New Leaves

16

New Leaves

    “What are you doing?” said Aidan feebly, as the crack-of-dawn clashing and clattering that had woken him up turned out to be his old friend in the kitchen.

    “These dishes,” replied Andrew grimly.

    “At this hour?” he croaked.

    “It’s gone seven,” replied Andrew grimly.

    “Well, yes! And there weren’t that many of them, couldn’t they have waited?”

    “Dirty dishes encourage vermin,” replied Andrew grimly.

    Sighing, Aidan got the coffee out. “What’s up?”

    “Nothing. –I’m just going to wash that coffee-pot!” he snapped as Aidan reached for it.

    “Andrew, you are not going to wash my coffee-pot—my coffee-pot,” he noted pointedly—“in greasy, soapy water! Let it out, I’ll rinse it.”

    Andrew scowled, but let the washing-up water out of the sink.

    Aidan rinsed the pot and made coffee silently, letting Andrew scour his good iron skillet without protest. Rapidly he made a pan of scrambled eggs and some toast and plonked two plates on the kitchen table. “Breakfast. –Andrew! That grill pan does not need scouring! Breakfast!”

    Andrew scowled, but sat down to it.

    “What is up?” said Aidan after the clot had managed to get himself round a plate of scrambled egg, two slices of toast and a large mug of milky coffee.

    Andrew looked with disfavour at the sight of his old friend drinking coffee out of a bowl, Frog-style, but admitted: “I’ve decided to pull my socks up and stop wasting my leave, that’s all.”

    “Good. And start doing Jayne Dahlenburg, I sincerely trust?”

    He went very red but replied steadily: “I don’t think she seriously wants me for a moment, but I want her, so yes, I am gonna go for it.”

    “Glad to hear it. And in any case it’s much too soon to start thinking about wanting anyone seriously. A nice holiday fling’s a different matter. And she’s a pleasant woman, not like that bitch Caroline: it’ll do you good.”

    “You’re objectifying her,” replied Andrew with a frown.

    “No, I’m not, I just said she was a pleasant woman.”

    “I see,” he said heavily. “That counts as not objectifying someone in your book, does it?”

    “Yes,” agreed Aidan definitely.

    “What about Libby?” he demanded.

    Lightly Aidan returned: “I don’t think I’ve objectified her either, have I?”

    “You’re doing it now, but I don’t wanna argue with you. Are you gonna give her up with the catering stuff?”

    “I haven’t said I’m giving the catering stuff up, have I?”

    Andrew gave him a hard look. “You didn’t need to, you turned down three jobs this week and told that unfortunate Joan woman that you can’t do her dinner party on Saturday after all.”

    “Well, for Christ’s sake, Andrew! She’s invited Pam Bloody Easterbrook to the thing!”

    “That’s it, isn’t it?” said Andrew slowly. “It’s since we saw Pam. It’s dawned on you that mere catering, of however high a standard, is frightfully infra dig. and not worthy of the great Vine family tradition. And,” he noted pointedly, “I dare say the same might be said of Libby.”

    Aidan was very red. “Balls.”

    Ignoring this entirely, his old friend said, kindly enough: “Aidan, I know you must feel some natural jealousy of Pam, but let’s face it, the Sydney legal Establishment is never gonna let you reach the bench: you’ve made it clear that you’ve trodden on too many toes for that. I’m sure your publishers will want further editions of your books on Australian company law, and the firm’s not gonna run out of clients, but that’ll be it, for you. I dare say the odd eminent Q.C. may get appointed to a Royal Commission or some such, but that’d be the most you could hope for—and at that, that sort of thing’s mainly given to retired judges, isn’t it?”

    “Thanks, Andrew, that’s super-clear,” he said sourly.

    “I’m only summarising what you’ve admitted yourself,” replied Andrew steadily. “Catering may not be what your bloody élitist father would have called a profession, but you’ve been really enjoying it, Aidan! And—and the same with Libby: you really like her! Don’t throw it all away because of your stupid pride!”

    After a moment Aidan said slowly: “You’re projecting, old mate. –No, don’t yell at me! I do like Libby, and she’s a decent soul with, pardon my élitism, decent instincts.” Judging by the glare on Andrew’s face he wasn’t pardoning him, but he went on regardless: “But I’m not in love with her and never have been. I can’t put my finger on what she hasn’t got,” he said with a little sigh, “but I just know it’s not there. And before you start, I’ve begun to suspect that she feels the same way. And she’s not really interested in my cooking: she’s just humouring me,” he ended heavily.

    Andrew bit his lip. “Um, look, you don’t need to have everything in common. Loads of people do humour their partner’s interest in life, whether it’s their job or a hobby.”

    “I know that. But I don’t fancy tying myself up to someone whose face glazes over at the words ‘make a brown roux,’ thanks.”

    “I’m not surprised her face glazed over; whose wouldn’t? I’m only surprised she didn’t make a joke about kangaroos!” retorted Andrew with vigour.

    “Eh? Oh—hah, hah. No, well, there you are,” he said with a shrug.

    “Aidan, that sort of thing doesn’t really count in a relationship!”

    “I know: if the fundamental thing was there, it wouldn’t. Only it isn’t, you see, and, uh, well, being humoured is beginning to drive me bats,” Aidan admitted with a grimace.

    “I see,” said Andrew sadly.

    “Were you envisaging something all cosy and Mills and Boon-y, where you take one sister and I take the other?” said Aidan lightly.

