there to be embarrassed about in that? “Yes,” said Jan feebly. “’Course I will.”

    “Right; I’ll get on with it, then.” Casting a wary glance at the two young trampers, he went out by the French windows.

    “Uh—yes, that’s right, dears,” said Jan to the two hesitating girls, forgetting several previous vows not to come on like anybody’s mum. “This big table’s for you. Have as much as you like and just ring that little bell if you run out of anything, I’ll only be in the kitchen. Oh—hang on.” She found a bowl in the sacred dresser and put half a dozen of the peaches in it. “These are straight off the tree. Totally organic.”—That was, Bob wouldn’t’ve sprayed anything within living memory.—“Just help yourselves, dears, they won’t keep!”

    The Incredible Hulk was in the kitchen when she got there, making a pot of tea.

    “Hi, Michelle.”

    “Hi, Jan,” replied Mrs Callaghan equably. “Wanna cuppa?”

    “No, ta, me and Pete just had some coffee.” Jan checked the fridge for eggs. Cholesterol was a low consideration with many of the ecolodgers when it came to an à la carte breakfast.

    “Righto, then. Hey, Kirsty Simpson, she was telling me that Fern Gully Ecolodge, they let them have breakfast in their rooms!”

    Jan didn’t ask who Kirsty Simpson, who didn’t work for Fern Gully, had got this off, she just replied: “More fools them. That’s a rod for your back, if ya like!”

    “Yeah. Means ya can’t get in to clean the rooms for ages, too,” said the experienced Michelle thoughtfully.

    “Exactly! Fancy a few peaches?” she said without hope. Michelle wasn’t into fresh anything, much.

    “Nah, we got plenty on our tree, and Bill and Mike don’t like them much, ta, Jan. Hey, ya got cape gooseberries, too, eh? My gran, she used to make jam of them. We got loads down the back if ya want some more.”

    “Uh, well, yes, ta: the more the merrier, if I’m making jam. Um, one of the girls’ll come and pick them.”

    “Nah, thass okay, Bill or Mike can do it, get them off their bums for once, eh?”

    If anyone could get those two gainfully unemployed wankers off their bums, it’d be Michelle, that was for sure. Bill was the legal husband and Mike was his brother but at one stage Bill had been banished to the garage and Mike had been in the house, so no-one was enquiring too closely. Or into the exact parentage of Michelle’s four kids, the last one of whom was a good twelve years younger than her next sibling.

    “Righto: ta, Michelle. Anybody mentioned muffins to you in connection with Fern Gully?”

    Michelle thought this one over seriously. “Yeah. Julia Roberts down the service station, she reckons they make their own. That weirdo chef they got, he was asking if anybody grew blueberries round here ’cos he wanted them for his muffins. So she said Taupo Organic Produce were gonna, only then the Throgmortons took over and they don’t wanna.”

    “Right: too labour intensive,” agreed Jan. “I did hear a rumour that Fern Gully offers fresh muffins for breakfast.”

    “Ya don’t wanna do that, too much work!” replied Michelle instantly.

    “You’re right. Oh: the Arvidsons have gone, so you can clean the loft any time you like, Michelle.”

    She brightened. “Right, I’ll do it first! That Mrs Arvidson, she kept telling me not to do stuff, ’cos she’d done it!”

    “She’s like that,” replied Jan mildly. Erin had been completely incapable of grasping that Michelle was proud of her work and jealous of her empire. Unique amongst cleaning ladies, true. Added to which, she never nicked stuff. Not to mention cleaning the bogs and showers even if they didn’t look as if they needed it! Never mind that she was six foot in her rubber-jandaled feet and wore her own version of a uniform, consisting of a gigantic floral apron over a gigantic floral frock that had seen better days, topped off with a faded yellow baseball cap. Or that the comparison with the Incredible Hulk wasn’t entirely unjust: she was an odd colour. Several nice American lady guests over the years had asked Jan quietly if she was a Maori, Jan, honey, but the answer was, all clichés to the contrary, no. Her mother was a thin, pale little freckled woman but the father was a hulk from somewhere really odd: somewhere in the old Soviet Union. The consensus was that he’d jumped ship, but he had apparently been a legal resident: at all events he’d worked for the forestry for umpteen years, an invaluable employee, capable of hauling a whole fallen specimen of radiata pine by himself, no sweat. He’d never learnt much English so possibly some refugee aid organisation had filled in his papers for him. Lack of English, however, was no drawback either in the forests or in the local pub. Or, indeed, at the local footy: all his sons had played and in fact Pat (the wife was a Catholic) had had a try-out for the All Blacks. Unfortunately the old guy now had bad arthritis so although he’d helped in the garden here for years, he wasn’t up to it any more. –He’d refused cash money but happily accepted payment in cabbages, onions and potatoes, which had certainly helped to get rid of those cabbages Pete planted every year regardless of the fact that, apart from the odd bowl of coleslaw in summer, no guest of Taupo Shores Ecolodge had ever asked if cabbage anything might be on the menu.

    “How’s your dad, by the way?” asked Jan, checking the bacon. That was fairly popular for brekkie, too.

    “Not too bad. That magnetic blanket we got him for Christmas, it seems to be doing him a bit of good.”

    Hadn’t magnetism been a fad of the turn of the 18th century? Oh, well, magic was magic whichever century you came from and if old Mick (not his real name, that was probably Mikhail) was feeling better, good show. “Glad to hear it,” said Jan mildly. “Your mum still enjoying the new unit?” –Michelle and her family had long since taken over the mum’s parents’ old place, hence the presence of cape gooseberries, and her mum and dad had had a smaller place for years but had recently sold it for a good price to the motel next-door that wanted to expand, and moved into a retirement unit which evidently the mum had been coveting for years. How old Mick was coping amongst the genteel wrinklies of Manuka Grove Retirement Village, goodness knew. Ignoring them while he watched the footy on TV, probably. All ya could do—yeah.

