42
Carol’s Ordinary Day
Carol had thought abut going to see Dr Macdonald about... that, for ages, without coming to any conclusion. Timothy’s advice was no use at all: he only said that he couldn’t see what there was to talk about! This made Carol very cross; unfortunately, although she felt that there were things she and Dr Macdonald ought to talk about, with Timothy looking hard at her she couldn’t actually think of one. Then he got onto her about skipping Pol. Sci. classes, so she finally went—anyway, her year didn’t have that many classes with him, thank goodness!—and he didn’t seem to act out of the ordinary at all. Or even notice she was there, in fact. Whether this made it better or worse Carol couldn’t decide. First she was quite sure it made it better, and was terribly relieved; only then she found she felt quite indignant about it and... Anyway, as Timothy said, time was marching on, and term had properly started: Orientation and all that crap (his expression) was over, so if she was serious about her degree she’d better make up her mind to it, and just get on with it. By this time Carol had realized that, although quite a lot of their fellow students weren’t, Timothy was terribly serious about his degree. She agreed meekly that work was the important thing; but she still felt slightly aggrieved that Dr Macdonald hadn’t given any sign at all that he was aware of her existence.
Then, one Saturday, she woke up to find that she’d decided. It was just stupid, putting it off like this! She’d go up to Puriri to his house and—and talk to him. And if he wasn’t there she could always go up to the Undergraduate Reading Room and do a bit of swot, it wouldn’t be a wasted trip.
She went downstairs and, before she could lose her nerve, rang up Aunty Veronica. Of course Uncle Peter answered the phone, he always did, but she just said could she speak to Aunty Veronica—and asked her for his address. When she said not to tell anyone, not even Uncle Peter, Aunty Veronica just made one of those noises, like she did, and said “What do you think I am?” Carol felt a lot better as she hung up.
It took ages to get there and it was pretty nerve-racking, but she was absolutely determined. Fortunately a very nice lady, quite old, stopped and give her a lift up the hill to Kowhai Bay.
Margaret Prior looked out of the corner of her eye at the red-haired girl who’d been trudging up the hill to the Bay and decided that it couldn’t be a coincidence, the child looked exactly liked Hamish, she must be a relation of his.
“Where exactly in Kowhai Bay are you heading for, dear?” she asked.
“Um, Kowhai Bay Road; um...” She fumbled in her pocket, produced a bit of paper, and read oft the number. Margaret was pleased but hardly surprised that it was Hamish’s number.
“Oh, yes: that’s Hamish Macdonald’s place; I think you must be a relation of his?” She glanced briefly at her, smiling, and was surprised to see that the child had gone scarlet.
“Sort of,” said Carol in a strangled voice. The lady didn’t anything. Carol said: “I look a bit like him, don’t I?” –Why did I say that? she thought frantically.
“Yes, very like him; I noticed it straight away.” Margaret hesitated. “Are they expecting you, dear? They usually do their shopping on a Saturday morning.”
“Oh,” said Carol weakly. “No. Never mind; if they’re out I suppose I—” She was going to say she’d just wait, but she could tell this lady was the sort of lady that’d drag you back to her place for a cup of tea if you said something like that. She gulped. “I’ll go over to Puriri Campus; I’m a student, you see.”
Margaret had now perceived that the girl—who looked a very highly strung little thing: very, very like Hamish—was all worked up, so she merely replied placidly: “I see.”
Carol was terribly relieved that the lady didn’t offer to wait and see if they were in, but dropped her at the foot of Dr Macdonald’s drive and drove off, with a little toot on her horn. She took a deep breath, and walked up the steep drive.
A lady answered the door, she was quite young, and Carol was pretty sure she was the lady that had been with him at the restaurant that time—if only she’d taken a bit more notice!
“Hullo,” she said. “Is Dr Macdonald in?”
“No,” Mirry replied, going scarlet, “He’s gone to the shops.” She swallowed. “You’re Carol, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Carol replied huskily.
“You’d better come in,” said Mirry, holding the door wide.
Carol came in.
A big black dog came rushing into the front passage. “DOWN, Puppy!” shouted the lady. “He won’t hurt you,” she said.
Carol wasn’t really scared, but she’d never had much to do with dogs; they’d never had one, or even a cat. Grandma had Orlando, of course, but cats had given Mum hay fever. No-one in the family had a dog, though Uncle Nat was always talking about getting one...
“What’s his name?” she asked.
“Well, we call him Puppy; he kind of got called that when he was little, y’know?” said the lady. Carol realized with relief that she was really quite young, and not fancy, that was a dressing-gown she had on, it was pretty—bright yellow, Chinese silk, she thought—but Aunty Helen had one that was much fancier.
“Come here, sir!” the lady said to the dog, and he came over and she said to him: “Puppy, this is Carol; friend, Puppy!” To Carol she said: “Just hold out your hand slowly and let him sniff it a bit.”
Carol did, and the dog sniffed at it, and then he suddenly licked it!
“Ugh!” she said, without meaning to; his tongue warm and rough and awfully slobbery.
“Pig, Puppy: get down!” said the lady. “Come in the kitchen and wash that lick off,” she said to Carol. She led the way through a big room that was empty, and then through a dining-room, and into the kitchen. Carol washed her hands at the sink.
“I’m just going to make some coffee,” said the lady. ”Would you like some?”
Carol said she would, and sat down at the table. The dog had come, too; he sat down and looked at her with his tongue hanging out.
“Puppy! Stop that!” said the lady. The dog made a huffing noise and lay down with his chin on his paws. “He does that,” the lady said to Carol. “He’s trying to brainwash you into giving him something to eat.” She was smiling; Carol smiled back.
Mirry felt rather shaken; she was just so like Hamish when she smiled! She turned away to the bench and began filling the coffee-pot with fingers that felt stiff and awkward. Behind her Carol asked: “What’s his real name?”