    “Don’t be stupid,” he growled, reddening.

    “You were, by Jesus! Well, console yourself with the thought that Wal sees us as far more up-market: positively Jane Austen-ish, in fact.”

    “Eh?”

    Aidan shrugged. “You, me, the rented house, the frightful Caroline—my God, the female’s name was Caroline, that’s right!—and the houseful of luscious sisters over the way.”

    Andrew’s jaw had sagged. “That isn’t funny,” he said in a very weak voice.

    “It is quite funny, actually, but as I told Wal—and as I’m telling you now, Andrew—it is not apposite. You can be Bingley to your Jayne if you like, but I refuse to be Darcy to Libby’s Eliza Bennet!”

    Andrew had gulped, his old mate wasn’t too displeased to see. Eventually he managed, in a very weak voice: “She spells it J,A,Y,N,E, anyway.”

    “Nevertheless the comparison has long since occurred to Wal,” returned Aidan with relish, getting up. “If you’ve really turned over a new leaf, we could do these dishes.”

    “Eh? Oh—yeah,” said Andrew feebly, standing up and gathering up crockery.

    Over the dishes he ventured: “Aidan, I don’t want to nag, but seriously, could the catering turn into something solid? Not big, necessarily, but solid? You could have a very nice lifestyle hereabouts, too.”

    “You are nagging,” replied Aidan with a frown. “But I’m thinking it over, okay? Though I have decided definitely that whatever I do it won’t be with Libby.”

    Andrew sighed. “I see. –Um, listen, Pam mentioned that her son’s into food technology.”

    “Uh—yes, teaches at the Tech, or whatever they’re calling it these days. What of it?”

    “Well, why not talk to him? He could give you a good idea of the opportunities available in New Zealand, I should think. I mean, his students must all go out and, um, do it. Well, do something: work for the big processing companies, probably.”

    “In that case they’re the ones turning TVP into something brown that doesn’t taste in the least like meat for the pies: they’re nearly as bad as the Aussie ones; I’ve never been so disappointed in my life!”

    “Yeah, remember those ones we used to get from the bakery down the road from school?” said Andrew with a deep sigh. “Real meat!”

    “Yep, and real puff pastry made from real butter, and a real heart attack before fifty-five; thank God the world’s moved on!” admitted Aidan with a sudden laugh, giving him a buffet on the back. “Come on, let’s finish these, and then you can ring Jayne!”

    “Well, I will. But what about you?”

    Aidan rubbed his chin. “Ugh. I’d better see Libby, I suppose, tell her we’d better cool it. And, um, give Pam a bell, get her son’s number?”

    “If you wait until Saturday you can talk to him in person,” Andrew remembered. “When the Joan woman rang and begged me to bend your ear about her party she mentioned that he’s coming down for the weekend.”

    Good: that meant he wouldn’t have to have a conversation with Pam Bloody Easterbrook. “Oh, good, I’ll ring then. Um—damn, haven’t got my laptop. Would the Taupo Public Library have computers for public use, do you think?”

    “Bound to, these days.”

    “Good, I might get on over there and suss out the local catering and food technology scene. And, well, maybe the small business regulations as well.”

    “Good!” said Andrew, beaming at him.

    Aidan smiled back, though he was still very far from sure that any sort of catering was what he wanted to do. But he certainly didn’t want to go back to Sydney and dwindle into a crabby old Q.C. with no hope of reaching the bench. Or a boozy old one, like— Well, their names were Legion: mostly enormous, with great blobby red noses, given to buttonholing one at the Club— No. Definitely not.

    “Oh, by the way,” Andrew remembered, “that Whatsisname that that awful Leanne female was bonking rang for you while you were out yesterday.”

    “Eh?”

    “Um, forgotten his name. Owns a boat-hire business. Said he knows someone that’s got a nice wooden launch they might want to sell.”

    “What?” he cried. “Why didn’t you get his details, you cretin?”

    “I did,” replied Andrew with dignity. “I just can’t remember his name, that’s a—”

    “An-drew!”

    “I’m trying to say, if you’d stop yelling for two minutes, I wrote them down on the phone pad in the—”

    Aidan had rushed out.

    “—passage,” finished Andrew feebly. “Well, there you are,” he said to the sacred coffee-pot that was sitting, unwashed, on the stove, looking at him smugly. “I suppose I’d better wash you. What was His Master’s Voice’s order, again? –AIDAN! Shall I wash the coffee-pot?”

    “NO!” Aidan rushed back and snatched it off him. “Rinse in hot water ONLY!”

    “Do it yourself, then. Does that boat sound promising?”

    “I haven’t managed to get him yet, you moron!” He rushed out again.

    “Yeah,” said Andrew on a wry note to the abandoned coffee-pot. “Pity he can't find a woman to match the boat, eh?”

    The pot of course returned no answer and as in any case it had been a delaying tactic, designed to put off the moment of having to contact Jayne, he went firmly out to the passage, waited while Aidan spoke to the boat chap, and then grabbed the phone. “Shove off.”

    “I’m going. The boat sounds just the tick—”

    “Shove OFF, Aidan!”

    Not pointing out that if he was that interested he could pick up the extension in the master bedroom, Aidan shoved off.

    Andrew took a deep breath and dialled the number of Taupo Shores Ecolodge. He hadn’t rung it all that many times before but funnily enough it was engraved on his memory.

