39
Curiouser And Curiouser
“Has Hamish gone home?” Peter murmured.
“Mm; he said he had a headache,” replied Marianne in a vague voice.
“It’s only four o’clock,” Peter discovered in some surprise.
Marianne looked up. “A person can have a headache at any time,” she pointed out-mildly.
“Eugh—that is so.”
“Peter, can you read this word?” she asked abruptly. “I just can’t make it out: is it ‘exaggeration’ or—or what?”
Peter picked up the sheet of Hamish’s scrawl. “Usually one can tell from the context,” he murmured. “Where?”
“‘One can say, with some justice, that France’s rôle—’”
“Ah! I have it: ‘...rôle in the Pacific has been, in New Zealand oeyes, a far from creditable one; but to leave it at this, without’—something—‘would be to’—eugh... Ah! ‘to over-simplifoy the case.’ This is it, non?”
“Yes.”
“I do not think it can be ‘exaggeration’; even Hamish’s prose does not descend to that level!” He chuckled. “‘...to leave it at this, without exaggeration, would be to over-simplifoy the case’—no, no, moy dear!”
“Well, what is it?” said Marianne in exasperation. “I thought that wiggle in the middle was two Gs.” She frowned. “I did think maybe it was ‘justification’; only that doesn’t seem to fit, either.”
Peter replied: “Has he justifoied it?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “It takes me so much energy to decipher what he writes; I never seem to have any left over to try and understand it.”
Peter chuckled richly. He read rapidly through the page and a half she’d typed. “No,” he decided, “he has not; but all the same...”
“Um, ‘to leave it at this, without justification, would be to over-simplify the case,’” said Marianne doubtfully. “I suppose it does make sense, in a way.”
“Mm-mm,” he said slowly. He read through the rest of the scrawl in his hand, moving his lips and frowning. “He does justifoy it later.”
“Oh. Well, it must be that.”
Peter held the paper at arm’s length and squinted at it. “At least—well, he does not precoisely justifoy it. Only I suppose... What is it for, Marianne?”
“It’s that article he was asked to do for the Listener.”
Peter, absorbed in the problem, so far forgot himself as to reply in a satisfied voice: “Ah; well, in that case, he does not need to justifoy it!”
Marianne looked at him in surprise, for, since Maurice had never disabused her on this point, she shared the popular view that the New Zealand Listener was the country’s leading intellectual journal; but fortunately Peter wasn’t looking at her.
“Justification, justification,” he muttered. “No; it does not sound roight.”
“Well, I’ll put it; and then I’ll check with him tomorrow.” She raised her hands.
“No—stop!” he cried. “Amplification!”
“Ooh!” said Marianne excitedly. “That sounds better!”
They read out together: “‘ ...but to leave it at this, without amplification, would be to over-simplify the case.’”
“Yes, that’s it!” she sighed.
Peter was reading on. “What is this here?” He pointed.
“Oh,” said Marianne, in a wobbly voice: “that’s the sort of asterisk he does when he means there’s a footnote.”
“Ah; he also does another sort of asterisk?”
“Yes, a more starry one: when he wants you to insert something. Here: see?” She met Peter’s eye. They giggled helplessly.
In spite of this diversion Peter wasn’t side-tracked. He went off to his office and rang Hamish. “Salut. It is I, Peter. You do not brood too much?”
“No; I’ve got a headache. I drank too much whisky last night, when I was brooding.”
“Ah. It is the very bad headache?”
“Shocking. I didn’t sleep too well; and the bluidy dog jumped on ma stomach about five o’clock, because I forgot to let him out in the evening. And then I couldn’t get back to sleep.”
“I see.”
“Carol wasn’t in my First-Year lecture, this morning,” he said unhappily.
“I know; you mention this earlier today.”
“Did I? Ma heid’s thumpin’; I can hardly see, let alone think.”
“Would it help,” suggested Peter cautiously, “if I came to get Elspeth?”
“It’d be marvellous,” Hamish admitted.
Peter chuckled. “I come immediately.” He hung up before Hamish could begin to protest. He was about to leave the room when he recollected himself. He went back to the phone.
“Veronica? Salut, mignonne, it is I.”
“1 looked up that mignonne thing in the dictionary,” replied Veronica.
“And?”
“Has it got one N or two?”
“The masculine form has one: that is what it will be under.”
“Then it was the right word,” said Veronica, sounding cross.
“Moy darlink idiot, go and look it up in the big dictionary: the great big navy-blue one, it is called Harrap: in moy study, on the bottom shelf behoind moy desk.”
He waited.
… “Are ya there?”
“Of course I am here, whoy do you always say that?”
“Habit. –That word’s all right, after all,” she growled.
“Now will you chuck away that silly pocket dictionary?”
“‘Chuck out’ would be rather more correct, I feel,” replied Veronica formally. Peter giggled. “Yeah, okay, then,” she agreed.
“Good! Now, what I ring you about, moy dear, is that I invoite Elspeth to dinner and, I think, to spend the noight, because Hamish has the migraine.”
“Hungover,” diagnosed Veronica unerringly.
“Oui, c’est ça. Is that all roight?”
“Yeah, ’course. Ya don’t have to ask, ya Russian nong. –Better bring the pooch, too: fifty to one Hamish’ll forget to feed it.”
“Ye-es... Will it go in the car?”
“Eh? Aw, ya mean will it widdle in the car?”
—One of those English words in I plus double consonant plus –LE that typically referred to urination, he registered pleasedly. “Non; eugh... I mean will it—will it behave itself in the car?”
“’S what I just said,” she replied blankly.
“Ah! This English language of yours!” he cried crossly. “I do not use an appallink euphemism! Is this dog h’used to cars: will it behave in moy car, or will it jump up and down?”
“Why didn’tcha say so in the first place? –It’s a pretty well-behaved dog,” she added hurriedly as Peter made a noise through his teeth that would have done credit to Puppy himself: “I should say it’ll be okay.”
“Good; in that case— What did you say?”
“Nothing; I was talking to Susan.”
“Susan? Susan Shapiro? Is she there? Whoy do you not invoite her to dinner, too?”
“I just did. –Hang on.” Peter heard her say: “Peter wants to bring a little kid to tea because her Dad’s hungover. She’s about eleven; you reckon you can stand it?” He heard Susan laugh. “Are ya there?”
“No, I am floyink to the moon.”
“Hah, hah. Susan says she’ll stay. –Hang on.” This time he didn’t catch what she said but Susan’s voice said clearly: “No; I hate it.”
“Susan can’t stand parsnip,” said Veronica.
“I was not intendink to serve parsnip.”
“Pasternak,” she replied deeply.
“Da; I thought you had forgotten that!”
“Nope; I quite often think about it. –Lotsa people can’t stand parsnip. I like it; ’specially the way you do it.”
Peter sighed. “Thank you, moy dearest; we have it again when the new season’s parsnips come in—okay? In the meantoime, please reassure Susan that we are not havink it tonoight. I must rush, Hamish is expecting me. Goodboye, moy dearest. I see you soon, da?”
“Yeah. Thanks for ringing,” growled Veronica. She hung up before he could reply.
“Who is she?” asked Susan. “The little girl that’s coming to tea.”
“Elspeth Macdonald. Peter’s boss’s kid.”
Susan swallowed. “Aw—yeah, I’ve met her.”
“That right?” replied Veronica, wandering back into the drawing-room. She put her feet up on a sofa and lay back comfortably. “Go on with what you were saying about Micky.” –She wasn’t terribly interested in Micky’s love life, but she understood that Susan was.
“Um, you won’t tell anyone, will you, Aunty Veronica?”
“Uh—might tell Peter, if that’s all right,” replied Veronica cautiously.
“Yes, of course; I didn’t mean him.”
“Oh,” said Veronica, giving her an odd look.
“Yes, well, where was I?” said Susan.
“Micky dumped the teeny-bopper,” prompted Veronica.
“Oh, yes; well, that was kind of the beginning of it, you see.”
“He’d met Marianne, ya mean?”
“No, before that. It was when he sort of came to his senses—y’know?” said Susan.
“Stopped playing the field?” asked Veronica doubtfully.
“Ye-es...” She frowned. “Kind of... grew up.” She flushed. “Does that sound silly?”
“Nope. Been behaving like an adolescent ever since Pat gave ’im the old heave-ho. Come to think of it, since before that.”
“Yes,” agreed Susan gratefully. “Oh, by the way, he’s got rid of the Porsche.”
“’Bout time,” said Veronica. She looked at her watch. “You fancy a drink?”
The older members of her family seldom asked Susan this sophisticated adult question—Pat never did, and Micky frequently had to be prompted. She went scarlet with gratification. “Yes, please,” she said hoarsely.