Mirry’s mind was a blank. “What? Oh—Puppy? Would you believe Pompadour Paduoy of Perenworth?”
“Heck,” said Carol weakly. “No wonder you call him Puppy.” The dog looked up at her, then put his chin back on his paws. “I thought Perenworth was a kind of sheep,” she added feebly.
“No,” Mirry said, feeling on more familiar ground: “that’s Perendale.”
“Oh—yes.”
An awful silence fell. Mirry put the coffee-pot on the heat. She swallowed, and turned round reluctantly.
Carol had been thinking miserably that the lady must know: she’d known her name, she was sure it wasn’t just because they’d been introduced at that restaurant, that was ages ago.
“Are you Mrs Macdonald?” she said desperately. She felt herself go very red.
“No,” said Mirry, also going red. They stared helplessly at each other for a moment. Mirry swallowed again. “I’m Hamish’s girlfriend,” she said. “I’m Mirry Field; I’m sorry, I thought you knew—we did meet once, at the Cheese Basil.” Too late, she realized she’d said “Cheese Basil”—everybody did up the Coast, the trouble was you forgot and said it to people who— “Hamish and his wife are separated,” she said. She was amazed at how wonderful it felt, once she’d said it. She smiled at her,
For unknown reasons, Carol all at once felt a lot better. She smiled back, and said: “Has he said anything about me?”
“Yes,” said Mirry, sitting down. “He’s told me all about it.”
“All about Mum?” said Carol in a squeaky voice.
“Yes.”
“It was all her fault, you know; it wasn’t his fault at all.”
“No; I’ve tried to tell him that,” agreed Mirry, “but he keeps on blaming himself.”
“That’s silly!” cried Carol. “A woman has to take responsibility for her own body, doesn’t she?”
“Exactly!” agreed Mirry. They looked at each other with approval.
“It must have been an awful shock for him,” said Carol, after a pause.
“Yes; it really rocked him; he’s such... he’s such a conscientious person.”
“Yes,” said Carol slowly, “I was afraid he might be upset.”
“You must have been, too.”
“Well, I was, of course, but—well, Dad was a good father to me; it’s not as if I’d grown up an orphan, or anything. I still think of Dad as my real father!” she ended defiantly.
“Yes,” said Mirry, thinking about her own little grey father, “you would, wouldn’t you; after all, it’s the person who brings you up that matters, isn’t it?”
By the time the coffee was ready they had reached cordial agreement on this and several other points, perhaps not the most minor being the fact that Carol had no need of Hamish as a father, particularly since she had Uncle Nat, only they might as well at least get to know each other a bit, now that they knew.
Upon being informed that Carol liked her coffee with lots of milk Mirry had been encouraged to confess that she did, too, really, but Hamish liked his black, and it never seemed worthwhile to heat the milk up just for one. Looking very pleased, she put a little pot of milk on to heat, and they had real café au lait, with some lovely homemade biscuits, which Mirry had made herself. Carol looked at her with respect at this disclosure: she couldn’t really be all that much older than her.
By the time Hamish and Elspeth got home, they’d passed on to quite other topics: Carol’s degree, and the First Year Pol. Sci. programme...
“Darling, are you feeling— better,” Hamish ended weakly, coming into the kitchen laden with groceries and staring at his red-haired daughter.
“Yes, I’m fine,” replied Mirry. “Those dratted cramps have just about gone. Carol’s come to see you.”
“Aye; hullo, Carol.”
“Hullo, Dr Macdonald,” said Carol in a squeaky voice.
“Hullo!” said Elspeth loudly. She stared at Carol. “You were at the barbecue. And at the Cheese Basil.”
“Yes; hullo, Elspeth,” said Carol weakly.
“She’s got a mole just like mine,” Elspeth said to Hamish.
Hamish went scarlet and looked helplessly at Mirry.
“We know that, Elspeth, you’ve only told us that a million times, and we are VERY TIRED OF HEARING IT!” said Mirry terribly. “And what did I tell you about making personal remarks in front of people?”
Elspeth turned puce. “Sorry,” she muttered to Carol.
Carol went scarlet and looked helplessly at Mirry. Mirry was looking grim, so she looked back at Elspeth and said: “That’s all right; I don’t mind.”
Even Elspeth could see that she did mind—or at least that she wasn’t pleased—so she said quickly: “Can I take Puppy for a walk?”
“Yes,” said Mirry quickly.
“Put his lead on,” said Hamish.
“I know!” retorted Elspeth huffily. “HEEL, boy!” she roared. Puppy came meekly to heel, and they went out via the back porch.
“God, I’m sorry,” said Hamish to Carol. He ran his hand through his curls.
“She keeps going on about those moles,” Mirry explained. “Of course, she hasn’t the faintest idea...”
“Haven’t you told her?” Carol asked, looking at them in surprise.
“No,” said Mirry, before Hamish could answer, “we thought we’d ask you whether you wanted her to know, first.”
“She can’t keep anything to herself,” Hamish explained. “It’ll be all over the family—I mean, my cousin Polly’s round at Pohutukawa Bay, and there’s Elspeth’s great-aunty in town—and of course she’ll tell all her horrible little friends.”
“Maybe that’ll convince Whetu about half-sisters,” said Mirry. They looked at each other, and smiled.
“Aye, well,” he said hurriedly. “That’s up to you, Carol.”
Going very red, Carol said slowly: “I think I’d like her to know; I mean, if I had a half-sister that I’d never known about, I think I’d want to know about her. –Wouldn’t you?” she said to Mirry.
“Yes, I would. And if she goes and tells people, and then doesn’t like their reaction, well—well, that’ll be her own fault,” she finished weakly.
“Aye,” said Hamish, sighing.
Silence fell.