    The little jetty of the Turpin place was occupied by a broad female bum in denim shorts. Its owner was bent over doing something to a mooring rope. Aidan steered in, not disguising from himself the fact that for purely physiological reasons, not to say selfish ones, he was regretting his decision to break with her.

    “Ahoy!” he said loudly, as she didn’t react to the sound of the launch’s engine.

    The denim-shorted figure straightened and turned. Aidan gulped. Thank God he hadn’t said anything about a sight for sore eyes, or some such, because it wasn’t her! A lot younger, very like her, but—

    “Who the Hell are you?” he croaked.

    Patty tried to smile at the good-looking middle-aged man in the great little wooden launch. “Hi. I’m sorry, I guess you thought I was Libby? I’m Patty Eisenblatt-MacDermott. I’m her half-sister.”

    “Another one of Pete’s daughters?” said Aidan limply.

    Reddening, Patty replied: “That’s right. My mom was his second wife.”

    Hadn’t Wal said the second wife was a bitch of a Les? Oh, well. Aidan pulled himself together and introduced himself nicely, into the bargain welcoming her to New Zealand. In spite of the strong resemblance to Libby his charm didn’t seem to be working—whether it was the age difference or not, God knew: she must be twenty years his junior and he had had the same reaction from not a few of his daughters’ friends: salutary, in its way. And certainly easier to deal with than the fawning crushes that a couple of them had developed.

    “Libby in?” he said, giving up on the charm.

    America was full of smooth, good-looking older men with manicures, conservative haircuts and easy charm: at least, those circles within which Susan Eisenblatt MacDermott and Josh MacDermott moved certainly were, and Patty was not only immune to the type, she had a natural aversion to it. Which was okay, they mostly had a natural aversion to her, too! Registering without really having to think about it that he’d stopped smiling at her, she replied with relief: “Yeah, she’s just over in the A-frame, she won’t be a minute.”

    “I’ll go over there and hurry her up, then—or possibly delay her further,” drawled Aidan, wandering off.

    Patty didn’t even bother to look after him with resentment, she was so used to the type. Though she did admit wryly to herself she’d never expected to encounter it in this neck of the woods! She got aboard the MerriAndi and sat down, remarking to herself once she was sure he was out of earshot: “Sheesh, that must be the boyfriend! I’d have thought better of Libby.”

    Libby was discovered in the front room of the A-frame cramming clothes into a suitcase. Aidan’s main emotion was an overwhelming relief.

    “Hullo; the holiday over?” he said lightly.

    “No, we’re just moving back to the ecolodge!” she gasped. “Can you sit on this case while I pull this blasted zip?”

    Since the case was clearly only a clone, and not even a good clone, Aidan had no objection to doing this, so he obliged.

    “Thanks!” she gasped, panting.

    “My pleasure. Er—dare I ask where you bought this execrable luggage?”

    “I dunno. Is it execrable?”

    He winced. “Yes.”

    “Well, I thought it was, but Tamsin decided it was just the thing. We’ve all got sets, in different colours,” said Libby indifferently.

    “Libby, if you didn’t like it, why in God’s name didn’t you tell her so?” said Aidan rather loudly.

    Libby gave him a dry look. “Because having horrible luggage doesn’t matter as much to me as hurting my niece’s feelings does.”

    Aidan winced. “Okay, that’s the difference between us in a nutshell, isn’t it?”

    “Um, not the only difference, but it’s one of the main ones, yeah,” replied Libby, eyeing him uneasily.

    “Uh-huh. Appearances to the contrary, I do think people’s feelings matter,” he said lightly.

    Libby took a deep breath. “Maybe you think so, Aidan, but when did you last put another person’s feelings before a matter of taste? Or aesthetics, if you like, or—or culinary standards, or whatever you like to call them!”

    “All of the above,” said Aidan wryly. “Well, I can’t remember, frankly, but then possibly there’s been no occasion of recent years where someone’s feelings were involved.”

    “None where you cared enough to look to see if there were, you mean!”

    He was about to argue the point, but shrugged. “You’re probably right. I suppose that brings me to what I wanted to say.”

    “Don’t bother, I know you’ve lost interest in the catering. You were only playing at it, anyway,” said Libby heavily.

    “I— Well, no. I have lost interest in making elegant little dinners for that moron Joan Thingummybob and her moronic friends, yes, but not in the general idea of doing something in the catering area, though as yet I’ve no very clear idea what.”

    “All the people that want fancy food are moronic rich types like her, Aidan,” she warned.

    “I know. I didn’t come over to discuss that. Can we sit down for a moment?”

    “No, I have to get back, Patty and me are supposed to be helping with the waiting on, this lunchtime.”

    Once upon a time Aidan would have raised his eyebrows at the “waiting on”, but he was now so used to the Australian vernacular that he merely looked at his watch. Damn, acquiring the launch had taken longer than he’d thought.

    “Um, well, I’d better just say it, then. It’s been great, Libby, but I’ve been thinking about it and I feel it’d be silly to go on with it. We, uh—well, we haven’t really got many interests in common, have we? And I know you can’t empathise with my insistence on standards—or taste, whatever name you like to use. But I’m like that. I can’t compromise,” he said grimly.

    “You—you mean we’re a compromise, too?” said Libby in a shaking voice.

    Aidan bit his lip. “Well, we’re not just now, but I can feel we’re headed that way. I’m very sorry, Libby, but it wouldn’t be fair to you to let it go on.”