“Thought I might have a gin and lime,” said Veronica in a vague voice. “That do ya?”
“Yes—thanks, Aunty Veronica.”
“Christ, ya can drop the ‘Aunty’,” said Veronica, getting up. Susan’s flush had faded. It came back in full force. “All right,” she growled.
An interval ensued, during which Sharon woke up upstairs and began to shriek “Vronny! Vron-nee!” and was rescued by Susan, and Veronica, having brought the drinks into the drawing-room, discovered that Sharon had wet her Treasures two-year-old’s nappy, and removed and disposed of it. This left Sharon with a bare bum; Veronica produced a tissue, dried Sharon with it and went out to dispose of it. When she came back she simply sat down on the sofa, put her feet up, picked up her drink and said: “Cheers!”
“Cheers,” replied Susan uncertainly, raising her own glass and looking sideways at Sharon, who was clad only in a short, pale pink cotton singlet.
“Me! Dink, dink!” cried Sharon. “Zhuishe!”
“Bugger,” said Veronica. “No,” she said firmly to Sharon. “No drink for Sharon.”
Sharon’s lower lip trembled.
“I’ll get her one,” offered Susan.
“No, don’t: she’ll prob’ly piss on the rug if she has a drink.”
“Oh,” said Susan uncertainly.
“She’s gotta learn she can’t have a drink every time we’re knocking back the grog.”
“Uh—yes.”
“Me!” said Sharon plaintively. “Shallon dink.”
“Here,” said Veronica, fishing a slice of lemon out of her tall glass of gin-and-lime. “Have this.” She held it out to her. Sharon staggered eagerly towards it. Veronica held it just out of her reach. “Say ‘ta’,” she said firmly.
“Me!” cried Sharon.
“Say ‘ta’,” repeated Veronica. Susan was looking dubiously at her. “She’ll never learn if ya don’t make her,” she explained.
“Ta,” said Sharon. “Vronny: ta!”
“Good girl,” said Veronica, giving her the lemon slice. Sharon sucked it eagerly.
“She likes it,” said Susan numbly.
“Yeah; got a taste for sour things. –Go on with what you were saying.”
“Oh! Yes. We-ell...” Susan went on about Micky and Marianne.
At the end of this narrative Veronica said: “So he hasn’t fucked her yet?”
Susan’s round cheeks took on a purple tinge—though amongst her cronies the word wouldn’t have disturbed her. “No; things keep going wrong; I mean, first Marianne had that awful summer cold, and couldn’t go on the picnic with him; and then when they did go—”
“The bee-sting,” agreed Veronica, chuckling all over again.
“Yes; poor Dad! He had to go to the doctor and have antihistamines, and everything.”
“’Least it wasn’t on his bum,” said Veronica.
“No,” agreed Susan, smiling, but involuntarily looking at Sharon’s.
There was a roar of a car engine outside. “Pee-Pee!” cried Sharon, tottering towards the passage.
“That’ll be them,” said Veronica unnecessarily, not moving.
“Yes,” agreed Susan.
“Well, has he asked her out again?”
“What—oh! Yes, he’s asked her, only she reckons they’re flat-out at work, and she has to work late.”
“Yeah: are. Getting ready to move into the new building,” explained Veronica. “’Course none of those jokers could organize themselves out of a paper bag—and bloody Hilary’s just as bad. So Marianne and Pam and Judith are practically doing the lot. Dunno what hours she’s working—but I’m bloody sure Hamish isn’t paying her for them!”
“Oh,” said Susan faintly, as Elspeth shot into the room, crying: “Hullo, Aunty Veronica! We’re here!”
“Gidday, Elspeth,” returned Veronica.
“Hamish isn’t paying whom for what?” asked Peter, following Elspeth with Sharon clasped round his neck. “Hullo, Susan, moy dear.”
“Yes, who isn’t Dad paying?” asked Elspeth with interest, as Susan replied faintly: “Hullo, Uncle Peter.”
“Marianne—doing untold hours of bloody overtime,” explained Veronica, impartially addressing her husband and Hamish’s daughter.
“She is on a salary,” Peter pointed out, unclasping Sharon and depositing her on the floor.
“PEE-PEE!” she roared.
“Yes, in a minute, moy precious,” he replied, bending to kiss his wife. Susan went pink but nevertheless watched with interest as Veronica’s hand went to the back of his neck and caressed his short grey curls.
Sharon burst into loud tears. “Pee-Pee!” she sobbed.
“Gone all jealous,” pointed out Veronica. “That whatsername thing—like Oedipus.”
Peter apparently understood this reference, for he agreed tranquilly: “Da,” releasing her without haste and picking Sharon up.
“She’s stopped,” Susan observed with interest.
“Yeah,” agreed Veronica. “Makes it bloody obvious, doesn’t she? –Anyway,” she said to Peter: “salary or not, I reckon Marianne oughta be paid for overtime.” Peter opened his mouth. “Besides, she’s not on a salary—not like the rest of us; works regular office hours, doesn’t she? ’S not the same.”
“No, but... Well, perhaps she could have some toime off, in lieu?”
“Yeah, or perhaps he could bloody pay ’er,” growled Veronica.
Peter smiled. Ignoring the fact that Sharon, on his shoulder, went very red and pouty, he carefully bent and kissed Veronica again.
“What was that for?” she said in surprise.
“For carink about our little Marianne,” he replied, sitting down in an armchair and settling the bare-bummed Sharon on the knee of his neat grey slacks. “I will speak to Hamish about it tomorrow.” He kissed Sharon’s forehead.
“Good,” said Veronica.
“Marianne’s nice,” said Elspeth.
“Yeah,” agreed Veronica. “Hamish doesn’t appreciate her.”
“That’s what Uncle Jake says,” she agreed.
Veronica gave a shout of laughter; Peter chuckled. Susan looked from one to the other of them doubtfully. Peter caught her eye, gave an apologetic exclamation, and introduced her and Elspeth to each other. Elspeth assured him she knew Susan. Susan, flushing a little, assured him that she knew Elspeth. The flush was due not only to the fact that Micky had recently discussed the Carol Rosen-Hamish Macdonald mess with her (having no-one else in which to confide), but also to the fact that today Elspeth was wearing her hair in a jaunty ponytail, which considerably increased the resemblance to a younger Carol, who had worn that style for years.
“Where’s that dog of yours?” Veronica asked Elspeth abruptly.
“In the passage; I told him to sit.”
“Does he?”
“Yes; he’s very good. You have to say it loud,” she explained.
“I getcha; like on Barbara Whatsername.”
“Ooh, yes!” squeaked Elspeth. “We had that in Scotland; did you have it, too, Aunty Veronica?”
“Saw it in Oz, yonks ago.”
Peter raised a comical eyebrow at Susan. “Do you understand what they are talkink about, Susan, moy dear? For I do not.”
“That dog programme, Uncle Peter,” said Susan, trying not to laugh. “You know: the lady that says ‘Walkies!’”
From the front hall came a loud bark.
“Ssh!” hissed Elspeth. “He heard you!”
“I’m sorry!” gasped Susan. “I didn’t realize—” She caught Peter’s eye, and collapsed in helpless giggles.
Peter’s own giggles were interrupted by Sharon’s loud: “Pee-Pee! Pee-Pee Labbit! Labbit!”
“I’ll read it, Sharon,” said Elspeth eagerly. “Where is it, Aunty Veronica?”
“Uh—over there.”
Elspeth retrieved a little volume from a bookcase near the baby grand.
“What are you drinking?” Peter asked mildly, having recovered himself. “—Da, da; ssh, moy darlink, Elspeth will read Peter Rabbit to you.”
“Gin and lime; want one?” asked Veronica.
“Yes; I will—”
“Stay there!” she ordered, getting off her sofa. “Gimme ya glass,” she said to Susan. She grabbed up both glasses, said loudly to Elspeth: “Don’t start until I come back!” and hurried out.
“We used to have the Beatrix Potter books when I was a kid,” said Susan.
“Yes? They are very popular here, I think?”
“Yes. I always liked Mrs Tiggywinkle best.”
“I do not know that one,” he replied with interest, jigging Sharon on his knee.
“It’s about a hedgehog,” explained Susan.
“What is a hedgehog?” he asked doubtfully.
“Uncle Peter! Don’t you know?” exclaimed Elspeth.
“No,” he said, jigging Sharon again: she was growing restless, as she could see Peter Rabbit in Elspeth’s hand. “Ah!” he said. “Hog! It is a piggy, non?” He began to play “This little piggy” with Sharon’s toes.
“NO!” howled Susan and Elspeth simultaneously.
“This little piggy—merde, I have gone wrong!”
“‘This little piggy ate roast beef,’” said Elspeth.