“Would you like a coffee, Hamish?” Mirry offered weakly.
“Aye, I would, if there is some.”
“Yes, there’s plenty left; I’ll just heat it up.” She went over to the stove.
Carol and Hamish avoided each other’s eyes. He began to put the groceries slowly away: Carol watched him out of the corner of her eye.
“Ooh!” she said suddenly. “What a huge bag of—” She stopped abruptly.
Mirry turned round. Carol had gone very pink. Hamish, heaving up an enormous sack of dog-biscuits, had gone very red. “Good grief! Why on earth did you get all those?”
“It worked out much cheaper,” he muttered.
“Hamish, we haven’t got anywhere to put them where he can’t get at them! It’ll take months for him to get through that many biscuits; and you know the vet said he shouldn’t have them every day, he should have wet food and bones...” Her voice trailed away; she looked at him in despair.
“I thought we could put them in the laundry, mebbe?”
“It’s too damp: they’d probably go mouldy; and anyway, how are you going to make Elspeth keep him out of there?”
He looked at her sheepishly, and put the huge sack of dog-biscuits down on a chair.
“Couldn’t you just, um, prop the bag up in a corner, in here?” suggested Carol timidly.
“No. Last time we put a bag of his biscuits within his reach he chewed his way through the bag to get at them,” replied Mirry.
“Oh!” Carol put her hand over her mouth, trying not to giggle.
Mirry grinned. “He’s a terror.”
“I didn’t think,” said Hamish mournfully.
“I know you didn’t, you were carried away by the thought of the wonderful bargain you were getting,” replied Mirry, but quite mildly. “He just can’t resist a bargain,” she said to Carol. “It isn’t that he’s mean, exactly,”—Carol glanced in horror at him but he was looking at Mirry with a little smile—“it’s just that he loves the thought that he’s putting one over on the shop.”
Carol didn’t know what to say, so she didn’t say anything.
“It must be because he’s Scotch,” said Mirry, inspecting the coffee. “Are you like that, too?”
“No! I don’t think so!” gasped Carol, turning puce. She hesitated. “Uncle Nat is, though; Aunty Helen says—” She broke off.
“What?” asked Mirry with interest.
“She says it’s a male trait,” said Carol, not looking at her father. “She says they all do it, if you let them loose in a supermarket.”
“Actually, she could be right,” agreed Mirry. “Mum never lets Dad go to the supermarkets with her when she goes into town to do a big shop; she says she always ends up with gallons of stuff she doesn’t want, like huge industrial-size tins of plums.”
Carol giggled. “Last time Uncle Nat went to the supermarket with me and Melanie he bought two dozen tins of marmalade because they were on special. Aunty Helen just about killed him: he’s the only one that likes marmalade!”
“Well, it’ll keep,” said Hamish.
“It’ll have to!” gasped Mirry. She met Carol’s eye. They collapsed in giggles.
Hamish went over to the bench and poured his coffee. “Aye, well, I don’t think that theory holds water at all,” he said, sitting down at the table with it.
They looked at him, but not as if they were about to believe anything he said.
“I think that men who are used to doing the shopping use the supermarkets in the same way women do; it’s only us poor hen-pecked creatures that don’t get a say in— Don’t!” he yelped, as Mirry rushed over to bench and produced a rolling-pin.
“Yeah, well, watch the mouth, you hen-pecked creature!” she said, sitting down and grinning at him. “What about Peter?” she said to Carol.
Caro had been watching and listening in a mixture of amusement and bemusement. She jumped. “Uncle Peter, do you mean? I don’t really know.”
“Well, I do,” said Hamish triumphantly, “and it proves my theory! Peter and Veronica were in New World this morning, and he was trying to persuade her not to buy two huge watermelons just because whole ones were on special!”
They all laughed helplessly.
“Oh, dear!” said Mirry at last. “All right, you’ve made your point, you hen-pecked Scotch creature!”
“I wonder who won?” said Carol thoughtfully.
“Well, when I came away,’ said Hamish, beginning to lose control of his mouth again, “Peter had just conceded that perhaps mebbe he could use his juicer and make a very refreshing drink out of the watermelons.”
“Oh,” said Mirry. “Well, that—”
“And Veronica,” said Hamish with difficulty, “was telling him loudly that she hates watermelon juice, it’s too bland and tuh-tasteless!” He howled with laughter.
When they’d all finished laughing Carol leant forward eagerly over the table and said: “Did you hear about the hen and rooster that Uncle Nat gave them?”
“No-o,” they said with great interest.
Carol told them all about the little black china rooster and the big white china hen. They all laughed again.
After that when Mirry said: “I’m gonna go up and have a shower; you two have probably got things to talk about, anyway,” and went out, neither of them felt too bad about it.
Hamish gave her a weak smile. “Carol,” he said, “I really don’t know what to say to you; except that I’m Hellishly sorry it—it ever happened!”
Carol reflected that she wasn’t, because if it had never happened she wouldn’t have been born, but she couldn’t very well say that to him. “It wasn’t your fault, really,” she said shyly.
“Aye, of course it was!” He ran his hand through his curls.
“No,” said Carol, going very red, “Uncle Nat explained it all to me, and so did Uncle Peter, after, and it’s obvious it was Mum’s fault!”
“Aye, mebbe in the first instance, but ultimately it was my responsibility.” He swallowed painfully and looked at her helplessly.
Certain women—Sylvie, for example, and to some extent both Caro and Marianne, and certainly his second cousin Polly—responded to this helpless look of Hamish’s with a strong desire to bop him one and tell him to pull his socks up and get on with it. Fortunately Carol belonged to the opposed, or Mirry Field and Margaret Prior school of thought, which went all maternal and became possessed of a strong desire to take care of him.
“No, of course it wasn’t! A woman has to be responsible for her own body!” she cried.