    “No. That’s all right,” said Libby hoarsely. “I never thought you’d want to go on with it, anyway.”

    “I’m sorry,” he repeated lamely. “I suppose I’ve got too used to the sort of woman who takes this sort of thing lightly.”

    “Yes. You could go now,” said Libby, swallowing hard.

    Oh, Hell. But as he couldn’t for the life of him think of anything more to say—and everything he did say made it worse—Aidan went.

    Patty watched with relief as the handsome boyfriend went away. Libby was ages but she didn’t really notice: she just sat on in the sun, feeling at peace.

    “So that was the boyfriend, huh?” she said nicely as Libby came aboard with the last suitcase.

    “No. I mean, it was him. Ex-boyfriend,” said Libby grimly.

    Yo, boy! Cringing, Patty muttered: “I see,” and fell silent.

    They were halfway across the lake before Libby said: “He was never my type, really, anyway.”

    “Um, well, no; I mean, I barely exchanged two words with him, but I wouldn’t have said so,” she murmured sympathetically.

    “What would you have said?” demanded Libby .

    Patty gulped. “Well—well, gee, Libby, he struck me as real like some of Mom and Poppa Josh’s friends. Well-heeled; uh, smooth; uh… loads of charm,” she ended feebly.

    “Loads of charm and knows it, I think you mean!” replied Libby vigorously.

    “Well, yeah,” she croaked.

    “Yes. I must’ve been mad. That’s the second one,” her sister admitted.

    Patty gulped again. She got it that Libby didn’t mean mad as in real annoyed, she meant crazy. “He is very good-looking, Libby,” she offered feebly.

    “Exactly,” said Libby with a sigh. “Do you know the actor Gabriel Byrne? Rather like him. So was the other one. He treated me like a convenience, too. I suppose I was really in love with him… I dunno. Maybe it was just sex, too. And being flattered, of course,” she ended heavily.

    “Gee, me, too!” she gasped in astonishment.

    “With Hector?” said Libby, doing her best to pronounce it the way Patty did.

    “Yeah. You might not think he was much to look at, but he had that…. Well, gee, I dunno what to call it. Just plain sex appeal? Very much the Hispanic type, I guess. And charm,” finished Patty on a sour note.

    “Yep.”

    The boat sailed on into a perfect day…

    Patty took a deep breath. After all, she hardly knew Libby, yet. But she was real nice and gee, she was her sister— She said it. “Okay, I guess we’re just a pair of suckers!”

    “Yes!” said Libby with a sudden laugh. “Aren’t we, just!”

    The boat forged on, both sisters grinning—somewhat sheepishly, true, but nonetheless grinning.

    Jayne and her luggage had come across on the MerriAndi’s first trip, to be met on the landing stage by Janet, looking important. “Let me take that bag, dear,” she said, seizing the largest suitcase.

    Quickly Jayne grabbed the middle-sized one before she could really martyr herself by taking it as well. “Thanks, Janet,” she said feebly.

    “That’s all right, Jayne, dear, I’m glad to help!” she beamed, heading off in the direction of the loft.

    Jayne followed limply. There was no point in hoping that Janet wouldn’t come upstairs and superintend everything, so she merely cast a wistful mental glance in the direction of that idea, and followed her up. Her and Libby were gonna have the big bed: well, that was fair enough. Importantly Janet informed her that she’d already changed the sheets and put fresh ones on the small bed for Patty. Ooh, heck, wasn’t that Michelle’s job? Jayne looked at her in horror.

    Not noticing, Janet dumped the big suitcase on the bed and opened it. “Now, these mustn’t get creased, we’ll just hang them up, dear. And while I think of it—” She looked round conspiratorially. “I’ve got a message for you!” She nodded importantly.

    “Um, yes?” said Jayne feebly. Probably just from Tamsin, letting her know she’d be down the other end of the lake with Neil tonight, or something.

    “That nice Andrew Barker rang for you!” said Janet in congratulatory tones.

    Jayne felt herself go very red. Blow! Now Janet would think there was something in it, and there wasn’t, he was just a pleasant man that was on holiday!

    “Very early,” said Janet significantly. “Long before I got here.”—Jayne looked at her limply: then why was it her that was giving her the message?—“Michelle took the call. She told him of course it was far too early to expect you to be over here yet, but only for today, because of course it’s the day you and Libby are moving back into the loft!” She felt in the pocket of one of the strange aprons she usually wore: more a sort of half-apron, half-overall, because it had a front and a back, but no proper sides, just buttons on each hip. The original had been a bought one, she’d had a set of them when she was first married in different shades of gingham, all with a bias-binding trim and ties, but she’d decided to make her own using one as a pattern. And buttons were much more convenient than ties—and of course her sewing-machine had a good buttonholer! Jan had privily pointed out to Jayne that Janet’s huge, fancy sewing-machine, which weighed a ton, she had to get the useless George or one of the louts to move it if she needed to use the spare room for guests, had cost approximately the equivalent of sixty lifetimes’ worth of cotton aprons but actually, Jayne could have guessed that. Janet also made her own cotton sunfrocks, from “a reliable old Butterick pattern”, but that was still very far from compensating for the price of the machine. Apart from that she zigzagged round the edges of bath towels that had started to fray, but that was it. No, she didn’t make her own curtains or her other clothes. And yes, she had made the boys’ shirts and shorts when they were tiny, but that had been on the old machine. And in case Jayne was wondering, it was a syndrome that had been very, very common when she, Jan, was a girl, but— At this point Jayne had collapsed in helpless giggles.