    Michelle gave her a glowing report on her mum’s collection of succulents and geraniums, the recently installed mini-grandmother clock (Jan didn’t ask), and the new body carpet in the front room (twelve foot square, so recarpeting it couldn’t have set the old people back all that much, true), siphoned up her tea and departed happily for the loft, promising with a sort of grim relish to give that shower (which of course’d be spotless after Erin had had a go at it) a really good going over.

    “Ye-ah…” said Jan with a sigh. It was too early for Janet to turn up yet, so as the ecolodgers that were going off to Rotorua with Vern’d be wanting breakfast pretty soon she set the tables, reassured the further trampers from the bunkhouse that had sat down at the big table that those peaches were just for them, yes: everything on the big table was, and to have as much as they liked, assured Mrs Parkinson and Mrs Burton that they weren’t too early, accepted their orders for, just for once, since they were on holiday, pancakes with bacon, and went out to the kitchen. The pancakes were Aunt Jemima’s but as the guests didn’t know what real pancakes were—

    When she went back in with the tray Mr and Mrs Whittaker were sitting at a table looking meekly expectant. It wasn’t the first time she’d encountered the syndrome of too-nayce-to-ring-the-bell, so she didn’t even sigh, just gave the two ladies their pancakes and bacon with their pot of tea, and turned to take the Whittakers’ orders. Scrambled eggs and bacon would be nice for once, after all they were on holiday… Fried tomatoes? That sounded lovely!—Jan sagged slightly. Every little helped, and even though she was using the bloody things in everything she could think of, there was still a huge glut and the Good Keen Man wasn’t gonna be on deck today to pick them for sauce—in fact not for some time, if the sideboard mania lasted, which there was no reason to suppose it wouldn’t.—Real coffee sounded nice but the Whittakers thought it was a bit strong for breakfast. Jan didn’t even blink, she was so used to this one: just agreed it’d be instant, told them nicely to ring the little bell on their table if they needed her, and went out and got on with it.

    Aw, gee, when she went back in Mrs Isaacson and Mrs Patterson were sitting meekly at their table waiting for her! They’d been here several weeks, so there was no point at all in telling them to ring the bell if they needed service, was there? Yes, the fruit coupe might be nice for a change, and since they were on holiday, after all, would there be time for the pancakes and bacon? Not pointing out that Vern would wait for them, the whole point of the minibus tours was to take the ecolodge guests places for cash dough, not to keep to the tour driver’s non-existent timetable, and not pointing out, either, that they had done this trip before, Jan agreed there’d be time, and went out and got on with it. Just as well Bob had given her those peaches: they’d go good in the fruit coupes with a few strawberries left over from last night and, uh… Shit. Okay, a few plums left over from that huge lot Kristel had given her. Peeled, in consideration of the ladies’ ages. Um, and a couple of mint leaves on top to make the coupes look less thrown together—there! Uh, actually there were rather a lot of plums left over… Okay, the bunkhousers could have ’em tomorrow!

    Mrs Isaacson and Mrs Patterson thought the coupes were lovely! –The thing was, the Great EnZed Middle Class Retiree was not, on the whole, a fruit-eating species. Nice bit of underripe banana on the brekkie cornflakes—yes. Strawberries or sliced kiwifruit on the pav for pud—yes. Yer fresh fruit as such—no. So they’d got out of the habit of growing loads of melons of different colours, in fact Pete hadn’t bothered with watermelons at all this year and it was about ten years since they’d last grown those rather bland green melons. They had a few rockmelons in: there was a certain slightly more upwardly mobile species of guest that thought melon with ginger was a flash starter, whilst never having heard of melon with prosciutto…

    Mr and Mrs Maffey with their two young kids, who were all in the large room that Mrs Albright and Mrs Cunninghame had had, were now politely hesitating in the doorway. Evidently the syndrome was even worse when you were a youngish but nevertheless fishy-eyed Pommy clergyman come out to do your missionary bit in the Colonies. Reminding herself sternly that prejudice was prejudice and there was no reason to dislike the perfectly polite Mr Maffey just because he was a clergyman, Jan showed them to their table and explained that they could have anything they liked from the menu. Yes, Jeremy and Christine could have cornflakes, of course. With a little fresh fruit? Certainly (and thank God for those peaches of Bob’s). –And her bet was they’d be “Jerry” and “Chris” less than two weeks after they started primary school. No, make that play group. They were about four and three and horrifically well-behaved. The poor little sods were in what was presumably the correct wear for children of their parents’ socio-economic group when ecolodging in the Colonies: well-ironed longish cream shorts above minute laced fawn suede safari boots, with a camouflage tee for Jeremy and a smartly-cut white linen safari blouse that was a miniature of Mummy’s for poor little Christine. Jeremy had a pristine cotton camouflage hat but the little girl’s headgear wasn’t in evidence. Mummy and Daddy were both in long fawn safari shorts and Daddy was wearing a fawn safari shirt rather than a camouflage tee but their boots were dead ringers for the kids’. Any normal human being that had got himself into boots over huge heavy-ribbed white socks would have rolled the latter down in this weather, but gee, the Reverend Maffey hadn’t done that. For a moment Jan had thought that Mrs had, but nope: the fuzzy-topped sort that only looked like rolled-down. She wasn’t wearing a matching towelling headband so maybe they were Out.