Hamish went rather red, and muttered: “Aye, well... that’s what Mirry thinks.”
“I know,” agreed Carol. “And it’s true.”
Hamish swallowed again. “Well—can you forgive me, Carol?”
“There isn’t anything to forgive you for, really,” she replied dubiously. “Only I will if it’ll make you feel better,” she added, suddenly looking into his face.
Feeling very foolish indeed, and going scarlet to the roots of his red-gold curls, he muttered: “Aye, it will—it does. Thank you.”
Carol responded in a gruff little voice: “Mum was quite a shy person, you know.”
“Yes,” he said with difficulty.
There was a little pause. They both stared at their hands; an onlooker would have perceived immediately that they must be father and daughter, for they looked extraordinarily alike—and this in spite of the fact that Hamish in his dark green tee-shirt and fawn cotton shorts looked a neat, normal male of his age, while Carol, fetchingly decked out in an enormous white floppy shirt with its sleeves rolled up and skin-tight stretch denims, with a very delicate, pretty gold necklace and matching dangling earrings, plus a fluorescent green plastic butterfly-clip that stood up on top of her head in a surprised sort of way, looked an attractive female of her age.
“Tell me about her?” she said huskily. “What was she like in those days?”
This was the one remark of hers so far that he had actually been expecting. Having scoured his memory, he still couldn’t recall much about Rebekah except her dark prettiness and gaiety, but he imparted these facts to Carol, and was glad to see that they seemed to please her.
“It was never—well, it was just one of those things, you know; hardly a grand passion,” he admitted, flushing.
“Yes,” said Carol calmly. “Ships that pass in the night.”
“Aye,” he agreed miserably.
There was quite a long silence.
“Tell me a bit about you,” he said awkwardly. “What sort of things do you like?”
Reflecting with despair that that was just the sort of stupid thing grown-ups always asked, Carol replied: “Uh—”
Hamish, although capable of dressing himself in colours that suited him, was not otherwise interested in matters of colour, line and form (apart from the lines of the charming little form now taking its shower upstairs), so it didn’t occur to him to ask her about art. “Do you like classical music?” he ventured.
“Yes, I do!” she cried, her face lighting up.
“Do you play, at all?”
Carol went very red and informed him that she played the recorder, it wasn’t what he thought, it was—
“Aye, I know; do you belong to the Early Music Society, at all?”
She didn’t, but she had been to several of their concerts, and her teacher had said she ought try out for—
When Mirry came downstairs and looked cautiously into the kitchen Hamish was humming something and Carol was nodding and saying: “Ooh, yes, of course: Dowland!”
Hamish stopped humming, and smiled at Mirry. “There you are, darling; are you sure you’re okay, now?”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“Headache all gone?”
“Yes; it usually does, once it starts.”
Carol realized suddenly what they must be talking about, and blushed.
Mirry continued happily: “I’ve had an inspiration about those dog-biscuits!”
“Oh; what?”
“You know that empty bedroom, the one you used to sleep in, with the built-in wardrobe?”
“Aye,” he said doubtfully.
“Well, we could put them in the wardrobe!”
“Aye,” he said slowly, “that’s not a bad idea.”
Carol tried not to laugh, and failed.
“What’s funny about that?” said Mirry suspiciously.
“Nothing, really!” she gasped. “It’s just—I got this mental picture— He’s such a big, black dog!” They were both looking at her indignantly. “I’m sorry!” she gasped. “Only I just saw him: spending the next few months with his nose glued to the wardrobe door, trying to duh-dig his way into it!” She was off again.
“Oh,” said Mirry. She bit her lip.
Hamish said uncertainly: “We could keep the bedroom door closed...”
“Don’t!” wailed Mirry, collapsing in helpless giggles.
“Only then he’d spend his time—” He broke down and howled with laughter.
Elspeth came in, breathing heavily, and looked at them all suspiciously. “What’s the joke?” Without waiting for a reply she said: “Aunty Margaret says, would we like to come to lunch, and it’s salmon rissoles!” Her face was shining with greed, hope, and the exertion of hurrying up the drive. She panted a bit. “What are rissoles, anyway?”
Hamish howled with laughter again.
“I think they’re just, um, kind of patties,” said Mirry uncertainly.
“Did you just go straight down to the Priors’?” asked Hamish, recovering himself.
“No, ’course not!” replied Elspeth with virtuous indignation. “We went right down to the beach, first, and he had a good run.” She looked round, and frowned. “PUPPY!” she bellowed. “Get in here, sir!”
Puppy came in, looking sheepish, with his lead in his mouth.
“Give that here!” said Elspeth loudly. Puppy backed off a little. “DROP IT!”
Puppy dropped it.
Carol looked at the lead with distaste. Elspeth picked it up without seeming to notice or care that it was all slobbery, but her father immediately said: “Take that revolting thing out into the back porch and hang it up—and wash your hands, while you’re out there!”
Elspeth retreated to the back porch. As she left the door open, Carol could see that the porch was between the kitchen and the laundry, and that it would, indeed, be very difficult to store dog-biscuits safely in the laundry, for Elspeth, after washing her hands in there, left its door open, too. Which reminded her—
“Ooh, quick, stop him!” she squeaked.
“What—? GET DOWN, YOU BRUTE!” bellowed Hamish.
“Puppy! Stop that!” cried Mirry at the same time.
Puppy had been standing up on his hind legs interestedly investigating the sack of dog-biscuits which Hamish had left on the chair. He got down.
“Hang-dog!” said Carol delightedly.
“Willingly!” replied Hamish grimly.
“She didn’t mean that!” said Mirry before Carol could say she hadn’t meant that.
“She meant he looks hang-dog,” said Elspeth helpfully. “He does, too. Bad boy!” she said to Puppy. He looked more hang-dog than ever.