    “Thanks, Janet,” she said as Janet produced a piece of neatly folded paper from the pocket.

    “He wants you to ring him back!” she prompted.

    “Um, yes,” said Jayne on a weak note. “They seem to have the use of the phone in that house.”

    Janet sniffed. “More money than sense,” she noted darkly.

    “Um—oh: the McLintock family? It sounds like it, mm. But maybe rich people do let their holiday homes with the use of the phone?”

    “Don’t ask me!” retorted Janet swiftly. “How much are they paying, anyway?”

    “I don’t know,” replied Jayne weakly. “Andrew said he made all the arrangements but Aidan wouldn’t let him pay for it.”

    Janet sniffed again. “I dare say it’s a drop in the ocean to him. –That’ll go nowhere, you know, dear.”

    “Wha— Oh! Libby and Aidan?” she gasped. “No, well, I don’t think he’s right for her, Janet!”

    Managing to sniff while looking grimly pleased, Janet began hanging clothes on the movable clothes rack that was all the loft provided in the way of a wardrobe.

    Jayne had a strong impulse just to sit down numbly on the bed, but she forced her legs into motion and began helping her. After a moment she managed to utter: “How did Jan’s friend Lalla manage without a wardrobe, Janet?”

    “Oh, well, she didn’t have many clothes, dear!” Janet plunged into the full bit. Jayne had heard most of it before, by now: she just relaxed and let it flow over her, trying not to wonder how long it actually was since Andrew had rung, and not to look at her watch. And not to speculate at all about what he wanted.

    When she rang him back Andrew’s knees went so wobbly he literally had to sit down on the hideous dark teak floorboards of the McLintock passage. –There was a spindly chair, fake Queen Anne, by the spindly fake Queen Anne telephone table, but it didn’t look capable of bearing anything heavier than a pot-plant—which in fact it was bearing as of this moment, Aidan having decided the bloody thing was asking to be swept off the table whenever you tried to use the phone.

    “Hullo, Jayne,” he croaked. “Thanks for ringing back. I—I was just wondering if you’d like to go out with me. For a—a drive, or something. Um, well, the thermal area, again, or—or maybe National Park? They say there’s a nice nature walk with native plants.”

    Jayne gulped. If he meant that one not far from The Chateau hotel, it was very popular with the majority of the ecolodge’s guests—the sort that didn’t go in for what Dad called “them suede safari boots”—and only last week him and Vern Reilly had had an argument over who was going to drive a bunch of them over there for it, each of them trying to make the other one do it because it was so boring and when you got there it was a choice between doing the walk with them or sitting in the vehicle waiting for them—

    “Um, yes. Well, National Park sounds nice,” she said feebly.

    “Oh, good. Or—or if you fancied going further afield, it doesn’t take that long to get over to Napier—”

    “Andrew, that road’s supposed to be terrible!” she gasped.

    Andrew swallowed. “Oh. Um, well, the surface is okay. But the road does wind a lot over the Napier-Taupo hills.”

    “Dad says it’s one of the worst trips in the country and the only way he’d take me on it ’ud be with the windows down and stops every two miles. –Five K, that’d be, about.”

    “Jayne,” said Andrew in a trembling voice, “aren’t you a very good traveller? Why didn’t you say?”

    “Um, well, I thought I was a good traveller. I mean, I’ve driven for thousands of miles in Australia,” said Jayne weakly. “We drove all the way to South Australia to see Bill’s cousins, once, and I didn’t feel queasy at all. Only when Dad took me and Libby up to the King Country I started to feel quite green.”

    “I see,” he said limply. “But you were all right those times we went to the thermal area?”

    “Yes, I was fine.”

    “Good. Well, Napier’s out. So, um, National Park?”

    “That’d be nice. Um, did you mean Libby and Aidan too?” said Jayne in spite of herself.

    “Um, no.” He swallowed hard. “Look, just between you and me, Aidan’s decided to break if off before it gets too serious. He, um, I think he feels that they haven’t got enough in common. And, um, well, he likes Libby but he’s not in love with her,” he ended awkwardly.

    “No. It’s probably for the best,” said Jayne in relief. “I don’t think she’s in love with him, either. Actually, she does tend to fall for men with that sort of looks. I never met the man she used to be involved with, but she said he looked a lot like Aidan. He was all wrong for her, too.”

    Andrew sagged. “Yeah. Well, it’ll be just us. Shall I pick you up about ten tomorrow?”

    “Yes, that’d be nice,” said Jayne politely.

    His blood was fizzing so madly in his veins that he could hardly hear her. “Great. See you then,” he said hoarsely.

    “Yes. See you,” said Jayne politely, hanging up.

    Andrew staggered to his feet and plonked the receiver down. True, she had sounded merely polite, not thrilled or excited, but at least she’d agreed—and come to think of it, she hadn't seemed to want the others to come! Good! He wandered outside and sat down on the deck, completely unaware of where he was or what he was doing.