“Ah: merci, ma petite. ‘This little piggy ate roast beef’, Sharon, moy angel.” Sharon giggled obligingly as he wiggled her toe.
“It’s got prickles, Uncle Peter,” explained Elspeth earnestly.
“Prickles? What is prickles?”
“Uncle Pe-ter!”
“Hang on!” said Susan abruptly. She rushed out.
Peter remembered the following little piggy had none. He and Elspeth did the last little piggy crying “wee, wee, wee” all the way home in chorus. Sharon giggled ecstatically and demanded: “More!” Perfectly understanding this, Peter and Elspeth started at the big toe again.
“Where’s Susan?” asked Veronica, coming back with a tray of drinks, clinking with ice.
“Here!” panted Susan. “Look: I wrote it down!” She handed Peter a piece of paper.
“Hérisson?” he said doubtfully.
“That’s what your dictionary said,” replied Susan, equally doubtful.
“Veronica, what is a hodgeheg?” he asked plaintively. Susan and Elspeth shrieked with laughter.
“Eh?”
“Hedgehog!” gasped Susan.
“Small prickly thing—brown,” said Veronica calmly to her foreign husband. “Lives in the hedge. –Not a kind of pig,” she added considerately.
“Prickly,” he said slowly. “Mais merde! Bien sûr, un hérisson, c’est hérissé!”
“What’s he saying, Aunty Veronica?” asked Elspeth.
“Don’t ask me,” said Veronica, raising her glass.
“Is it Russian?” Elspeth drank Rose’s lime juice thirstily. It was a drink she had never had before, but she would never have betrayed this fact.
“No, it’s French,” said Peter. “In French the name for a hedgehog is ‘prickly one,’” he said kindly to Elspeth.
“Oh. Dad can talk that.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Say something else in French,” Elspeth suggested, draining her lime juice with a heavy sigh.
“Alors, on va nous racouter l’histoire de Pierre Lapin, ou pas?” enquired Peter.
“What was that?”
“I say, are we going to hear the story of Peter Rabbit, or not?”
“Oh,” said Elspeth. “Yes, right.” She picked up the little book again.
“Pee-Pee Labbit!” cried Sharon. “Lis, lis! Ezpa: lis-moi!”
Not remarking on Sharon’s bilingual effort, which she hadn’t understood, Elspeth said: “Yes; be quiet, Sharon, I’m starting now.” She knelt up by Peter’s knee so that Sharon could see the pictures and began to read.
Elspeth’s version of Peter Rabbit was, unintentionally, even more entertaining than Nat’s. Mrs Rabbit was extremely managing and very Scottish. Peter was very squeaky. The bits about Mr McGregor got so very Scottish that Susan had to rush out to the kitchen.
“Good, eh?” said Veronica, having followed her at the conclusion of the narrative.
“Oh, dear!” gasped Susan. “Do you think she noticed?”
“Nah; prob’ly only thought you were overcome with a desire for a pee, or something.”
“Oh, good,” said Susan in relief.
“An’ if ya think that was funny, you oughta got a load of her playing House with Sharon.”
“What was that like?” asked Susan with interest.
Veronica began to tell her. Susan began to laugh again.
Peter came in about halfway through. He came up behind his wife and clasped her tightly round the waist. Veronica was wearing an attractive pale yellow cotton garment, but she made no objection to his crushing it. When she’d finished he kissed her shoulder and murmured softly: “You wear the yellow dress from Belinda today, moy precious?”
“Yeah—Goddawful thing. What’s for tea?”
“I must think.” He opened the fridge.
“If it’s any trouble, Uncle Peter, I don’t have to stay,” said Susan quickly.
“Rats!” said Veronica breezily. “He loves mucking round in the kitchen. Come on, let’s leave him to it.”
“Um... do you need a hand, or anything, Uncle Peter?” asked Susan.
Peter withdrew from the fridge and looked at her pink, eager face. “Well, moy dear, if you would not moind?”
“No, I’d love to!”
Veronica recognized with some amusement that her husband had yet another female fan—though Susan wasn’t as obvious about it as Melanie, or some of their students. Tolerantly she said: “Well, make him give you an apron, then.” She went over to the door. “And just remember,” she said, pausing, “that Elspeth prob’ly can’t digest any of yer furrin’ muck!” She went out, grinning.
Susan looked doubtfully at Peter.
Beaming, he said: “Veronica improves greatly!”
“Improves?” she echoed faintly.
“Da, da!” Briskly wrapping himself in a large striped apron, Peter told her about Veronica’s faux pas with the horseradish in the sandwiches. “You see, a year ago she would not have learned from this mistake; never would she h’yave warned me about Elspeth’s digestion; she would not have bothered to notice and remember, you understand, that Elspeth has only a child’s digestion!”
“Oh,” she said weakly, the more so since he pronounced “digestion” in a very foreign way.
He beamed at her, chopping steak briskly. “But now, you see, she takes notice!”
“Uh—yeah,” muttered Susan, reddening.
“Do you think a big black dog would eat such meat?” Susan agreed faintly that he would. “Good! I put this asoide for him!” He put aside a piece of meat which Susan didn’t dare to tell him wasn’t nearly enough for a big dog, and added happily: “Also Veronica would not have noticed that Marianne, Hamish’s secretary, you understand,”—Susan opened her mouth to tell him she knew Marianne, but didn’t manage to stem the flow—“does much unpaid overtoime; and if she had noticed, she would not have bothered to mention it.”
“Oh,” said Susan weakly.
Peter looked up. “But you do not put your apron on, moy dear!”
Susan jumped, reddened, and hurriedly swathed herself in the apron he’d handed her quite some time back. Peter gave her a carrot and a peeler. Susan began numbly to peel the carrot.
“Veronica, she is much more humanoized,” he said.
“Human— Oh. Yes,” agreed Susan faintly.
“A little Scottish girl will eat shish-kebabs, you think?”
“Uh—ye-es.” He was getting a lot of spice jars out of a drawer. Going scarlet, she added hoarsely: ”So long as they’re not too spicy!”
“Oh.” He looked at the meat. “This has not been marinated.”
Susan didn’t know what he expected her to reply. Finally she muttered: “No.”
“It will be very boring, do you not think, without spoices?”
Susan was scarlet again. “Um, what sort of meat is it?” she gasped.
“Rump steak, of course,” he replied in surprise. “You do not cook, moy dear?”
“Actually I’ve never had much chance to,” confided Susan in a rush. “Mum’s practically a vegetarian, you see, and anyway, she doesn’t like me and Allyson mucking round in the kitchen; and in the flat we always ended up having mince or spaghetti, or takeaways.”
“Ah; I see. You would perhaps maybe loike to learn, however?”
“Yes, I would,” said Susan hoarsely, very red again.
“Good!” Peter explained at length about the various cuts of beef, getting out a most detailed book to illustrate his points. Unfortunately the book was in French, but Susan found the pictures very helpful.
“Well, that is beef!” he said at the end of this lesson. “You must come again soon, and we do lamb and mutton, okay?”
“Yes; I’d like that.” Susan began to peel more carrots.
“Also we could do pork—but perhaps maybe your maman, she would not approve?”
“What? Oh.” She looked at him doubtfully. His face was mildly enquiring. Encouraged, she said: “Well, I wouldn’t have to tell her: she’s not that interested in what I do, actually.”
Peter hadn’t thought Pat Cohen Shapiro was—no. “No,” he agreed tranquilly. “Okay, moy dear, we also do the cuts of pork some toime; if it is not against your own beliefs?”
“I haven’t got any,” said Susan hoarsely.
“Nor have I,” he replied calmly, peeling shallots.
Susan went very red again. “Oh,” she said in a small voice.
Peter pretended not to notice anything, and went on peeling shallots. After a while Susan recovered herself, and asked him what they were. When he’d explained she expressed approval, and said they’d probably suit Elspeth, if they were milder than onions.
“That is a good point!” he beamed. He looked doubtfully at the steak. “Only I still feel the meat will be boring; Veronica does not loike borink food. She will eat anythink, but that does not mean she will loike it; then she will become cross, if it has been boring.”
“Dad’s like that,” agreed Susan, now quite at ease. “He took me to a really fancy restaurant, once, and he had this chicken thing: he ate it all, and then he was awfully rude about it, and he was really cross all the rest of the evening!”
“Da; that is Veronica, to a T,” he said sadly.
“Maybe you could just put a bit of spice on it,” suggested Susan.
“Da... What do you think?” He opened spice jars and forced Susan to smell them. She decided that the ground coriander was nice, and he beamed, and sprinkled it on the meat.
“It will not be too strong for Elspeth; and Veronica, she loikes coriandre very much,” he said happily. “Perhaps just a pinch of cumin des Indes?” He offered her the cumin again and she said hastily that it’d be too strong for Elspeth. Regretfully Peter replaced it in its drawer.