“Aye, well; I don’t know that—uh—well, we’ve got a guest, Elspeth,” Hamish pointed out. “Mebbe we could go to the Priors’ another time.”
Carol opened her mouth to say that she wasn’t expecting to stay for lunch, but before she could speak Elspeth said: “Aunty Margaret says Carol can come, too.”
Mirry saw that Carol was blushing deeply; she said quickly: “I think we’d better stay home today, Elspeth; Daddy’s right, we can go to the Priors’ another time; Carol doesn’t know them, you see.”
“Yes, she does!”
They all stared at her.
“Well, she sort of knows Aunty Margaret, don’t you?”
“No,” said Carol faintly.
“Yes, you do, she gave you a lift, she said she knew you must be coming here, you look just like Dad!”
“Oh—that lady,” said Carol weakly. “I didn’t realize she was your relation.”
“She isn’t, it’s just a courtesy title; she’s just a friend,” Hamish explained.
“Please, Dad!” urged Elspeth.
Carol got up and said in a confused sort of voice: “Anyway, I’ve got to be going; I didn’t come for lunch; I mean—”
“Aw-wuh!” cried Elspeth in a loud, whiny voice that reminded Carol irresistibly of Melanie. “I haven’t seen you!”
Carol looked at her uncertainly.
“Please stay! We could go for a swim, after: the tide’s coming in,” Elspeth urged.
Carol looked helplessly at Mirry.
Mirry had an urge to look helplessly at Hamish, but she repressed it and said, trying to sound firm and capable: “Well, it’s up to you, really, Carol. We’d like you to stay—if you’d like to.”
“Aye,” said Hamish. He smiled at her.
“Aunty Margaret said you could come!” urged Elspeth.
Before Carol, who was dithering, could get out any sort of a reply, there was a tap at the open kitchen door, and a soft English voice said with a little deprecating laugh: “‘It’s only Sonia!’ –I thought you might like some of these beetroot, Mirry, they’re going mad this year.”
“Aunty Margaret!” cried Elspeth eagerly. “Carol can come to lunch at your place, can’t she?”
“Come in, Margaret,” said Hamish.
After Margaret had come in, and Mirry had admired the beetroot and thanked her for them (and secretly wondered what on earth she was going to do with them, Hamish would eat a bit raw in a salad platter, if it was grated, but he didn’t like it cooked, and Elspeth hated it in any shape or form), and after Elspeth had told Margaret the joke about Puppy’s being hang-dog, and urged again that Carol be included in the lunch-party, and been told to shut up, Hamish said weakly: “I haven’t even introduced you; Margaret, this is—” He swallowed, and went scarlet.
“Carol Rosen,” said Carol, also scarlet, but rather more self-possessed than her father.
“—Margaret Prior, Carol: a neighbour and very good friend,” he said weakly.
Margaret shook hands with Carol and said smilingly: “Now let me guess; you must be Hamish’s niece—is that right?”
“’Course not!” said Elspeth scornfully before anyone else had had a chance to gather their wits about them. “She does look like him, though, doesn’t she; and she’s got a mole just like his and mine—see?” She pointed at Carol’s mole, very visible, as her floppy shirt had slid off that shoulder, and with the other hand wrenched down the neck of her tee-shirt to display her own.
Margaret knew quite a lot more about human genetics than Elspeth did, not surprisingly; and she had already noticed Hamish’s mole, so she didn’t actually need Elspeth’s reiterated assurance that Hamish’s was in exactly the same place to have some sort of inkling why everyone present over the age of eleven apart from herself was bright red in the face.
Hamish got Elspeth by the shoulder and, pressing firmly, said: “Shut up, Elspeth.” With his free hand he tousled his curls. “Look, Carol,” he said, “I think, if you don’t mind, we’d better have it all out in the open.”
“Yes,” she replied weakly, “that’d be best.”
“Are you sure, Carol?” asked Mirry anxiously.
“Yes,” said Carol, nodding firmly.
“Aye; look, sit down, everyone; I think this rates a sherry.” He suddenly disappeared into the dining-room.
Elspeth opened her mouth.
“Sit down, Elspeth,” said Mirry, sitting down herself. “And be quiet; this is something very important.”
Margaret said doubtfully: “Mirry, dear, would you prefer me to go?”
“No,” said Hamish, coming back with a bottle of sherry. “I’d like you to stay, Margaret.” To Carol he said apologetically: “Margaret’s been like a sister to me, these past few years; I’d never have coped without her. I don’t know how much you know about—about my wife; but—well, Elspeth and Mirry and I owe a lot to Margaret.”
“Yes,” said Elspeth brightly, “she stopped Mummy from making Daddy sell our house, didn’t you, Aunty Margaret?”
Now all the people in the room over eleven were red in the face, and Margaret sat down rather abruptly.
“Elspeth,” said Mirry in a very quiet but steely voice: “I thought I told you to be quiet?”
Elspeth went redder than any of them.
Hamish poured sherry into five small glasses. Margaret looked askance at this, even though one of the glasses held a positively minute amount.
“Well,” he said, raising his own, “here’s to us, eh? All of us,” he added firmly, smiling at Carol.
Carol blushed again but felt rather glad.
“Sip it,” said Mirry in an undervoice to Elspeth. Elspeth scowled at her, but sipped it. She choked anyway, but it wasn’t as bad as it could have been.
“Now,” said Hamish, when she’d stopped choking, “this is going to be a bit of a shock to you, Elspeth, so I want you to be a big girl, and be very sensible about it.”
Elspeth looked at Mirry in a frightened way.
“It’s nothing bad,” said Mirry.
Hamish poured himself another sherry and knocked it back. “The thing is—” He stopped, and looked at Carol, on his left. Her hand lay on the table beside her sherry glass. He smiled, and put his own over it. “The thing is, Carol and I look so alike, because she is related to me.”