    Gee, they thought that, just for once, they might have scrambled eggs with bacon—after all, the trek would work it off, wouldn’t it? Something like that. Feebly Jan offered fried or grilled tomatoes. The Maffeys looked suspicious. How much extra would that be?

    “They’re just an optional extra,” she said feebly.

    The Reverend looked carefully at the list of optional extras and pointed out suspiciously that there was no price given.

    “No, there’s no extra charge,” said Jan feebly. “Or put it like this, Mr Maffey: please have some: the garden’s full of them, Pete planted far too many last year.”

    He didn’t smile, yo, boy. What did Cressida think? Grilled, then? Cressida thought grilled, yes. And a pot of English Breakfast would be lovely. Thank you so much, Ms Harper.

    “Please, call me Jan,” said Jan feebly, tottering out to the kitchen. “Boy, and I thought I’d seen them all!” she said feelingly, since Janet had arrived and was making a pot of tea.

    “Which ones is it this time?” she replied calmly.

    “Those Poms with the two little kids. He’s a Reverend. Church of England.”

    Janet sniffed.

    “Yeah,” said Jan heavily. “Whanganui’s welcome to ’em! They refused to believe the tomatoes are an optional extra with no charge—”

    “See, I told you you should charge for them: McDonald’s charge for all their extras,” said Janet calmly.

    Jan managed not to wince. “Maybe you’re right, at least it’ll save having to explain it every time we get a load of foreigners. ’Tisn’t only that, though: they’ve got the kids decked out in bloody safari suits with suede boots! Um, terribly cute, actually,” she admitted, “but in this weather?”

    “Kiddies should be in sensible sandals in summer,” said Janet sternly.

    Jan thoroughly agreed with that one, actually. Not stifling, sweaty sneakers, with the soles so thick they could barely stumble along in them—no. Not flaming flat rubber jandals that gave their feet no support whatsoever and encouraged them to shuffle—no. Proper sandals with proper straps.

    “Yes. I’m gonna have to warn them that the Rimu Trail’ll be far too much for the poor little tykes,” she sighed.

    “I should think so! Are they mad?” she gasped.

    “Mad Poms—yeah,” said Jan heavily, to Hell with yer non-prejudice.

    Kindly Janet set a mug of well sugared, dark orange milky tea on the table before her. “Here.”

    “Ta,” said Jan feebly, giving in completely and sitting down to it.

    “So are they the only ones Libby’s taking on the trail?” asked Janet, as they sipped.

    “Uh—from our lot, yeah. There’s a couple supposed to be coming over from Fern Gully.” Jan drank tea, and sighed. “I did warn them that if they don’t get here in time she won’t wait for them.”

    Janet sniffed slightly. “I don’t see why they can’t run their own treks, frankly.”

    They had had this conversation before; nevertheless Jan responded kindly: “Can’t get anyone reliable to guide them.”

    Encouraged, Janet launched into the full bit. She was right all the way and in fact if the Pommy firm that owned Fern Gully had listened to her in the first place they’d be the most efficient ecolodge in the universe…

    “Oh, good grief, the Maffeys’ breakfasts!” Jan gasped, bounding up.

    “They can’t expect you to magic the food up,” replied Janet smugly.

    “No, um, could you make two small bowls of cornflakes for the kids and slice some of those fresh peaches onto them?”

    Janet inspected the peaches. “I’ll peel them,” she decided.

    Yer peeled peach was not actually eco-anything, much, but two little English kiddies aged about four and three? “Yeah, ta, Janet,” agreed Jan gratefully.

    They had the saga of where on earth had the cape gooseberries come from as they got on with it, plus naturally the Bob Kenny letting things go since the divorce saga, but as Jan hadn’t been expecting anything else she was neither disappointed nor surprised.

    The Whittakers had finished their scrambled eggs, bacon and fried tomatoes and were on their second round of toast and homemade grapefruit marmalade—Mrs W. having praised the latter to the skies and promised Jan her mum’s unusual recipe for a chunky sweet orange marmalade—which Jan, just quietly, had no intention of trying, since their New Zealand grapefruit fell off the trees before they could use them and oranges had to be bought with cash money—the Maffeys were finishing their scrambled eggs, grilled bacon and tomatoes, toast on the side, Mrs Isaacson and Mrs Patterson were eating their pancakes and bacon, and Janet had grudgingly allowed that the bottomless pits from the bunkhouse could have a refill of homemade muesli and volunteered herself to take it out to them, when old Vern rolled up. Early, but this was almost undoubtedly because (a) he wanted a second brekkie and (b) he wanted to get out of Mrs Reilly’s orbit—it was one of those long-term marriages which worked by virtue of the partners having nothing in common, doing almost nothing together, and managing to ignore each other most of the twenty-four whilst not experiencing the slightest desire to intrude on each other’s territory. This last point being very largely the reason he wouldn’t have asked Mrs if he could have a bit more than the two slices of wholemeal toast with a scraping of marg and a scraping of Vegemite she allowed him. Ditto got up to make some more himself.

    After the usual exchanges and the usual inquisition into what they’d all ordered this morning he let Jan give him the last of the pancake batter with just a dab of butter and a bit of maple syrup. The latter ersatz but unless the punters were Canadian they wouldn’t know the difference and the last one of those they’d had was—ugh, yeah, flaming Lucille Polaski.

    Janet didn’t approve of Jan feeding Vern so she’d sniffed and gone off to dust and vacuum the main lounge.