    Dumping Libby and refusing all those would-be catering clients meant that Aidan had absolutely nothing to do. He woke early to the sounds of Andrew clattering in the kitchen—again—but this time he stayed in bed. Andrew then took an inordinate amount of time in the bathroom getting ready for his Jayne—well, he’d match the ruddy 4WD, that was for sure, he’d spent the whole of yesterday afternoon cleaning it. He finally pushed off to collect her around nine-fifteen, which meant that unless there was an unusual lot of traffic on the road, he’d be too early for his appointment, but who cared? Aidan pulled the sheet up over his nose and went to sleep again.

    He was in the kitchen around noon, making a pot of coffee and reflecting sourly that as he’d had scrambled eggs for breakfast yesterday he’d better not have an omelette for lunch, when the front doorbell pealed. It wasn’t the day or the time for their cleaner, and Livia or Wal would just come across the lawn to the French doors: who the Hell? They were too far out of the way—and the area was too affluent—for Mormon missionaries or Jehovah’s Witnesses. Sighing, he trailed off to the door, muttering as the offensive McLintock bell pealed again—the first few bars of Für Elise, very loud and slightly off-key: spectacularly horrid, really—“All right, all right, hold your horses, I’m coming!”

    He opened the door prepared to give whoever it was very short shr—

    “Hullo, Dad,” said the small dark-haired object on the front doorstep in a defiant tone.

    “Aprylle!” he croaked. “What the Hell are you doing here?” Several very unpleasant answers to this question immediately sprang to mind. Though it couldn’t be bulimia or anorexia: she was looking distinctly plumper than she had been when last seen: in fact, though you couldn’t have said she was that merry little grig that Andrew had described her as, she looked almost back to normal. Ugh, in that case, pregnant? Binge-eating without the bulimia? Both? Something bloating—mononucleosis, possibly? Giving up the fucking advanced fabric art was merely an also-ran in comparison, but it’d be that as well, because if her term hadn’t yet started, she should at least be enrolling at this time of year.

    “Mummy doesn’t want me,” said Aprylle in a tiny voice.

    Aidan took a very deep breath. That had taken long enough to dawn! The bitch never had wanted her, poor little sprat, but as Me Lud Paulette’s father disapproved strongly of abortion and would quite probably have cut her out of his will at the mere suggestion, hadn’t got rid. What she had done was dump her on a nanny the week after the birth and apart from ordering her to attend kindergarten, ballet classes, modern dance classes, painting classes, hockey classes and, uh, Aidan had frankly forgotten, but there’d been a lot of them, ignored her for the rest of her short life. The nanny had given way to an endless series of inept au pairs, so-called housekeepers and God-knew-what, the ones who liked kids being hopeless at looking after the house and the competent housekeepers of course loathing kids… Okay, he’d been at fault, too: too busy with his damned profession to spend time with his daughters.

    “What’s she done, sweetheart? Sold the house and moved to Queensland?”

    “Perth,” said Aprylle in a tiny, tiny voice. “With that awful Murray Graves, um, you might not’ve met him, um, he teaches Hatha Yoga.”

    Jesus! Aidan’s suggestion of selling the house had been less than half serious. “I see,” he managed. “And they wouldn’t take you, that it?”

    “Mm,” she said, nodding and blinking back tears. “She suh-said I was legally an adult and it was ab-about time I stuh-stood on my own—”

    “Yes. Never mind, Pumpkin,” he said limply, “you can stay—”

    Hardly surprisingly, at this almost-forgotten endearment, last used when she was about ten, Aprylle hurled herself at her father and burst into tears on his chest.

    … “Ooh! This is lovely!” she beamed, some forty minutes later.

    It was a ratatouille, rather loosely based on the one in the book that Libby called The Greedy Cook. Its version for the English merely scattered the finished product with parsley, but Aidan had used fresh thyme in it, courtesy of Taupo Organic Produce, with a little fresh sage from the garden. The zucchinis, eggplants and tomatoes were also permaculture ones but the capsicums, surprisingly enough, were from Livia: she’d planted a whole row of them outside her guest wing under the impression they were decorative Mexican chillis. Fair enough, as the labels had described them as “pimentos.” There’d only been one small eggplant left, so he’d added some potato: possibly not classic according to the cookbooks, though anyone who’d read Zola would probably dispute that point, but his daughter hadn’t objected.

    “Thanks. It’s very easy. I could teach you,” said Aidan cautiously. –Similar offers in the far-distant past had been spurned by both daughters.

    “Ooh! Really? Thanks, Dad!” she breathed.

    Aidan blinked. “Are you interested in cookery, then, Pumpkin?”

    Aprylle nodded hard and plunged into a description of some vile cookery programme she’d seen on TV, following it up with an ecstatic description of a visit to the actual cook’s actual restaurant. Completely vile: sort of a mishmash of Chinese and Moroccan with yer nouvelle touches here and there, as far as he could tell—she had almost no cookery vocabulary, that didn’t help—but at least she seemed genuinely keen!

    The meal ended with the leftover peach shortcake from yesterday, Aprylle pronouncing it fabulous, and Aidan’s coffee, as good as Cibo’s, unquote. And with Aidan explaining in great detail just what went into her Aunt Candy’s shortcake recipe. After they’d done the dishes—he’d expected her either to refuse to help or to insist they use the dishwasher, but she didn’t—somehow they wandered out into the ruins of the McLintock garden and got talking about herbs and vegetables, and then somehow got in the car and drove over to Taupo Organic Produce. The children were at school and Bettany was busy with customers, so they ended up letting General Hugh Throgmorton in person show them round. Aprylle was so overawed by the accent that it took a good fifteen minutes before she dared to utter.