“Ooh—” began Elspeth.
Mirry frowned at her and she subsided. Poor Margaret gripped her sherry glass tightly and wished fervently that she’d just rung up to ask them to lunch instead of popping up with those beetroot.
“The thing is, we’ve only just found out about it,” said Hamish firmly. “Only a couple of weeks back, in fact, but—well—Carol’s my daughter.”
Margaret and Elspeth were silent. Margaret looked desperately embarrassed; Elspeth looked blank.
“That makes her your half-sister,” Mirry said in a sensible sort of voice to Elspeth.
“She’s got that mole because she inherited it from me, just like you did,” Hamish said. “I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed it, but Grandpa Ian’s got one, too.”
Mirry said to Margaret: “Hamish never knew Carol was on the way; her mother married someone else.” This splendidly euphemistic summation of the position would have done credit to Kay Field herself, and Mirry felt justly proud of it, though it had come out of her mouth quite without premeditation.
“I see, dear.”
Carol said shakily to Margaret: “My mother died about a year ago—she was killed in a car accident; and—and she never told anyone, except my Aunty Veronica; only—only my Uncle Nat and Uncle Peter found out about it all and—and told me.”
“And me,” agreed Hamish. He squeezed her hand. Carol had felt pretty awful as she tried to explain to Elspeth’s Aunty Margaret, for she was quite obviously the sort of lady who would never have let that sort of thing happen to her. She smiled gratefully at him, and felt a bit better.
Elspeth said keenly to Carol: “Have you got another daddy, then?”
Hamish opened his mouth crossly, and shut it abruptly.
“No,” said Carol calmly. “I did have, he was married to Mum, you see,”—“Yes,” interpolated Elspeth, nodding—“but he was killed in the car crash, too.”
“Like Sharon’s real mummy and daddy,” agreed Elspeth, nodding.
Hamish opened his mouth again, but Carol said: “Yes; that was them. Sharon’s my little sister, you see.”
“Oh!” cried Elspeth in a mixture of excitement and raging jealousy. “You’ve got a little sister, too! It isn’t fair!”
“Nobody knows yet if Whetu—if Whetu’s mummy is going to have a girl or a boy, Elspeth, dear,” Margaret reminded her.
Elspeth looked sulky and didn’t reply.
Mirry said weakly: “Has she been going on about that to you, too?”
“Yes; has she—?” They smiled weakly at each other.
“Is Carol going to live with us?” asked Elspeth abruptly.
“No,” said Hamish. “Carol lives with her Aunty Helen and her Uncle Nat—you’ve met him, he’s the man who gave you the rabbit,” he added weakly.
“Mrs Rabbit!” Elspeth corrected him.
“Aye, Mrs Rabbit,” Hamish agreed limply.
“Sharon isn’t my sister, too, is she?”
“No!” he howled.
“Don’t, Hamish,” murmured Mirry. “Sharon had the same mother as Carol, but a different father,” she explained to Elspeth. “But you had the same father as Carol, but a different mother.”
Elspeth looked extremely puzzled.
“It’s like this, Elspeth,” said Carol helpfully: “Your parents were Dr and Mrs Macdonald, right?”
“Aye, but—”
“But Sharon’s parents were Mr and Mrs Rosen—see? She can’t possibly be your sister, can she?”
“No,” said Elspeth gloomily.
A silence fell. None of the adults, including Carol, had expected the conversation to take this turn.
“Well, when Mirry has a baby, will she be Carol’s little sister, too?”
“Aye,” said Hamish wearily. “If it was a girl, she’d be Carol’s wee half-sister, see?”
“The same father, different mothers,” explained Mirry.
“I see!” cried Elspeth, her face lighting up. Everyone looked at her doubtfully. On the evidence so far, it was unlikely that she did see. “Mirry’s going to have a baby when she’s finished her degree,” she said to Carol. “That’s what you do at university,” she explained, before the blushing Carol could reply. “It’s like big school.”
Mirry got up and began moving coffee cups and sherry glasses to the bench in a rather distracted way. Carol was telling Elspeth she knew, she went to university itself.
“Dad teaches there.”
“Yes, I know; he takes some of my classes.”
“He’s important,” said Elspeth vaguely. “He’s got a big new building, it’s called the Institute. You know, where we had the barbecue.”
“Yes; it’s a lovely building.”
Elspeth gave her a hard look. Carol braced herself. “Have you got any more sisters?”
“No, but I’ve got a brother,” said Carol calmly. “He’s like Sharon, he isn’t related to you. His name’s Damian.”
“How old is he?”
Carol told her.
Elspeth’s face fell.
Margaret came over to the bench and started rinsing coffee cups. Carol was telling Elspeth that Damian went to Grammar—Elspeth didn’t know what that was and had to have it explained to her—and that he lived with his grandparents.
“Are you all right, Mirry, dear?” said Margaret in a low voice.
“Yes, I’m fine.”
“I think perhaps it would be a good idea if the girls went for a swim after lunch, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Mirry gratefully.
“I found those curtain samples I was telling you about.”
“Oh, good!”
“I’m not too sure about that orangey one, after all,” said Margaret doubtfully. “But anyway, you can have a look at it and see what you think.”
“Great.”
Hamish had been putting the sherry away. “Well, he said, smiling at Margaret, “does the invitation still stand? Or will we all be too much for you?”
“Of course not!” she said, laughing. “I seem to have made mountains of rissole mixture; someone’s got to help me eat it up, I’ll never get through it by myself.”
“Uncle Derek’s gone to Rarotonga,” said Elspeth informatively to Hamish.
“Oh, aye?”
“So can we bring Puppy?”
“No, he’ll scare Margaret’s cat.”
Margaret looked at him gratefully.
“Aw-wuh!”