As he strung meat, shallots and tomato on his skewers he said, with a sharp glance at her: “And how is Micky, moy dear?”
“All right,” replied Susan, looking uncomfortable.
“Mm-m?”
“I wish he’d get a bit more humanized!” she said abruptly.
“Oh?”
“Yeah; mind you, he’s improved a bit; only now I’m afraid he’s going off again!”
“Da?”
“Yeah.” Taking a deep breath, she plunged into the saga of Micky and Marianne. Peter listened with great interest, finishing his skewers and laying them neatly on a grill pan as he did so. Then she told him all about Marianne and Maurice Black. Peter’s motions ceased; he stared fixedly at her throughout this narrative, but Susan was too absorbed herself to notice this reaction.
“Dad keeps brooding about him,” she ended. “He reckons she’s fixated on him, y’know?”
“Yes...” he said faintly. “How—how long has this been goink on, Susan?”
“Dad and Marianne? Since last winter, didn’t I say?”
“Da, da; not that. Marianne and—” He swallowed. “Sir Maurice Black.”
“Oh—that. I’m not sure; Dad reckons about a year, up to the time he pushed off to Canada.” She picked up a carrot. “Shall I chop these?”
“Hein? Oh; yes, moy dear, chop them.”
Susan chopped carrots. Peter watched with a lacklustre eye: the pieces were not a suitable size for any of the classic methods, nor was she managing to get them evenly sized; he couldn’t work up the energy to correct her, however. He swallowed. “Susan—”
Susan looked up. “What?” she said, smiling.
Peter experienced a slight shock: her smile was very like his wife’s. However, it was not for this reason that he found himself unable properly to formulate his next remark. “Eugh—Susan—”
“What?” she said again.
Peter said in a very high voice: “Susan, I’m not quoite sure that I understand you correctly; you mean that Marianne has an affaire with—with Maurice Black, all last year?”
“Yeah,” agreed Susan gloomily. She chopped viciously. “Rotten, eh?”
Peter looked round for the kitchen stool. He sat on it limply. “I feel flabbergasted!”
“Too right,” said Susan glumly, not grasping the depths of his disturbance. “Have I done these carrots okay?”
“What? Oh; da; very noice, moy dear.”
“So whaddaya reckon, Uncle Peter? Do you think it is a fixation, or do you reckon Dad’s in there with a chance?”
Peter attempted to pull himself together, but failed. He swallowed hard. “I think,” he said faintly at last, aware that Susan’s rather protuberant blue eyes were fixed on his face, “that I will have to think about this, Susan; then I will tell you what I think later, da?”
“Righto,” said Susan amiably. “Are we gonna have potatoes or rice?”
“Roice,” he said listlessly. “Oh: is it a thing that little Scottish girls eat?”
“I dunno; I’ll go and ask her,” said Susan obligingly. She disappeared.
Peter was still sitting on the kitchen stool. He went on sitting there, flabbergasted.
“What’s up?” asked Veronica abruptly next morning. She spooned a mixture of cornflakes and muesli into Sharon’s mouth.
“Nothink,” replied Peter gloomily. He poked at his muesli. He hated muesli. Even though he made it himself, which was much cheaper, also you knew what was in it that way, and Veronica adored it, declaring it much nicer than any of the commercial brands, he still hated it. Breakfast, in his opinion, should consist of some nice fresh croissants and very strong coffee—or possibly a piece of sour, dark bread with a dried sausage or a pickled herring, though this alternative was one he had never dared voice to Veronica.
“Balls,” said Veronica. She ate muesli hungrily and reached for the milk jug. “You’ve been brooding for days.” She poured more milk onto her muesli.
“Milk!” cried Sharon. “Me, me!”
Veronica poured more milk onto Sharon’s cornflakes and muesli mixture. “I thought you’d be better after you’d got the Hamish thing off your chest, but you’re not.”
“I am not broodink!”
“Yes, y’are, Peter. Here—you can feed yourself, Sharon.” She gave her the spoon.
“No!” cried Sharon crossly. Her lower lip trembled. “Vronny ’poon,” she said.
Veronica groaned. “Gone all Mumsy: tole ja,” she pointed out to Peter. “Gone off you—gone onto me. –All right!” she added loudly as Sharon shoved the unwanted spoon in her face. She began feeding her again.
“Let me, Veronica.”
“No; you haven’t touched your own; get on with it, you’ll be late.”
Peter sighed. It was only a quarter to eight, and his first lecture today wasn’t until ten, although he had every intention of arriving well before that—it set a bad example to the junior lecturing staff if one did not, and put up the secretarial staff’s backs. –Peter was convinced of this, in spite of the facts that it was virtually impossible to put up the good-natured Pam Anderson’s back, that Judith Woods arrived at work every morning at eight-thirty whether or not she was teaching that day, and that Hilary McLeod, totally impervious to any and all example, kept precisely what hours suited her. There was little point in attempting to tell Veronica that he wouldn’t be late, so he held his peace, and poked at his muesli again. After the first honeymoon period of their marriage had passed he had discovered—without much surprise but definitely without pleasure—that Veronica was by nature an early riser. If he didn’t manage to distract her—and quite frequently if he had—she would go for a brisk jog before breakfast, rain or shine. In summer she often went for a swim, as well. She had no understanding of the fact that it wasn’t that he did not wish to hurry in the mornings, but that he was constitutionally incapable of it.
“Eat it,” she said in an iron voice.
Peter began unenthusiastically to eat his muesli. Veronica went on alternately feeding Sharon and herself. When the little girl had finished she got up and made some toast. Peter, she saw, sitting down again with it, was halfway through his muesli.
“Polly’s got a good idea,” she said.
“Oh?”
“Yeah; she puts the toaster on the table—well away from the twins, of course.” Peter stared at her. “Then you don’t have to get up to make the toast,” she explained. “’S more efficient, see?”
“Oh,” he said dully.
This was the sort of topic that he normally enjoyed. Veronica was now sure that there was something up. “Finish that muesli, it’s good for ya.”
Peter ate his muesli. “Now I make coffee—”
Veronica reached across the little white Formica kitchen table and grabbed his wrist in an iron hand. Peter gasped. “No, ya don’t: not till you’ve told me what you’re brooding about,” she said grimly.
“You are hurtink me,” he said plaintively.
Veronica hung on. “Good.”
He sighed heavily. “I’m not really broodink; only I cannot get over this Marianne and Maurice Black thing: all these months, and I know nothink; none of us knows anything!”
“No. Well, maybe Hamish did,” she added doubtfully.
“No, I do not think so; for one toime we are working very late and we go to The Tavern after; and—eugh—we talk about—eugh—”
“Sex.”
“Not precoisely.” He met her eye. “Well—sort of,” he said sheepishly. “We wonder about Marianne’s love loife, you see.”
Veronica saw quite clearly. “You did, ya mean; and he joined in.”
“Da.”
“—Nothing loath,” she added grimly.
Peter looked at her in fascination but Veronica had produced this charmingly old-fashioned turn of phrase apparently quite easily and was obviously unaware of its impact on him. “I think he was being quoite open with me: he said he knew there was someone but he had no oidea who.”
“Yeah. Well, I s’pose they would play it pretty close to their chests; after all old Maurie is married. Not that he’s ever bothered to hide his little affaires before.”
“No,” he agreed. A silence fell, broken only by Sharon’s stertorous breathing as she consumed slivers of toast and Vegemite and Sharon’s unpleasant chewing of the same.
“Don’t see why you have to brood about it,” said Veronica eventually.
“No,” he said, sighing again. “It is not just that; I suppose, really, it is a combination of things.” With his free hand he wiped Sharon’s Vegemitey face with a corner of her feeder. “I feel—I feel... I don’t know, exactly; flabbergasted, I think.”
“Eh?”
“Da; all moy notions seem to have been overset,” he said ruefully. “I imagine to moyself that I know so much about human nature, you see; and then first I foind that Leo has attacked Polly”—Veronica shifted uneasily—“and then I foind that you have been capable of concealing your knowledge about Hamish and Becky from me all this toime,”—Veronica reddened—“and now I foind that our so-noice, ladyloike little Marianne has a year-long affaire with Maurice Black, of all people!”
“Well, it isn’t surprising about him,” Veronica pointed out.
“No,” he replied heavily, “but it is very surproisink about her.”
“Didn’t think she was a virgin, didja?”
“It would not have surproised me,” he said gloomily, glaring at the table.
“Oh.”
“Also,” he said suddenly before she could think of anything comforting to say, “I am wrong about many small things!”
“Like what?” asked Veronica, goggling at him.