    “Libby not here yet?” asked Vern on a wistful note.

    Jan’s eyes twinkled but she replied calmly: “Not yet. She’s due to pick up a bunch of them for the Rimu Trail a bit later on, Vern. –That reminds me, I’d better have a word with the cretins: they’ve got two little kids under five.”

    She went through to the restaurant. Boy, the bunkhousers had made inroads on their bread! Okay, she wouldn’t think about how hot the table surface might have got under the ruddy toasters, and if your useful but decorative cork mat hadn’t vanished from the universe some time in the years between 1979 when she’d bought that nice set for herself and now, that was what she’d be using under them, bugger it!

    “Everything okay?” she asked the young people kindly.

    They all assured her nicely that everything was, though one boy then asked wistfully if they had peanut butter.

    Jan cleared her throat. Boy, did thereby hang a tale! “Um, no, um, Dave, is it? Yes: Dave. We used to provide it but of course some people are allergic to—”

    “But they don’t have to eat it!” objected one of the other boys.

    “No, um, Steve, is it? You’re right, Steve, but it wasn’t that. Somebody helped themselves to peanut butter and dipped their peanut buttery knife in the marg after that and the next guy to help himself to the marg was allergic. It was frightful: we thought he was going to choke to death: he went bluish and his breath sort of whistled in his throat and his eyes rolled up. Fortunately Pete was on deck to give him CPR, but there’s no way the ambulance can get here in under twenty minutes. I think it’s fair to say that it was the worst twenty minutes of our lives.”

    The young people were looking at her in horrified awe.

    “So we concluded it was better safe than sorry,” she finished.

    After a moment one of the girls ventured: “Um, what about marmalade, Jan?”

    “They’ve got some,” explained one of the boys, looking enviously at the Whittakers.

    “Uh—sure you can have marmalade,” said Jan dazedly. This generation? “Do ya like it?”

    Apparently they all liked it. “I’ll get you some in just a minute,” she said dazedly. “Um, it’s homemade, mind. Grapefruit.”

    “Great!” they all beamed,

    Okay, great. Jan tottered off to speak to the Maffeys, a broken woman…

    The bunkhousers had consumed vast quantities of toast and marmalade, Jan having thoughtfully provided a new loaf, and departed for National Park in their ancient Combie van, Jan had made a mental note to offer the poor little tykes fried or grilled tomatoes tomorrow, no reason they shouldn’t have some if others were getting freebies, everyone else had finished and retired to their rooms to prepare for the day’s efforts, the flaming Maffeys assuring her that they had the appropriate back-slings for carrying the children when they got tired—Jan hadn’t asked whether they’d bought them at Harrods or the Army and Navy Stores but it had been a real effort—and Janet, having efficiently finished vacuuming and dusting the main lounge, had efficiently made, and labelled, umpteen thermoses of tea or instant coffee for Vern’s lot. –At one point they had tried to find a small restaurant in Rotorua that would do a lunch deal but apparently the smaller restaurants of Rotorua didn’t need their custom. So be it. Their loss. The price of the all-day tour had gone up appropriately but custom hadn’t slackened off and in fact, as Pete had pointed out, they could probably charge the buggers three times as much and they wouldn’t blink an eye.

    “Are they having muffins?” asked Janet dubiously as Jan finished making the sandwiches.

    “Sure they’re having muffins, Janet, if there’s some left over from afternoon tea yesterday. They can have the last of that date loaf, too.”

    “There’s half a lovely loaf here!” she reported aggrievedly.

    “Good.” Jan seized it, sliced it, buttered it, stuck the slices together in twos and wrapped them. There was no point in asking why the tour customers didn’t deserve decent food, so she didn’t. Then it was: “You’re not giving them that lovely cold chicken!” but as she was, she did. Janet was used to giving them a Tupperware pot of potato salad: it was in the fridge, so she got it out, sighing but not actually objecting, and put it in the chillybin. Jan stopped her in time from chopping up the tomatoes gazpacho-wise and they just went in whole. There was no need to worry about the picnic salt and pepper sets or the cutlery, Janet loved doing all the fiddly things: she was on top of them. And the paper serviettes—right. Okay, plastic salad servers, Janet, good on ya.

    If the participants had been younger Jan would have given them some of those lovely peaches, but Mrs Isaacson, Mrs Patterson, Mrs Parkinson, Mrs Burton, and Mr and Mrs Whittaker? She didn’t bother.

    That just left the picnic lunches for Libby, the Maffeys and the couple from Fern Gully, who hadn’t yet arrived. Fern Gully had advised they were vegetarians. At least they weren’t vegans: one dreadful summer Jan and Pete had had a bunkhouse full of them, booked in for a month.

    Janet loved using the phone so she was quite happy to ring Fern Gully and find out if they were definitely coming. And fortunately, after a very rocky start indeed, Fern Gully had an efficient manageress, so there was no way the phones there wouldn’t be personed.

    “They’re coming over in the four-wheel-drive,” she reported.

    “Good; ta, Janet.” Jan got a jar out of the pantry.

    “You’re not giving them that beautiful bottled cheese?” she gasped.

    It was the goat’s fetta in olive oil and garlic that she used quite a bit in starters—and that incidentally Janet wouldn’t have eaten if starving. “Yes, the Fern Gully types are vegetarians, they have to have something nice, Janet.”

    “It’s a waste,” she warned.