“Shut up, Elspeth, or you can stay behind.”
Elspeth subsided.
“Carol, if you’d like to go for a swim after lunch, I can lend you a pair of togs,” said Mirry.
“Oh—well, yes; thank you very much,” said Carol weakly.
“Come and try them on; you won’t get into my one-piece, of course,” said Mirry, looking up at tall, slim, Carol and leading the way, “but I think the bikini should fit you.” They went out.
“Go and get your togs,” said Hamish to Elspeth. “And a towel!” he called, as she shot out. He looked weakly at Margaret.
“She seems a very nice girl,” she said.
“Aye,” he replied limply. “I’m sorry I dragged you into all this, Margaret; only I thought you might as well get it straight from the horse’s mouth, rather than a garbled version from Elspeth.” He smiled wryly.
“Mm,” she agreed, smiling.
“Her mother,” he said with difficulty, “was Veronica’s sister—you’ve met the Riabouchinskys, haven’t you?”
“Yes, of course,” said Margaret, looking at him sympathetically.
“Aye, well; it’s all a bit of a muddle... At least Carol seems to have taken it quite well.”
“Very well, I’d say.” She hesitated. “I thought dear little Mirry looked a bit...”
“It’s bluidy Elspeth,” he said grimly. “She’s been nagging her non-stop ever since she came home about babies—she’s crazy with jealousy over this damned sibling of Whetu Taylor’s.”
“I know.” She looked sympathetically at him again.
Hamish ran his hand through his curls. “It’s too soon,” he said abruptly. “And she’s too damned young; she’s had enough on her plate, with all that damned nonsense of Sylvie’s; and now this!”
Margaret—perhaps because she had none of her own—was of the school of thought that believed babies to be a cure for almost anything. Nor did she think Mirry was too young to have one. However, she made a sympathetic, agreeing noise. “I thought we could just look quietly at curtain and wallpaper samples this afternoon,” she added, “while the girls go down to the beach.”
“Aye; that’s a damned good idea!” he said enthusiastically.
Margaret began to tell him about some very nice sofas that Forrest Furnishings had just got in: very plain, but sturdy; she thought they might be just the thing for his family-room...
Hamish smiled politely, and didn’t listen. He waited anxiously for Mirry to reappear. When she did—chatting cheerfully to Carol—he went over to her and tucked her arm in his in an exceedingly uxorious manner. He smiled down at her. Mirry smiled back and went a little pink.
Hamish’s heart beat rather fast. “Come on, then; are we all ready?”
Margaret was waiting at the back door. “Where’s Elspeth?” she said.
“Och, drat her!” Hamish ran his free hand through his curls. “Look, lovey, just pop up and give her a wee hurry up, would you?” he said to Carol.
Surprised but willing, Carol did.
“Stop fidgeting, Nat!” commanded Helen.
Nat shoved his hands in his pockets and mooched gloomily away from the sitting-room windows. “Should be back by now,” he grumbled.
“And for Heaven’s sake don’t start interrogating the child the minute she comes in!”
“Whaddaya think I am?” he growled.
Helen thought he was an over-protective uncle, but didn’t say so.
“Where’s Mel?” he muttered, kicking at the rug.
“Don’t do that! She’s gone over to Mum’s, I told you that, Nat. She’s going to play Trivial Pursuit with Damian.”
“With Damian?” He goggled at her. “Thought they couldn’t stand the sight of each other!”
Helen crocheted calmly. “When they’re not fighting like cat and dog, they get on very well with each other.”
“Oh.” He sat down heavily in his big armchair. “Ya don’t reckon—well, when they’re a bit older?” He looked at her dubiously.
“No,” replied Helen, not abating a jot of her majestic calm. “They’re temperamentally unsuited—besides, he’s far too young for her.”
Nat rubbed his nose. “Well, ’e is now; but later on...” Helen sniffed slightly. “He’ll come in for a packet from old Jerry,” he pointed out.
“Nat Weintraub!” said Helen, scandalized.
“Well, ’e will—no use blinking at facts.”
Helen sighed. She held up her crochet and looked at it critically. “They’re temperamentally unsuited,” she repeated firmly. “Besides, I don’t think marriage between cousins is at all a good idea.”
“At least Damian’s got a bit of go in ’im,” he grumbled. “Not like that Revill drip.”
“Which one?”
“Eh? The one Mel’s got a crush on, of course! Whatsisname.”
“Adrian,” murmured Helen.
“Mind you, Carol’s one’s just as bad. Namby-pamby type!”
Helen was very glad that Timothy was a nice, gentle boy. She knew that Mum liked him, too: Carol had taken him over there one day for afternoon tea, and Orlando had sat on his knee almost all the afternoon. –This favour had possibly been the result of a mixture of jealousy and territorialism: Mrs Revill bred Persians, and on the way Timothy had popped in to his parents’ house, where two of them had rubbed round his legs, but Helen was happily unaware of this, not to say of the psychology of the domestic cat.
Nat sighed restlessly and looked at his watch. “Oughta be here by now.”
“I expect the traffic coming down from the Coast was heavy; it always is on Saturday afternoons. Why don’t you pour us both a sherry, Nat?”
Nat’s eye brightened. “Righto!” He heaved himself up.
“Whatcha making?” he said, handing hers to her, and eyeing the palest pink, lacy heap of wool on her lap dubiously.
“A little dress for Sharon,” said Helen. Her slab-like cheeks coloured. She avoided Nat’s eye, and held up the crochet so as he could see it. “For winter, of course,” she added.
“Pink,” he pointed out. “Veronica won’t like it.”
“Not a pinky pink,” said Helen huffily. “It’s a very delicate shade.”
Nat chuckled richly. “Shove up a bit,” he said. He sat down beside her on the couch. “Rung up the builder the other day,” he said.