Reddening, he said: “Well, for one, never would I have thought that Allyson Shapiro would have a head for figures and wish to join Jerry’s firm.”
“You don’t know her that well,” said Veronica weakly.
“No, but I assume the opposite about her, do you not see? And also, about Darryl.”
“What about Darryl?” she replied blankly.
“Well, first I did not guess about her father.”
“Eh? Oh, come off it, Peter!”
“No, I think I must have been bloind, h’whoy did I not see it?” he cried.
“You never even knew her bloody father,” she said weakly.
Peter scowled. “Often he is on the television news, and his picture in the newspapers, too.”
This was undeniably true. Veronica could only produce a rather unconvincing snort.
“And,” said Peter in a trembling voice, “this thing she has with John Aitken.”
“Balls! They’re not having a thing—he’s got a thing for Marianne!”
“I do not denoy he admoires Marianne; but he and Darryl spend much toime together.”
“So what? Can’t they be friends without having to go to bed together?”
Actually in New Zealand this was well-nigh unheard of: socializing across the sex barrier was virtually unknown. Peter was aware of this; however, he didn’t contradict her but replied: “Da; but... Perhaps maybe they have not been to bed together yet, but I am not sure...”
“Well, I am,” said Veronica, beginning to lose interest and looking hopefully in her juice glass, which was empty. “Saw her at Women’s Group on Tuesday; she read us the riot act about knuckling under to male-dominated power structures.”
“She not infrequently—”
“Yeah, but this time she was talking about at home; in a domestic setting; see?”
“Oh,” he said uncertainly. “You do not tell me of this.”
Veronica sighed. “No, ’cos it was bloody boring! All about how ya don’t need to let your husband put the dustbin out and change the bloody fuses and that sorta stuff.”
Peter began to cheer up. His mouth twitched. He performed both these functions in their home; not that Veronica would not willingly have done the former, but she always forgot what day the rubbish collection was due. And of course she was both ignorant and terrified of electricity. “I see,” he murmured.
“Anyway, she was bloody anti-men. Besides, she’s a Les.”
“Da; but it would not be boiologically impossible... She is very fond of Sharon.”
“Me!” said Sharon happily. She put her mug upside-down on her head. Fortunately it was empty.
“Yeah, you, Madam Ego,” agreed Veronica, grinning at her; she was very pleased that her foreign husband was apparently getting over his dumps.
“Milk!” Sharon held out the mug. Veronica put milk into it.
“Lotsa Lesbian women like kids, and want to have kids; ’s got nothing to do with it.”
Peter opened his mouth. Veronica gave him a hard look.
“Yes, well, I dare say you are roight, moy darlink; all the same, she has not replaced the dreadful Carmel. And she and John spend much toime together.”
“Mm; well, ya could be right; don’t see why you’re worrying about it, though. –Are you gonna make that coffee?” she demanded.
Peter got up and put the coffee-pot, which was filled and ready, on the heat. “I do wish we had the gas,” he murmured.
The whole of Kowhai Bay didn’t have gas: the pipeline only reached as far as Puriri. “Tell Dad; dare say he wouldn’t mind coughing up for the reticulation,” said Veronica meanly.
Unfortunately Peter’s only reaction to this gambit was a slight frown.
“Anyway, I wouldn’t worry about Darryl, she can take care of herself.”
He sighed. “It is not that I worry about her—well, not precoisely, although I do think it would be a great pity to waste those hips she has.”
“Eh?”
“Made for choild-bearink,” he muttered.
Veronica gave a shout of laughter. “Ya know what?” she gasped. “You oughta been a sultan, or something!”
In the past Peter had often thought this would suit him very well; now that he had to face the reality of living with Veronica every day, as opposed to merely bedding her, he was quite sure that he would never have the mental stamina for it.
“Never!” he replied fervently. “You are more than enough for me, moy darlink!”
Blissfully unaware of the thought behind this remark, Veronica smirked complacently.
Peter leaned on the bench. “It is just... I was so sure that Darryl would never even wish to be friends with a man—do you see?”
“Oh, well,” she said vaguely. “S’pose I’d never thought so, either; just shows how wrong ya can be, eh?”
“But I am wrong all the toime, that is moy point,” he said gloomily.
“Not all the time: look at Caro and Charlie.”
“Yes, but that stick out the moile,” he growled.
Veronica sighed.
“And then there is Nat!”
“Eh?”
“He gives us this lovely choina Veronica hen and Peter cock.” He turned and glared at them on the windowsill above his sink.
“‘Rooster’,” corrected Veronica mildly. “They only say ‘cock’ in daft English books. What’s wrong with that, anyway? It’s just a bit of a joke, and they do suit the kitchen.”
Peter adjusted the little black rooster so that his beak (he was standing up) met that of the big white hen (she was sitting down). “It is an expensive joke; such oitems are not cheap.”
“Well, Nat’s not short of a few bob,” said Veronica, eyeing the coffee-pot.
“That is not the point,” he murmured. “And besoides, he has given Elspeth a Mrs Rabbit.”
“Crikey; hope Puppy doesn’t eat it!”
“What? No, no, moy dear, a Mrs Rabbit—a toy.”
“Labbit,” said Sharon. “Labbit, labbit!”
“You’ve set her off,” Veronica noted.
“Da; I’m sorry; only I am troyink to explain: Nat has given Elspeth a—a Madame Lapin, all furry, you understand, very expensive, with pretty clothes, all handmade.”
“I toleja he likes little girls,” said Veronica, over Sharon’s “Labbit, labbit!”
“Yes, but moy dear, you do not understand! Elspeth Macdonald? And he takes it round to their place himself!”
“Well, you did say he’d get over wanting to pound Hamish into a pulp.”
“But that does not mean he should immediately adopt the both of them into the bosom of his family!” he shouted, very red in the face.
Sharon had been happily muttering “Labbit, labbit,” throughout this interchange. She stopped, stared at Peter, and also went very red.
“Blast!” said Veronica, getting up hurriedly. “Calm down, Peter, you’ll give yourself a stroke, or something.”
“But—”
“Calm down,” said Veronica, enfolding him in a hug.
“But—”
Veronica kissed his ear. Peter shuddered, and burst into tears. Sharon began to roar in sympathy.
“You’re an idiot, letting yourself get all worked up over nothing,” said Veronica into his ear.
“I—know!” he sobbed.
“Why do you let yourself do it, then?”
“I—do not—know!”
Veronica sighed very loudly, and held him very tight. After a while she said: “You wanna concentrate on something else for a change.”
“Always I—think about—people!” he gasped.
“Yeah; only you don’t need to get yourself all worked up into a tizz-wozz over ’em.”
“It is not them: it is me!” he wept.
Veronica knew that. Uneasily she replied: “Look, you don’t need to worry about me not telling you about Becky—I mean, she made me promise.” Peter wept into her shoulder. Over at the table Sharon continued to sob. “Nat’ll tell you I’m as close as an oyster,” she added uncomfortably.
“Yes—I know; it is not that, precoisely! It is just— I feel such a fool, Veronica! I fancy moyself so clever, with moy verdammt dinner-party—”
“You were; it was a really good scheme; I could never have thought up something like that.” She glanced warily at Sharon, but she seemed to be calming down.
“No-o; but do you not see? It was all so unnecessary!” He sniffed dolorously.
“Not in the circs,” replied Veronica logically. “I think it was pretty brilliant: really Sherlocky.”
Peter refused to be comforted by this. “I am not a Sherlock; I am a short-soighted fool. I should h’yave guessed that of course Becky would tell all to you: she was very fond of you.”
“I wouldn’t say that; liked me better than Helen or Pat. Well, most people can’t stand Pat.”
Peter sniffled.
“Come on, darling, blow your nose.” Making a long arm to the bench, she tore off a hunk of paper towel and handed it to him. Peter blew his nose. “That’s better!” said Veronica approvingly. She dropped a kiss on his forehead. Since Sharon had stopped crying and had again put her mug on her head, she ignored her.
“Sometoimes you treat me loike I was Sharon’s age,” he murmured.
Reddening, Veronica said in alarm: “Don’t you like it? I didn’t know what else—”
“Non, non,” he said, burying his face in her bosom. “I love it; oh, Veronica, I love you so much; please to hold me toight.”
Veronica held him tight. “Sometimes I forget how foreign you are,” she said feebly.
“Darryl speaks much nonsense,” he murmured after some time.
“I know that!” she replied scornfully.
“I loike to put the dustbin out for you.”
“I know that, too.”
“Also I loike it very much when you when you mother me.”
“Yes; I had actually gathered that,” said Veronica with a smile in her voice.
“Kiss me?”
They kissed at length. Sharon took her mug off her head. She glared at them.
“Veronica,” he said in a sheepish voice, “please can I—” He whispered in her ear.