    Er, no, it wasn’t, entirely, because given Fern Gully’s customers’ socio-economic status Jan had simply moved the decimal point of the fair price for tacking themselves onto Taupo Shores’ guided treks. It hadn’t seemed to discourage any of ’em so far. In fact, if they’d been able to appoint a definite day for the treks instead of leaving it up to their ecolodgers’ fancy they’d have even more bookings. Jan was thinking about it. She didn’t want things to get too rigid: people like Pete and Vern, to name only two, didn’t cope too well with that.

    Vern was still sitting there. “Garlic; they can keep it,” he noted, as Jan divided the cheese amongst six small plastic pots—one for the kids, the reasoning being that if she didn’t include it they’d want it. “Did ya tell my lot to meet me out on the sweep or in the lounge?”

    “On the sweep, Vern. There’s six of them today,” Jan reminded him. “Not the billy tea type.”

    “Right, goddit. Put any beer in the chillybin?”

    “No, Mr Whittaker won’t notice its absence,” said Jan cheerfully.

    “And you don’t need it, when you’re driving,” Janet informed him severely.

    “Not for me, don’t be mad,” replied Vern calmly. “So there’s only the one bloke, eh? What’s ’e like?”

    “The usual,” said Jan simply.

    Winking, Mr Reilly picked up the chillybin, noted: “Gotcha,” and exited with it.

    “He’s forgotten the hamper with the picnic set and the thermoses again!” said Janet crossly.

    Not quite: he’d left it behind to spite her for the beer remark. “Yes; better run after him with it, Janet.”

    Looking superior, Janet advised: “I won’t run,” seized the hamper and went out with her nose in the air.

    Jan just got on with making up small individual pots of potato salad and small helpings of lettuce without the dressing that Janet would have soused it with and very generous helpings of tomatoes—in fact they could have three each, why not? Er, well, one each for the kids. Trekkers usually preferred wholemeal bread, so she made up some doorstep sandwiches from the—

    “Not your lovely homemade bread!”

    —homemade loaf. “Yes. Could you grab the tin of Madeira cake for me, ta, Janet, and then you’d better—”

    “Not your lovely Madeira cake!”

    “—get on with chopping up a packet of dates, since we’re out of date loaf.”

    Janet got the cake tin down from its shelf but noted: “They don’t need cake.”

    “Those two poor little kids are gonna get some sort of treat,” replied Jan grimly. “That reminds me, grab a pot of strawberry jam, wouldja, I’m gonna fake up some strawberry yoghurt for the poor little sods. And if we don’t tell those ghastly parents it’s got refined sugar in it they’ll never know, will they?’

    “It gives you energy, anyway,” replied Janet on a pleased note, getting a jar of jam out and into the bargain handing her a couple of excellent small Tupperware pots, just yoghurt-helping size, with lids that really worked.

    “Thanks, Janet.” They got on with it…

    “There you are, Libby!” said Janet pleasedly as she came in looking cautious.

    “Yeah, hi, Janet; hi, Jan. Um, I came in the front way and there’s a lady and man in the lounge with two really little kids that said they were waiting for the guided trail walk.”

    “I know!” agreed Janet with huge sympathy before Jan could open her mouth. “They’re English, dear, don’t know any better. But they’re supposed to have backpack things for carrying them, Jan said.”

    “That’s what they told me,” said Jan with a shrug. “Okay, now, I’m not packing that ruddy pack of Pete’s for you, you can just carry your own picnic and the first aid box in a shopping bag.”

    “Use the nice flax kit, dear!” urged Janet.

    “Um, all right,” said Libby in bewilderment. “What’s wrong with the backpack? It’s not heavy.”

    Jan didn’t have to explain, because Janet was already telling her. Not with the Maffeys’ lunches in it as well as hers, was the gist. Or their water bottles—right.

    “Yeah,” said Jan grimly. “Now, I’ve given you all some Madeira cake—”

    “Ooh, yum!”

    “Yes, but I’m warning you now it’s Lombard Street to a China orange they won’t let the kids eat it. And there’s a couple of plums and a peach each.”

    “You’re a poet and you don’t know it!” replied Libby, grinning at her.

    Janet gave a strangled hoot.

    Ignoring this, Jan went on grimly: “And listen. Any sign that either of them’s about to shove one of those kids off onto you, you go two yards more and reach the end of the flaming trail: goddit?”

    “Yep!” replied Libby over Janet’s further hoots. “That it?”

    “Mm. Um, there’s a little pot each of fetta in oil and garlic—”

    “Right: don’t mention the garlic, don’t mention the goat!”

    Janet was off again.

    “Uh, I think you can mention the garlic, they’re the new breed of Pom. Upwardly mobile, probably voted for Tony Blair. –Talking of mobile, I rather think he’s got the idea that his mobile’ll work out here. He certainly had it attached to his belt in a suede pouch at breakfast.”

    “Suede?”

    “Upwardly mobile, like I said. Did you get an eyeful of the kids’ boots?”

    “Yeah—No, I mean, it’s relatively dry here compared to Queensland, but—”

    “One touch in the humidity and it’s sweaty-finger-marked for all eternity,” agreed Jan. “Presumably he’ll learn. Make sure they wear their hats, won’t you? And Janet’s put extra sun-screen in the first-aid box.”

    “Thanks, Janet,” said Libby to the smirking Janet. “Were there some people coming over from Fern Gully?”

    “Two,” replied Janet briskly. “They should be on their way, dear, they’re coming in the four-wheel-drive.” She looked at her watch. “I told them five minutes from now.”