“Oh, yes?” murmured Helen vaguely, looking at her pattern.
“Reckons ’e can do the alterations to that spare room the same time he does the bathroom.”
Helen’s attention was caught. She stared at him.
“You know: turn it into a little sitting-room for us! Give us a bit of privacy now Mel’s growing up—thought that was what you wanted?”
“Yes; but... I thought you weren’t going to— Isn’t it a bit soon?”
“Why? No time like the present!” He patted her thigh and took a swig of his sherry.
Helen took a swig of her own: she felt a bit weak.
Ten minutes later he was at the window again, peering. “That’s them! Yes, she’s getting out... I can see him. And that must be that little girlfriend of his: she was at that poncy restaurant in Puriri, remember?”
“Come away from the window, Nat, they’ll see you!”
“I’ll just let her in!” He hurried off in the direction of the front door.
Helen sighed heavily.
She could hear him opening the front door. Carol said “Hullo, Uncle Nat,” and he replied: “There you are! ’Bout time, too!” Carol said something about the Bridge that Helen didn’t quite catch. Then Nat said loudly: “Hang on—come in here and have a sherry!” He bustled back into the sitting-room.
Carol came in, looking, Helen was glad to see, quite normal and cheerful. She also looked a little sunburnt on the nose and chin; Helen said: “Hullo, dear; have you been getting the sun?”
“Does my face look red? Yes, we went down the beach,” Carol replied, sitting down.
Helen forbore to ask who was “we”, but of course he couldn’t let it rest.
“Who’s we?”
“Me and Elspeth, Uncle Nat; we had a swim after lunch, but the others stayed at Aunty Margaret’s.”
“Who the fuck’s Aunty Margaret?” he demanded, goggling at her.
“Nat!” Helen protested automatically.
Carol flushed. “She’s just a friend of—of the Macdonalds’; that’s what Elspeth calls her.”
“Oh,” said Nat uncertainly, giving her a sherry.
“Thank you,” said Carol politely.
“Did you go to her place, dear?” asked Helen, almost bursting with curiosity at this unexpected turn of events.
“Yes, we went there for lunch. She lives just down the road from them, you see.” Carol buried her nose in her sherry.
“How’d it go?” asked Nat keenly. He leant forward in his big chair.
“All right,” replied Carol, reddening.
“So they were home, were they?” said Helen.
“Ya should’ve let me take you up there,” said Nat before Carol could reply.
“Be quiet, Nat; you were snoring your head off when Carol left. Were they home when you got there, then, dear?”
“Yes—well, not exactly: Mirry was.”
“Who—”
“Be quiet, Nat! Let Carol tell it her way.”
“Mirry’s his girlfriend,” explained Carol. “He’s separated from his wife.”
Nat snorted. Carol and Helen ignored him.
“Yes, Peter told me that,” said Helen. “She sounds a ghastly woman, by all accounts.”
“Ye-es,” said Carol dubiously. “They didn’t say much about her, really... They seem very fond of each other—him and Mirry, I mean.”
Nat snorted again.
“And—and was he pleased to see you? I mean, did it go all right, dear?”
“Musta done, mustn’t it?” said Nat grumpily. “I mean, she spent the whole ruddy day up there, didn’t she?”.
“Yes,” said Carol. “It—it went all right, Aunty Helen.” She paused. They were both looking at her. “Only—only not quite like I expected.”
“What the fuck did he do?” demanded Nat, turning puce. “’Cos if he’s upset you, I’ll have ’is guts for garters!”
“No, Uncle Nat, he didn’t do anything! It wasn’t—that wasn’t what I meant.”
“What did you mean, dear?” prompted Helen kindly, as Carol seemed to be at a loss for words.
“Well—it was—it was just so—so ordinary, Aunty Helen!” She gave a mad little laugh. “I mean, Mirry was making coffee, she had her dressing-gown on, and then they came back from the shops and—and they were unpacking the groceries and Puppy—he’s not a puppy really, he’s a big dog, they just call him that—well, he was naughty, he tried to get into his sack of dog-biscuits—and— Well, I don’t know!” She looked at them helplessly. “It was just ordinary,” she repeated.
“And Macdonald: he was decent to you, was he?”
“Yes, Uncle Nat; he—he was very nice.”
“Well, that’s all right, then!” said Helen brightly.
Nat looked a bit flattened. “Good,” he muttered.
“He said it was all his fault,” said Carol abruptly.
“So I should ruddy well think!”
“And what did you say?” asked Helen, looking at her with interest.
“I said it wasn’t, Aunty Helen; I said a woman’s body was her own responsibility—it is, isn’t it?” She looked at her appealingly.
“What?” cried Nat.
“Yes, of course it is,” said Helen, getting up. “Well, I must put the potatoes on; and you’d better pop up and have a shower, Carol, if you’ve been to the beach.”
They went out.
Nat just sat there.
Helen came in again and gathered up the sherry glasses.
“What did she mean, ‘ordinary’?” he demanded.
Helen smiled a little. “Well, you know what they are at that age, dear; I expect she expected it to be very dramatic.”
“Oh.”
Helen smiled again. She was quite aware that Nat had also expected a dramatic scene. “Only it couldn’t be, could it?”
“Eh?” he said weakly.
“Not with a little girl in the house; and Saturday morning’s always a busy time, isn’t it? Especially if you’re both working.” She went over to the door.
“HERE!” he said.
Helen gasped, and turned round. “What?”
Nat was purple. “Did you let ’er go up there by ’erself this morning on purpose?” he choked.
“Well, I couldn’t have stopped her once she’d made her mind up; you know what Carol’s like.” She paused. “But I must say, I did think it might work out quite well.” She went out.
Nat just sat there, gobsmacked.
Next chapter:
https://themembersoftheinstitute.blogspot.com/2023/01/the-opening-of-institute.html
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