Veronica gave a snort of laughter. “Yeah—come on, ya soppy date!” She sat down. Peter sat on her knee. Sharon stared at them incredulously.
Peter leant his head into Veronica’s neck and fondled a breast. “I wish we could stay loike this forever.”
“No, ya don’t, you’d get bored.”
“Bored! I would never get bored!”
“All right; then ya’d get randy.”
“Well, there—da, perhaps maybe...”
Suddenly Sharon burst into tears. “Vronny!” she screamed. “Me! Me, me, ME!”
Peter looked up, startled. “Now what is the matter?”
“Jealous!” choked Veronica, laughing like a drain.
Sharon wept unrestrainedly.
“You’ll have to get off, Peter, she’ll strain something if she carries on like that!”
Peter got off her knee, staring at Sharon. Sharon gulped, and said loudly to Veronica: “Vronny hold Shallon!” She gave a sob.
“Crikey, she must be upset,” said Veronica, getting up, grinning broadly. “Stirred herself to say a whole sentence—verb ’n’ all.” She picked Sharon up. “Come on, Madam Ego: your turn.” She sat down with her on her knee. Sharon gulped and sniffed. Veronica kissed her forehead.
“I feel quoite limp,” said Peter, staring as Sharon beamed through her tears.
“You’ll feel limper when ya look at that coffee-pot,” returned Veronica unemotionally. “It’s practically red-hot.”
“Merde de merde!” He seized a pot-mitt and hauled the pot off the heat. “Now it will be stew-èd!” He inspected it gingerly. “Ugh, it boibles.”
“What?”
“Eugh... That’s wrong,” he said, pouting. “Ça bouille,” is what I wish to say.”
“Well, I dunno what that means,” replied Veronica, very glad to see him side-tracked. “But I reckon what you mean is, it’s boiling.”
“Da... Not it bubbles?”
“‘It’s bubbling’,” she corrected dubiously. “Yeah, I s’pose you could say that; it’s not Rotorua, though.”
“Oh.” He poured the coffee down the sink. “There is no word ‘to bibble’ is there?”
“Nope.”
“Ah.” He ran cold water over the coffee-pot, which hissed madly. “If there were a word, let us say a noun, ‘bibbles’, what would ‘bibbles’ suggest to you, Veronica?”
“Well,” said Veronica tolerantly, “I suppose kinda like bubbles—only smaller.”
“Oh,” he said, rather dashed.
“Not exactly smaller,” she corrected herself. “More kind of... pointy.”
“Ah!” he cried in triumph. He began to dismantle the pot.
“Kind of a cross between bubbles and dribbles, I s’pose,” said Veronica, wiping a dribble off Sharon’s chin with her feeder.
“Ah! Dribbles!” he cried. “I had forgotten that one!”
“That bloody coffee-pot hasn’t started that again, has it?”
“Comment? Non, non, ma chère: that new ring that I buoy, it fits well.”
“Good. –You’re not making another lot, are you?” she asked in alarm. “You’ll be late.”
“No, no: moy lecture is not until ten.”
“Oh, good. Well, in that case,” she added in a determined voice, jigging Sharon up and down, “you can stay till Betty comes and ruddy well have a word with her!”
Aware though he was that Veronica didn’t share Darryl’s rigidly feminist Weltanschauung, Peter nonetheless gaped at her, not least because Betty Fergusson was one of the pleasantest women he had ever met. “Have a word with her?” he echoed in a shaken voice.
“Yeah; about those little pie things you made us the other day; I was trying to describe them to her, only I don’t think she believed me.”
“Oh!” he said in relief. “The little turmeric poies, with the cottage cheese fillink, da?”
“Yeah, think so. She reckoned they couldn’t be yellow,” explained Veronica.
“Ah.” Peter told her at length exactly what both the pie crust and the filling of his tartlets contained. Veronica didn’t listen. She was very glad she’d successfully side-tracked him.
“He’s getting worse,” she said to Polly on the Friday, out on the Carranos’ patio.
“Oh, dear, I thought he’d got over the shock about Leo.” She handed Veronica a plate of celery pieces filled with cream cheese mixture.
“So did I,” said Veronica, taking a celery piece. She chewed vigorously. “These are good.”
“Mine,” said Davey, coming up to his mother’s sun-lounger at a rapid stagger.
“Just one,” replied Polly, handing him a piece of filled celery.
“He’s getting worse, instead,” said Veronica. She took another piece of celery. “I think the iron’s entered into his soul, or something.” She crunched celery. “Toleja,” she added indistinctly, and swallowed. “Toleja bloody Schmidt rang him up, didn’t I?”
“Mm,” said Polly, her eyes on her sons as they pottered round their paddling pool.
“Peter did his nut,” said Veronica gloomily. “Schmidt tried to laugh it all off.”
“Mm—you said,” agreed Polly. “That’s Leo all over.”
Veronica recollected that the subject might reasonably be supposed to embarrass her hostess. “Yes, well, never mind that,” she said hurriedly. “The thing is, he’s brooding about it all.” She hesitated. “There’s something else... Hamish hasn’t said anything to you, has he?”
“Hamish?” said Polly in surprise. “No; why? There’s nothing wrong at work, is there?”
“Eh? Aw, Hell, no, nothing like that.” She scowled at the pool, in which Sharon was sitting, in a frilly pink sun-suit and a matching bonnet. “Thought he told you things.”
“Well, he used to,” agreed Polly, with a little ironical smile. “But I told him off about Mirry a little while back, so he’s got the pip with me.”
“Didja? Good on ya. Is he back with her yet?”
“Um, well, she’s due back tomorrow. From up North, I mean,” she added, as Veronica stared at her. “She’s been off on a dig—didn’t I say?”
“Nope,” said Veronica, taking another piece of celery.
“Me,” said Johnny, staggering up hopefully.
“You won’t like them, Johnny,” replied Polly, sighing.
“Doesn’t he like celery?” asked Veronica with clinical interest.
“It isn’t that, exactly; it’s green.”
“Eh?”
Heavily Polly explained that Johnny had taken a dislike to all green food—evidently in the belief that food should not be green, not out of a dislike of vegetables per se: he also refused to eat green ice cream. She picked out the whitest of the remaining bits of celery and held it out to Johnny. His lower lip wobbled.
“Oops,” said Veronica.
“Yeah,” agreed Polly morosely, eating the celery herself.
“Me, me!” cried Johnny piteously. “Mum-mee!”
“You wouldn’t like them, Johnny: they’re all green—see?” She held out the plate. Johnny burst into tears. “Damn!” said Polly, picking him up. Over his sobbing form she said: “I’ll have to go and get him a bit of carrot, or something; I won’t be a tick.” She got up. “You’ll keep an eye on Davey, won’t you?”
“Yeah, ’course,” said Veronica, taking another piece of celery and looking over at where Davey had joined Sharon in the paddling pool.
Polly hurried into the house. When she came back Davey was sitting on the reclining Veronica’s thighs. “Where’s Sharon?” she asked, putting Johnny down.
“Under your sun-lounger.”
“Oh—so she is,” said Polly weakly.
“Jiggity-jig!” cried Davey.
Veronica groaned. “Just once more, Davey.” She jigged her thighs, declaiming: “‘To market, to market, to buy a fat pig—’”
“Me, me!” cried Johnny eagerly.
“Come on, then,” said Polly.
“No!” cried Johnny. “Vronny! Jiggity; jiggity!”
Polly chuckled. “You should never have started this, Veronica; you know they always want to copy each other!” She lifted Davey off. “No; Johnny’s turn now, Davey,” she said loudly as he began to whinge. She lifted Johnny on.
“Do they understand turns, now?” asked Veronica, as Davey shut up.
“They’re beginning to, thank God,” said Polly, sitting down.
Veronica began to recite “To market, to market,” jigging Johnny on her thighs.
Davey joined Sharon under Polly’s sun-lounger.
“What are they doing down there?” asked Polly, squirming to look.
“I dunno what Davey’s doing; she’s playing Back to the Womb,” replied Veronica breathlessly.
Sharon was squatting quietly under the sun-lounger. Polly squirmed back into a prone position. “She’s sitting there like a little mouse or something!”
“‘—jiggity jog!’ Yeah,” agreed Veronica breathlessly. “She’ll do it for hours if ya leave her to it. Peter reckons it’s House.”
“Doesn’t look like House to me,” replied Polly dubiously. “Do you think it’s good for her?”
“I asked Bruce that last time we were at the surgery—no, Johnny, that’s all—and he said, does she react to other kids, and I said of course she does; and he said there was nothing wrong with her, then, and we all need quiet times to let our minds range.”
“These two don’t,” said Polly bitterly. “They never stop.”