    “Who is he, Dad?” she squeaked as they took their departure with the boot bursting with bounty—not all of it paid for: Hugh and Bettany had both been very taken with round-faced, pretty little Aprylle and had laden her up with samples of anything she admired.

    “Er, well, he’s a retired English general, actually,” he admitted feebly.

    “Heck!” she breathed in awe.

    “Uh-huh.”

    She thought it over. “But how did he end up here?”

    “Well, it’s a long story, but his nephew’s an architect: he came out here to design an ecolodge for a big English hotel chain.” He eyed her sideways. “Don’t you think it’s an attractive area?”

    “Yes, it’s lovely, and their place is fabulous, but—but it must have been an awfully big change for him, Dad! Um, was it mid-life crisis?”

    Aidan hadn’t known the phrase was in her vocabulary. “I wouldn’t say that. I think he’s the level-headed sort, not given to crises. They do retire fairly early, in the armed forces—I know he probably seems as old as the hills to you, Pumpkin, but I think he’s only in his mid-fifties. He liked the look of the place, and it seemed like something he could get his teeth into, you see? And, uh— You didn’t see the children, as it’s a school day. I don’t know all the ins and outs of it, but Livia tells me that they were orphans: their parents used to run the permaculture business, you see, and they were drowned in the Boxing Day tsunami.”

    Aprylle swallowed hard. “Megan Fenwick’s cousin and her husband were in that,” she said in a small voice. “They were on holiday in Phuket. It was their wedding anniversary, too.”

    Aidan patted her knee. “I know, sweetheart. Shocking tragedy. Well, evidently Bettany was looking after these little orphans and there were no relatives—I think Livia said an aunt was drowned with the parents,” he remembered—“and Hugh seems to have made up his mind to bail the lot of ’em out. Uh—I’m not implying he didn’t genuinely fall in love with her, but he’s a man who’s led an active life: the whole thing was a new challenge, you see: something he could plunge himself into that would take the place of his profession.”

    Aprylle nodded hard. “I see. Um, I was wondering…”

    Aidan braced himself. “Mm?”

    “Well, um, Mummy tells lies, I do know that,” said his little daughter seriously. “But she reckoned you said you were gonna give up the law. She was wild, but she said you could more than afford to, with Grandfather Vine’s money. Only, um, well, me and Fenella had a fight, to tell you the truth,” she admitted, going very red, “so she might of just said it for spite, but she said Mummy told her you were going to give the money away.”

    Aidan took a deep breath. Why had he actually started to believe that one of his daughters was not a mercenary little bitch? “And?”

    “Well, um, if you could afford to give up the law and do something new, like Hugh, why don’t you, Dad? Like, I mean, if you’re suffering from burnout?”

    Aidan’s ears hummed. “Was that last a question?” he croaked.

    “What? Do you mean burnout? Well, um, me and Megan thought you must be.”

    Megan Fenwick of course was the Best Friend—Aprylle was still young enough to have one that hadn’t definitively metamorphosed into a mortal enemy and rival in the matters of huge suburban palaces, vulgar jewellery from the most tasteless of the fashion houses, expensive overseas trips, and good schools for the otherwise neglected offspring.

    “Well, yes, I’m suffering from burnout, if you can describe the realisation that I’ve got as far as I’m going to get in the law in Australia as such.”

    “Paul says they won’t make you a judge,” she reported dubiously.

    Paul Hart was Fenella’s luckless husband. “Uh-huh. Did you ask your Grandfather Jessop’s opinion?” he replied drily.

    “No!” cried Aprylle crossly. “Of course not! What do you think I am? He’d of said they won’t, just to be mean!”

    How very right she was. Added to which, Judge Jessop would sooner cut off his own foot than see him, Aidan, elevated to the bench, it had belatedly dawned. “Yeah. Sorry,” he said, patting her knee again. “Well, Paul’s right, but in any case I’ve never wanted to be a judge.”

    “So, um, something different? Like a new challenge, like Hugh’s?”

    “Y— Um, darling, he had that more or less shoved under his nose. I’m not in that situation. I—uh—I am looking for something different, yes. But before we go into that,” said Aidan on a grim note, “just what is all this about Dad’s money?”

    “What?” replied Aprylle blankly. “Nothing. I mean, Mummy said it was a lot, ’cos Grandfather Vine was a miser, so I thought even with the divorce and her getting the house you’d be able to afford to, like, start a business. Or a little farm? Like Megan’s Uncle Toby.”

    Toby Fenwick was sixty-seven, for Christ’s sake! Raising miniature cattle or some such ruddy daft— “Uh, yeah. But something a bit more practical than miniature cattle, I’d hope. Well, could you fancy eating tiny cows, about the size of a well-grown Lab?”

    “Ugh, no!” she cried.

    Exactly. Aidan found he was grinning foolishly. “Er—no, right,” he said weakly. “Look, we’d better get it clear about Dad’s estate, I think.”

    “If you like,” said Aprylle blankly.

    “In the first place, ignore anything your mother may have said: Dad wasn’t technically a miser. Just a bloody mean old bastard. Not only in financial matters,” said Aidan grimly, avoiding the word “pecuniary” because he wasn’t too sure she’d understand it. “He disowned your Uncle Bobby, treated your aunts with complete ignore no matter how hard they tried to please him and, as you may not have noticed, ignored you girls completely because he wanted grandsons!”