    That seemed to be that. Apart from cutting up and soaking two kilos of dates and making more loaf—it froze quite well, so long as you remembered to take it out of the freezer the day before rather than trying to defrost it in the microwave—replacing that Madeira ca—uh, no, couldn’t: they were almost out of butter—okay, replacing those muffins, they could have healthful canola oil in them instead of butter. They froze okay, too, if ditto. Then there was only dinner to think about, since everyone’d be out for lunch. Er, well, so far they hadn’t had any outside bookings for lunch but there was always the chance of someone ringing during the morning or even rolling up to the door on spec, in which case they could take pot luck.

    “Blast!” she said as, on cue, the phone in the office shrilled.

    “I’ll get it!” Janet shot out.

    “Isn’t it switched through to your mobile?” asked Libby in a lowered voice.

    Jan grimaced. “She’ll’ve switched it back when she rang Fern Gully earlier.”

    “Goddit.”

    “Where’s Jayne?”

    Libby frowned. “Talking to Bob Kenny: she wants to invite him and Neil for a meal with her and Tamsin. What was he doing in Dad’s shed?”

    “Getting a fork or a spade, or sharpening same, I’d imagine, Libby: he’s digging some potatoes and kumaras for me. Ooh, I know!” Jan’s eyes lit up. “That’s what I’ll make for pudding tonight! With some nice fresh cream from the permaculture nuts!”

    “What?” asked Libby weakly, not reminding her that she’d heard her say several times that she must remember not to call them that now that Hugh Throgmorton had taken the place over.

    “That kumara pie! Don’t look like that, it’s absolutely delicious! It’s just a flan base, and I use one of the Jane Grigson sweet potato recipes for the filling. It’s not meant as a pie filling but it’s lovely like that, and really yummy with our yellow kumaras with the blue… middles,” finished Jan with a sheepish grin. “Sorry. Getting carried away.”

    “No: every woman has a right to be carried away by her own subject!” replied Libby with a laugh. “So, um, is it sweet?”

    “Yes, not savoury. Something along the lines of pumpkin pie but miles nicer. I haven’t made it since the Christmas we had Goldie Doole and her friend Sylvia Silverstone staying—2004, the year of the Boxing Day tsunami, it was. –Good old Goldie! She sent us a lovely Christmas card this year and a set of two dozen really beautiful serviettes: special Christmas ones, very American! And completely washable!”

    “I see,” said Libby nicely.

    “Uh—yeah. Kumaras,” said Jan weakly. “Can you pop out and grab half a dozen nice big ones off Bob? I’ll make up a big batch of the filling and freeze it, while I’m at it.”

    “Okay,” said Libby in a small voice, vanishing.

    Uh—was she still anti-Bob? Pete’s last report had been that she seemed okay about him. Oh, well, if he was gonna be her niece’s father-in-law she’d have to get used to seeing a bit of him.

    Just as Jan was about to check the recipe Janet came back looking virtuous and reported that it was a new enquiry for later in February and she’d checked Jan’s printout—she was completely computer illiterate but had picked up the jargon—and it looked all right but she’d told them Jan would confirm it and here were the details. She waited, smirking, while Jan rang them back on her mobile and confirmed the booking, and then pushed off to vacuum the passage and the restaurant. Only to reappear in two minutes looking superior with a load of plates. It was all right, she’d get the trolley and clear the tables! She could have done that without coming in— Forget it.

    Just as Jan was again about to check the recipe Michelle came in to report the loft was done and if the rooms were empty she’d start on those. Jan agreed that that’d be great, warned her the Maffeys hadn’t gone yet, refereed the encounter with Janet with her laden trolley—if Michelle had realised the restaurant hadn’t been cleared she would’ve done it—no, she wouldn’t, that wasn’t her responsibility—allowed Janet to load the dishwasher and set it going and— Ah! Finally!

    She reached down Jane Grigson’s Vegetable Book and sat down at the table with it…

    “The sweet potato pie’s nice, too, as such, but there’s no comparison with the batatada,” she said as someone came in.

    “Oh, my goodness: not Jane Grigson’s Vegetable Book?” replied the someone.

    Jan jumped ten feet where she sat. “Yes! Sorry, Mrs Maffey, can I help you?” she gasped.

    Cressida Maffey smiled at her. “I just wanted to let you know that the people from the other ecolodge who are coming on the trail walk with us are here, Jan. –I have tried the batatada but I found it a little disappointing: I don’t know whether it was the variety of sweet potato, perhaps.”

    “Um, orangey ones? –Yes,” said Jan as she nodded: “I’ve tried it with them but it’s not a patch on the way it turns out with our New Zealand ones: they’re much, much starchier. We grow our own: they’re getting harder and harder to find in the shops these days, unfortunately. The yellow sort,” she explained. “The skins are a sort of dark purple.”

    “Goodness! I’ve never seen those, though I did know a shop in London that stocked quite a variety of South American sweet potatoes: they are all Ipomoea, aren’t they?”

    “Indeed they are,” said Jan, grinning at her. “Ipomoea batatas, in fact!”

    “Yes, of course,” she agreed, looking over her shoulder at the recipe. “Oh, yes: she mentions that some varieties cook up to ‘a subtle greenish yellow tone,’ I thought I remembered that.”

    “Yep, that’s about what ours do,” said Jan happily.

    “Are you going to serve it for dinner tonight, Jan?” she asked eagerly.

     “Y— Uh, not as such,” admitted Jan. “The idea of a pudding just made of sweet potato isn’t one most of our guests could cope with, unfortunately.”

    “No, one can see that,” she murmured.

    Ouch! Mrs Maffey had sized up yer average EnZed Middle Class Retiree at a glance, then! “Mm. I use it as a pie filling: with a light sweet shortcrust base, baked blind.”