Veronica chuckled. “Well, don’t look now, but one of ’em’s stopped!”
Polly squirmed and peered again. There were now two quiet, still little mice under her sun-lounger.
“I’d have said he was the hyperactive one, of the two,” she said weakly, squirming back.
Veronica grinned. “Anyway, what were you saying about Mirry?”
“Oh—yeah: she’s been on a dig up North with some of her student friends. As far as I know Hamish hasn’t asked her to come back yet.”
“He’s mad.” Veronica ate celery.
“Selfish, you mean,” Polly corrected bitterly. “Just because he’s got the wind up about beastly Sylvie, he’s making her suffer; and doing it under the guise of protecting her!”
Veronica snorted contemptuously. “M.C.P.!”
“I’ll say; of course he always was.” Polly held forth at some length.
“Yeah,” agreed Veronica. “Don’t see what the Hell we can do about it, though.”
“No,” said Polly. She ate celery. “I’ve done my best.”
“Mm. It’s up to Mirry, really.”
“Yes, I suppose it is,” said Polly unwillingly. “I did have a word with her. She said I didn’t understand him.”
“What?” cried Veronica. “Oh, balls, Polly!”
Polly looked at her gratefully.
“Understand him only too well, I reckon,” grunted Veronica.
“Exactly!”
They looked at each other in satisfaction.
Polly refilled their glasses. “Want ice?”
“Mm—lots.”
Polly put lots of ice in Veronica’s drink.
“Ta.” Veronica drank deeply, and sighed. “There’s the Marianne thing, too: that was the last straw, pretty much knocked Peter sideways.”
“What Marianne thing?” demanded Polly, staring.
“Hang on—she’s coming out!”
Sharon emerged laboriously, panting a little, from under Polly’s sun-lounger.
“Gidday!” said Veronica, grinning at her. “Fancy meeting you here, Miss Rosen!”
“Houshe,” replied Sharon. “Liddle houshe.”
“That’s your story,” returned Veronica, grinning.
“Iss!” demanded Sharon, holding up her face.
Veronica kissed her. “Nice old womb, was it, darling?”
“Paddle,” decided Sharon, staggering rapidly away.
“Me kiss!” demanded Johnny, coming to on Veronica’s knee. Veronica kissed him. “Me paddle,” he decided. Veronica assisted him to descend.
A panting noise came from under Polly’s sun-lounger. “Mine kiss!” said Davey loudly, emerging laboriously. Polly rolled on her sun-lounger, giggling helplessly.
“Shut up,” growled Veronica. “You’ll start me off!” She kissed Davey. “Go and have a nice paddle,” she suggested. Polly gave an agonised snort. Davey stared at her. “Yeah, Mum’s gone mad,” Veronica agreed. “What about a nice paddle, eh?”
“Liddle house,” said Davey.
“Yeah, nice little house.”
“Mine paddle,” he decided.
Veronica collapsed in helpless laughter.
“Go on about Marianne,” said Polly eventually, wiping her eyes and sitting back.
“Yeah, well... It knocked Peter for six, I can tell ya.” She told Polly about Marianne’s affaire with Maurice Black. By the end of the story Polly was looking stunned, so she hurriedly explained that now Micky was in the offing.
There was a silence.
“I can’t take it in,” Polly said at last. “I mean, good Heavens, he must be old enough to be her grandfather! I mean—well, she’s quite a bit younger than us, you know.”
“Than me, you mean,” said Veronica without rancour.
“No, than me, too: she can’t be nearly thirty, yet; she was very young to get that job with Jake when she did. And Maurice Black— Well, let’s see, when did he retire? The History Department had a huge party in the S.C.R.” She muttered to herself a bit. “I reckon he must be forty years older than her, Veronica!”
“Eh?”
They stared at each other.
“Yes; look: she’s about twenty-seven or -eight; and he must be at least sixty-seven, he retired at sixty-five.”
“God,” said Veronica simply.
“I know Jake’s quite a bit older then me—well, twenty-two years older, to be exact; but forty years!”
“Is Jake that old? He doesn’t look it.”
“I know that,” said Polly crossly, flushing. “We’re not talking about him; we’re talking about old Maurie Black.”
“Quite an attractive joker,” muttered Veronica.
“Yes, but— I mean, really, Veronica!”
“Ye-ah... S’pose I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“It’s disgusting; the old lecher! No wonder Peter got so upset!” Veronica goggled at her. Polly said rapidly: “Well, don’t you see, it wasn’t just that he hadn’t guessed about them; it was the thought of Marianne and that old creep!” She made a revolted face. “Ugh!”
“Aw, come on, Polly,” said Veronica uneasily. “Maurice isn’t exactly in his dotage.”
“I dare say; but you ask Peter how he feels about it; I bet he’ll agree with me.”
Veronica was pretty sure of it, now she came to think of it. “You could be right,” she said moodily. “He’s got this kind of father-image picture of himself, ’specially with the younger staff members... Yeah, I think he was really turned off by it.” She hesitated. “He didn’t make a fancy pudding that night, even though Elspeth was there,” she said cautiously.
“There you are!” cried Polly. “Anyway, tell me a bit more about this Micky. He sounds a lot more suitable.”
“I toleja. Pat’s ex.”
“You’re hopeless, Veronica!”
Veronica replied uneasily: “Senior partner and all that; prob’ly on quite a good screw.”
“What does that matter!” said Mrs Jake Carrano impatiently. “What’s he like?”
“No good at describing people,” she growled. “Quite intelligent, I s’pose. Good-looking, in a sort of way.”
“In a sort of way?” cried Polly.
“Nat reckons he’s lop-sided.”
“What?”
Veronica sighed. “It’s no good, Polly; I can’t do it. When you or Peter tell me about people I can just see them; only I can’t do it myself. I mean, I can see Micky in my head, but I’m buggered if I can describe him.”
Polly sighed in her turn. “It’s all right, Veronica; it’s just... Well, I’m fond of Marianne; I’d like to know that she’s picked a good one this time.”
“Micky’s all right... I think. Had quite a few birds, since Pat,” she growled.
“That doesn’t matter; Jake had scads, too; I mean, you’d worry if they didn’t, wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“Just so long as he doesn’t go on having them.”
“Nope; well, from what Susan says, he won’t. Sounds as if he’s gone off ’em for life; not that it’s done him any good.”
“What?”
“Hasn’t helped ’im crack it with Marianne,” clarified Veronica.
“Veronica Sarah Riabouchinska!” cried Polly.—Veronica grinned; she loved it when Polly called her that.—“Do you mean to sit there and tell me he hasn’t—that they haven’t—”
“—fucked. No, not as far as we know.”
“You gave me the impression that they had!” cried Polly.
Veronica grinned sheepishly. That had dawned on her. “Sorry.”
“Well, we’ll have to get them together,” decided Polly. “I know! Look, you can kill two birds with one stone: you could invite them both to dinner, that’d cheer Peter up, wouldn’t it? At least distract him!”
Veronica’s face brightened. Then it fell. “That’d be no good; it’d have to be his idea.”
“Oh.” Polly’s face fell, too.
“Maybe...” said Veronica slowly.
“Yes?”
“What say I kind of go on about what a pity it is that they’re not getting together...”
“Yeah!” breathed Polly.
They beamed at each other.
Veronica thought it over. Then she had an inspiration. “Listen, Polly—”
“Mm?” replied Polly vaguely, her eyes on the three little figures in the paddling-pool.
“What if you give Peter a ring and go on about how you’re worried about Hamish and Mirry?”
“Well, I am... Oh! I geddit!”
“Yeah; then he’ll start doing his Mr Fixit thing on them, too!”
“What if it doesn’t work?” said Polly doubtfully. “I mean, Hamish is awfully stubborn.”
Uneasily Veronica recollected the Carol complication. Stubborn and definitely not in the best of moods. “Bum,” she muttered.
“Um, maybe if I sound out Hamish first?” suggested Polly.
“Yeah, good idea! And Mirry!”
“All right,” said Polly slowly. “Yes, I could do that,” she decided.
“Good,” sighed Veronica.
“Is there anyone else?”
“Eh?” Veronica was looking at Sharon and the twins. That water was awfully tempting—Helluva pity she hadn’t brought her togs.
“Anyone else Peter could get all interested in? To take him out of himself—give him back his confidence.”
“Uh—well... I don’t think it’d work. You know Darryl Tuwhare?”
“Ye-es,” replied Polly cautiously. “Well, it’s her parents I know, really. What about her?”
“Well,” said Veronica uneasily, “Peter reckons she might’ve fallen for this bloke at work. –Don’t laugh!” she added quickly.
“I’m not laughing; do you mean that nice John Aitken?”
“Yes; you don’t mean you think so, too?”
“Well, I did wonder, after that barbecue at the Institute.”