    “Was that it? I thought he was just mad,” said Aprylle indifferently.

    “Mm,” agreed Aidan, trying to not to laugh. “Bloody mad. Remember that holiday in Coffs Harbour when you were about six? You had a pink sunhat,” he prompted.

    “Ooh, yes, we saw the Big Banana!” she cried.

    His shoulders shook slightly. Paulette had refused to accompany them to that tourist mecca, so he and the two little girls had gone by themselves. It had, looking back, been the happiest day of his entire married life. What a bloody fool he was, not to have made sure there were more— Yes, well. “Yes. Well, I invited Dad to come over for that—actually rang the old bastard up after he hadn't replied to my letter enclosing snaps of you in your new sunhat and Fenella in her new bikini, so-called. Two narrow strips of cloth across a sausage-shaped body, the same size all the way down!” His shoulders shook again.

    “Kids are like that,” said his daughter tolerantly.

    “Mm! Anyway, the stupid old bugger tore a strip off me for wasting his time, reminded me that the mindless holiday pursuits of bourgeois suburbia never had appealed, and told me I was suffering from softening of the brain. So I hung up on him.”

    “But everybody goes on holidays,” said Aprylle feebly.

    “Yes, and some people even enjoy the Big Banana whilst recognising it for what it is!” he said with feeling. “Not to mention enjoying their kids enjoying it!”

    “Ordinary people do, yeah. He was mad, all right.”

    “Yeah,” said Aidan with a deep sigh. “So he was. Remind me of this conversation if I ever refuse to do anything with you and my grandkids, will ya?”

    “Yes, I mean, I haven’t had any yet!” said Aprylle with a startled guffaw.

    Still too young to see herself as a vehicle for grandchildren! He smiled and patted the knee yet again. “Nor you have. Uh—shit, what the Hell was I on about?”

    “Um… Grandfather Vine?”

    “N— Oh! The estate: yes. Well, suffice it to say that having thoroughly alienated all his other children except Candy, not that he ever gave a damn about her, and not having realised just how much he’d alienated me, especially by his treatment of Bobby, the stupid old sod left me the lot.”

    “’Cos you’re a lawyer, I expect,” she said wisely.

    “Yeah,” said Aidan wryly. “Anyway, I got in touch with the others and made sure they all understood that the minute the estate clears probate I’m dividing it up evenly amongst us all.”

    “Good on ya, Dad!” she cried.

    Ouch. As well as genuine admiration there’d been a good deal of astonishment in her tone.

    “Yeah. Well, don’t tell Fenella she can start counting her chickens just yet, will you? Because the thought of accepting a penny from the old fart makes me choke,” he said tightly.

    “So are you going to share it all amongst Uncle Bobby and Aunty Candy and them?”

    “No; I only got them to agree to accept a share on the understanding that we all loathed him so we’d go equal shares,” he said heavily.

    “That’s fair,” said Aprylle judiciously.

    “Mm. I’m sorry, Aprylle, I know you and Fenella may legitimately feel you have an interest, but as soon as the estate clears probate I’m giving my lot to Oxfam,” he said grimly.

    “Hurray!” cried Aprylle loudly, clapping her hands.

    Aidan was so stunned he damn nearly drove off the road. “You approve?” he managed to croak.

    “Of course, Dad! It’s tainted money!” she cried.

    Er—well, no, it had been honestly earned, what his father hadn’t inherited from old Sir Cornelius—but considering the bloody way he’d treated Bobby she wasn’t far wrong, really.

    “Yeah. Good. –It shouldn’t take long. It’s quite a straightforward estate, really, he’d consolidated most of his assets: mainly shares and the property in town. We’ve put the house on the market: the sale can’t be finalised until the estate’s settled but there’ve been offers already.”

    “And then you’ll be rid of it,” said Aprylle with a deep sigh.

    Something like that. As far as one ever could be rid of one’s past. “Yes,” he agreed.

    “Ooh, and maybe Uncle Bobby could come out!” she cried, her face lighting up.

    “Uh—yeah. Would you like to see him again?” he said limply. They’d gone to Canada for a skiing holiday together when she was fourteen and still almost human, the modelling mania not having yet struck.

    “Of course! He always writes me a huge long letter for my birthday!” she reminded him. “And sends me lovely presents, of course. When I was little I always looked forward to the presents but now—well, I like them of course, he’s got lovely taste, hasn’t he? Only I like the letters better, really. Like a sort of diary.”

    “Yes, he writes a great letter,” said Aidan with a smile. “Good, we’ll ask him over, shall we?”

    “Yeah!” she beamed.

    They drove on, both smiling.

    “Um, Dad, it isn’t a rental car, is it? You didn’t buy it, did you?”

    “No, this status symbol belonged to your grandfather. I can’t sell it because of probate, you see.”

    “Ye-es… Um, what is probate?”

    She had lived in a lawyer’s house all her life! Oh, well. Aidan explained and then somehow diverged onto his catering venture and into speculation about what he might do in the general catering area if he was giving up the law… She got so keen that he agreed feebly to change his mind about cooking on Saturday for ruddy Joan Thingummybob, so as soon as they got home they rang her—thrilled to the back teeth—and as he’d told her about Pam Easterbrook’s son lecturing in food technology, rang her…

Next chapter:

https://summerseason-anovel.blogspot.com/2022/08/confession-time.html