    “I see; so you don’t risk overcooking the batatada,” she agreed. “That does sound nice. I did her recipe for sweet potato pie one Christmas but it wasn’t very popular, I’m afraid. Rufus’s parents have very conservative tastes. –It was our turn to have them and his brother and sister.”

    “Yeah, I am familiar with that syndrome,” agreed Jan drily. “You don’t like whole fresh artichokes, I suppose?”

    “I love them,” said Mrs Maffey in a weak voice.

    “Oh, good! Our neighbours grow them—Taupo Organic Produce: you must go over there: they sell retail but their main business is wholesale: they’ll give you a tour if you ask, it’s fascinating. They quite often give us a few artichokes but I’ve given up putting them on the menu, I’m afraid.”

    “Oh, dear,” she said, looking at her very sympathetically.

    “But since you like them I’ll do some!” said Jan happily. “—Thanks, Libby,” she said as Libby came in with an armful of kumaras.

    “He said something arcane about not cured, but it was Greek to me,” reported Libby on a sour note, dumping them on the table.

    “Are these the ones?” ventured Mrs Maffey, looking at them in fascination.

    “Kumaras, yes,” said Jan with satisfaction. “Nice big ones.”

    “New Zealand sweet potatoes,” added Libby helpfully. “They’re quite a popular vegetable here. They’re native ones.”

    “Er—strictly speaking they’re not, Libby,” said Jan, looking at Mrs Maffey’s expression. “They originate from either South America or the Philippines—possibly by way of PNG if you read some of the latest theories, but possibly not! The idea is that the Kon-Tiki theory’s wrong, currents or not. I think these ones with the purple skins are the ones the Maoris originally brought with them, though I believe there’s a different theory about that as well, these days. They’re certainly the ones the Maori families round here grow.”

    “Mm. Um, Kristel Pohaka said something about planting them with the moon,” she offered dubiously.

    “Uh-huh. There’s two schools of thought about that one these days, as well. No, three, but two that are pro the idea. Some of the very old people, eighty-plus, claim to remember that their old people always planted them in a certain harmony with the moon’s phases—I don't know exactly what, I’m afraid. And some of the very up-with-the-play, re-ethnicised educated urban Maori claim that they know what the real old way was. These’d be the types that teach at the college of education and so forth,” she explained kindly, “not the ones that actually have vege gardens.”

    Libby swallowed. “Um, yes. I’m afraid that’s probably true,” she said to the guest in a strangled voice. “Um, people don’t usually say ‘re-ethnicised’, though.”

    “No,” conceded Jan drily. “It’s what they are, however. We had a couple staying not long since: in their fifties, they’d’ve been: he was a lecturer at the college of education in Auckland. Their surname was Davis—well, a lot of Maoris have English surnames,” she said to the puzzled Mrs Maffey—“but his first name was Wiremu.”

    “I see,” she said politely.

    “No, you don’t, Mrs Maffey,” replied Jan promptly. “They’d been here a couple of days when an elderly Maori man turned up looking for them, claiming to be Mr Davis’s uncle. The name he asked for him by was William Davis. I thought perhaps he was just making allowances for us ignorant pakehas—sorry, that’s the Maori word for non-Maori people, everyone uses it here—so I said did he mean Wiremu Davis and he said: ‘Yeah, that’ll be him. He was christened William and his mum and dad’ve never called him anything else, the Wiremu was his idea: he reckons it’s a real Maori name.’ –Dry as Hell.” she elaborated.

    “Um, I don’t get it, Jan,” said Libby.

    “Nor do I, I’m afraid,” murmured Mrs Maffey. “One can’t blame him for rejecting the nomenclature imposed on his race by the British, surely?”

    “‘Wiremu’,” said Jan very drily indeed, “is not a Maori name. It’s merely the nineteenth-century British imperialist transliteration of ‘William’ for the benefit of the subjugated race. There’s no L in Maori and words have to end with a vowel.”

    The two members of her audience were seen to swallow hard.

    “I think my point,” said Jan heavily, “is that you would hope that an educated fellow from the professional classes would at least know the truth, though I’m entirely sympathetic to his using the Maori form of his name. But these days even the educated—of either race, I’m most certainly not claiming it’s a Maori phenomenon—don’t know better and take all the faked-up ethnic crap as gospel. And boy, is that a legacy of colonial imperialist domination!”

    Poor Mrs Maffey was now looking both distressed and bewildered.

    “It’s the same in America,” said Libby kindly. “The people who go in for the dances and wearing the beautiful Native American costumes don’t seem to know that the dances have been artificially revived and aren’t necessarily correct and that all those bright dyes in the costumes are completely wrong. Aniline dyes weren’t even invented when the British invaded America.”

    “Exactly,” said Jan with a sigh. “It’s very, very sad.”

    “I see!” said Cressida Maffey in tones of huge enlightenment.

    “Yes,” agreed Libby, smiling at her. “Jan likes things to be right, that’s partly why she gets so wild over it, and partly it’s because she can see that all the people who believe in it have got it completely muddled, even though their intentions are the best.”

    “Mm. So—so we can’t hope to see any of the real old Maori culture, Jan?” she ventured.

    “Um, well, if you’re lucky enough to get invited to a marae for a weekend you’ll see vestiges of it, yes. Very long speeches about what our culture would consider nothing in particular, and a bit of communal living before everyone goes back to their westernised nuclear families,” said Jan, smiling at her. “But poi dances with woven bodices and grass skirts over red or black petticoats and hakas with fake tattoos over black swimming togs aren’t it, no.”

    “That’s what the concert parties over at Rotorua put on for the tourists,” explained Libby. “It is fun, and you can sort of imagine what it might’ve been like in the old days, with no electricity and like Jan says, no woven bodices or anything under the grass skirts, sitting round the fire in the pitch dark. Imagine: they didn’t have cloth, only heavy woven straw mats or cloaks. They must have been terribly cold in winter! And there are no native animals, so they couldn’t make leather clothes.”

    “Mm,” agreed Jan, eyeing the Reverend Maffey’s wife drily. “Small wonder European colds and flu just about finished them off physically, what time the English missionaries finished them off culturally.”

    “Stop it, Jan! It wasn’t her!” said Libby crossly as poor Mrs Maffey went very red. “Any more than it was you and me and dad wearing red uniforms and shooting them!”

    “No. Sorry,” said Jan, biting her lip. “Bit of a hobby horse, I’m afraid, Mrs Maffey.”

    “I see. We—we hadn’t expected that sort of—of feeling, I’m afraid,” she faltered.

    “No, well, there isn’t much of it. And these days it’s government policy to respect Maori rights and Maori culture: we have come a long way since the nineteenth-century missionaries. But it’s hard not to think some very bitter thoughts when you’re brought up hard against the evidence of the death of an entire culture. Two hundred years ago poor, earnest Mr Davis’s ancestors wouldn’t have recognised Wiremu as a name.”

    “Never mind: at least they’re letting him call himself that, these days!” said Libby vigorously.

    “Er—yeah,” said Jan limply, looking at Mrs Maffey’s appalled face. “Pete can remember back to the days when Maori children weren’t allowed to speak their own language at school.”

    “It’s completely different now,” said Libby kindly. “The little girl next-door, who’s about eight, isn’t a Maori but she can count up to ten in Maori and she knows a version of A Partridge in a Pear Tree with Maori birds’ names!”

    “Yes, and if you’re musical, my advice is don’t ask her to sing it for you!” said Jan with a weak laugh. “You’d better get going, Libby: Mrs Maffey came in to tell me the Fern Gully people have arrived, not to hear my lecture.”

    “No, it was most interesting, Jan,” said Mrs Maffey valiantly. “And I’d be very glad if you’d call me Cressida.”

    “Righto, then: Cressida,” agreed Jan limply.

    “I’ll just make sure the children are ready,” she said with a nice smile, going out.

    Jan sagged. “Me and my big mouth.”

    Libby stick her chin out. “Pooh! Good for you! Why not tell it like it is? You can bet your boots their flaming congregation won’t!”

    “Uh, well, there’s loads of Maoris over Whanganui way, but no, sounds as if it’s a nice upper-middle suburb.”

    “Of course!” she said with scorn. “Honestly! Anglican missionaries in this day and age?”

    “Ssh! They probably couldn’t get a local, not many people go in for the ministry these days.”

    “Good,” said Libby frankly. She gathered up her flax kit and the trekkers’ lunches, said in a threatening tone: “I will stop early if there’s any problem with the kids,” and went out.

    Jan looked limply at the kumaras. “Why didn’t you leap up and throttle me?” she said to them. “Doing my best to alienate a harmless Pommy guest? I must be losing it!”

    The sound of the vacuum-cleaner was heard in the land, Jayne had come in, received her orders and gone off to pick millions of beans with her usual serene smile, the kumaras were peeled and steaming, the dates were chopped and soaking, the first batch of muffins was out of the oven and the second just gone in, and Jan had had vague thoughts about morning tea for the workers whilst turning over the pages… Maybe do that tomato tart for lunch, the one that didn’t have to be served straight from the oven, it’d use up a few tomatoes… Too many of Jane Grigson’s recipes used cream: that tomato gratin thing’d be full of cholesterol, what with cream as well as the cheese… Turnip what? Ugh! Watercress… Hmm. With pears? Interesting…

    The front doorbell pealed and she jumped ten feet. At this hour? Not Devonshire tea-ers, surely? They didn’t advertise morning teas, for God’s sake!

    Janet wouldn’t have heard the bell over the vacuum cleaner: thanks to Pete’s ruddy electric drill and five thousand yards of plastic-coated wire from Mitre 10, the thing was piped through to the kitchen. Sighing, Jan trailed off to open the door.

    She gasped, and recoiled.

    The round-faced, dark-eyed young woman with the cloud of thick, dark brown, wavy hair smiled uncertainly. “Good morning. I wonder if I could see Mr McLeod? My name’s—”

    “Patty,” croaked Jan.

    Patty Eisenblatt-MacDermott blinked. “Yes. How did you know?”

    Jan took a very deep breath. “Because you’re a dead ringer for Pete’s second daughter, Libby, that’s how! I don’t think we’ll have to bother with a DNA test!”

    Patty smiled feebly. “Oh. I… I guess I should have warned you I was coming,” she said in a small voice. “I’m sorry. Are—are you Jan?”

    She wasn’t at all what Jan had expected something that wrote letters “from the desk of Patty Eisenblatt-MacDermott” to be like—not in the least! Never mind the American accent, that small voice had sounded like Libby at her most squashed! And she certainly wasn’t dressed like the shiny American dames they were used to at the ecolodge. Tired jeans, sneakers, and a very tired pale grey tee-shirt.

    “Of course. Come in, Patty, it’s lovely to meet you. Come on through to the kitchen: I was just gonna make a cuppa,” she said warmly.

    Smiling uncertainly, Patty Eisenblatt-MacDermott followed her into the ecolodge.

Next chapter:

https://summerseason-anovel.blogspot.com/2022/09/the-third-sister.html