“She’s a Les,” said Veronica uncertainly.
“It’s not a physical condition,” replied Polly mildly. “I know she’s had girlfriends, of course—her mother’s been very worried about her, but she’s of the generation that thinks it’s nasty, of course.” Veronica looked at her limply. “Meriel Tuwhare—don’t you know her?” Veronica shook her head. “Oh. Well, she’s one of those rather frail, pretty little women that rule their men with a rod of iron.”
“Ugh,” said Veronica. “Sounds a bit like Mum.”
“I suppose she is a bit, now I come to think of it. She told me—” Polly hesitated. “For Heaven’s sake don’t breathe a word of this to anyone, will you?”
“Not even Peter?” asked Veronica, turning a painful scarlet.
“OY!” yelled Polly, rising abruptly. “Stop that, Davey!” She hurried over and wrenched a plastic spade out of her eldest child’s hand before he could brain his guest with it. “Naughty!” Davey burst into tears. Polly returned with the spade, ignoring the tears. “Where was I? Oh, yeah; yes, of course you can tell Peter, I didn’t mean him.”
Veronica sighed. “Look: have I got this straight, Polly? When people say to a married person, Don’t tell anyone, they mean don’t tell anyone except the person you’re married to, is that right?”
“Yes,” said the linguist simply.
“Good. Go on.”
“We-ell... When Darryl was about seventeen, she had this thing with a bloke. She’s very bright, you know: I think she was bored stiff at school.”
“Yes. What sort of bloke?” asked Veronica.
“He sounded absolutely ghastly! Meriel Tuwhare said he used to wear bowties, and woolly waistcoats: those ones like a cardy only without sleeves. And he was miles older than Darryl: in his forties, I think.”
“Ugh!”
“Wait for it: and single; and living at home with his old Mum!”
“Oh, Christ.”
“Exactly.”
They looked at each other with satisfaction.
“Did he actually get up her?” croaked Veronica.
“Well, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he hadn’t; and of course Meriel was frightfully coy about it; but I gather that he did; but the really sickening thing was, he insisted on getting engaged.”
“Ugh, Polly, yuck!” cried Veronica.
“Yeah,” agreed Polly, very pleased that her friend’s sentiments corresponded so exactly with her own.
“What happened in the end? Did Sir Alistair break it up?”
“No; Darryl just came home one night and said ‘Oh, by the way, I’m not engaged any more.’”
They looked at each other with a wild surmise.
“Well, that is food for thought,” said Veronica after some time. “Could explain a lot. Enough to put anyone off men, by the sound of it.”
“Yes. Well, it still doesn’t mean that she isn’t naturally a Lesbian; I mean, lots of people make mistakes about their sexuality to start with; but, as you say, it could well explain why she’s been off blokes.”
“Yes,” agreed Veronica.
“Why don’t you tell Peter, and see how he reacts?”
“Ye-ah... The only thing is, what if he goes overboard for the hetero solution, and it’s wrong?”
Polly scowled. “Blast. I never thought of that.”
They sighed, looking mechanically at the paddling-pool. “She’s taking her rompers off,” noticed Polly.
“Never mind.”
Sharon finished removing her wet sun-suit and dropped it over the side of the pool. She sat down again.
“Wish I’d brought my togs,” said Veronica gloomily.
“I could lend you a pair.”
“My bum’s bigger than yours.”
“There’s that old pink suit— Oh, no,” Polly remembered, “it’d be far too small round the bust. Shall we just go in, anyway?”
“I will if you will.”
“Righto.” Polly stood up. “I never bother with togs round the place unless Nanny or someone’s here, anyway.” She removed her dress. It was pale green, and Veronica hadn’t failed to notice how charmingly it toned with the darker green upholstery of the sun-loungers and the pale green tiling of the paddling-pool—not to mention the array of bright magenta, pink, and white flowering plants in tubs around the place. Since she now knew Polly rather well, she didn’t, however, make the mistake of suspecting her of having chosen to wear the dress today on purpose. She stood up and removed her own shorts and tee-shirt.
“Those are nice pants, where’d you get ‘em?” she asked, as Polly removed her exiguous pale green lacy bikini panties. Removing her own, rather plain, pale blue ones, she stepped into the pool. “Ugh—it’s warm!”
“Yes; shall we put some fresh water through it?” Polly moved to the array of taps and stop-cocks on Jake’s large, permanent, built-in paddling-pool.
“Can you?”
“Yeah, it’s easy: you turn this on: it lets the clean water in; and then you turn this on: it lets the old water out; if you let it run for about half an hour or so you end up with clean water.”
“Your water rates must be enormous: that’s not all off the ordinary supply, surely? And you’ve got the patio and the big indoor pool, too,” she remembered.
“Mm; I think we do have to pay an awful lot; I don’t know, really.” She made a face and said in a very high, artificial voice: “May husband takes care of all that.”
“Yeah,” agreed Veronica, chuckling. “Like dustbins.”
“Yeah.” She sat down in the four inches of lukewarm paddling-pool water. The twins came and climbed on her. “Dunno how he imagines they get put out when he’s off on a business trip.”
Veronica sat down, grinning. “Prob’ly thinks Daph Green’s husband—what’s his name? Tim, isn’t it; prob’ly think he comes up specially to do it.”
Polly’s eyes twinkled. “He offered to, of course! We have to take them right down to the front gate, you see. Only Jake’s got this little trailer, it’s perfectly easy to use, we just hitch it up to the Land Rover.”
“Oh,” said Veronica, rather weakly.
“Anyway, I didn’t buy those pants, Jake did.”
“What? Oh.” Veronica remembered she’d asked about Polly’s panties. “They’re nice.”
“He’s always buying me fancy frillies,” said Polly, with no evidence of enthusiasm.
Sharon got up and splashed over to Veronica. “Vronny,” she said earnestly.
“What?” replied Veronica.
Sharon stared earnestly into her face. “Vronny.”
“Yeah; whaddaya want, Sharon?” said Veronica, without hope.
“Vronny.”
Veronica sighed. “Do your two do that?” she asked Polly.
“No; does she want you to pick her up?”
“No; that’s ‘up, up’.”
“A kiss?”
“No, she always says ‘iss’.” She stared earnestly back at Sharon. “She’s trying to communicate something. Oh, well—cummere.” She gathered her into her arms.
“She doesn’t want potty, does she?” asked Polly.
“Don’t think so. Sharon: want potty? Potty?” Sharon stared at her blankly. “Don’t think so,” she reported.
“Oh, well, we’ll soon know if she does,” said Polly calmly.
“Mummy: bucket!” said Davey loudly in her face.
Polly grimaced, and drew her face out of range. “All right, where is it? Bring it here, Davey.” Davey clambered off her and splashed off to retrieve a small plastic bucket.
“Well, whaddaya reckon about Darryl and John? Shall I drop a hint in Peter’s ear?” pursued Veronica.
“We-ell... Do you really think she fancies him?”
“I dunno,” said Veronica morosely, kissing Sharon.
“Bucket!” cried Davey crossly.
“Oh—sorry,” said Polly. She began dipping up water with the bucket and pouring it out again. Davey chuckled happily. “Mindless little brute,” she muttered.
“Prob’ly sees it like a giant piss,” offered Veronica.
“Yes. Well, that is pretty mindless.” She sighed. “Typically male.”
“Vronny.” Sharon peered earnestly into her face.
“Don’t start,” groaned Veronica. She kissed her again.
“Bucket!” said Davey crossly. Polly poured water. Johnny had been sitting peacefully on Polly’s left leg. He got off it and splashed over to another bucket.
“Vronny,” said Sharon, peering earnestly into her face.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s me,” said Veronica. “Sharon,” she said, peering earnestly into Sharon’s face.
“P’raps that’s it,” said Polly. “Reinforcing her knowledge of who you are: cognition stuff. Or something,” she finished on a weak note.
Johnny came back with the bucket. He began laboriously pouring water over Polly’s foot.
“Bucket!” said Davey crossly.
“All right: bucket!” replied Polly.
Polly poured water; Davey chuckled. Sharon peered earnestly into Veronica’s face and said “Vronny”; Veronica agreed it was she. Johnny poured water over his mother’s foot.
“This whole set-up’s totally mindless!” said Polly wildly.
“Yeah,” agreed Veronica. Their eyes met. They howled with laughter.
“Bucket!”
“Sorry, Davey.” She poured water.
“Mine bucket!” he decided.
“Thank God,” said Polly, surrendering the bucket. “Wait a minute!” she cried.
Veronica jumped. “What?”
“Tell Peter you can’t tell about Darryl and John!” cried Polly.
“Ooh, yeah,” said Veronica slowly.
“Then he’d feel all superior; he’d want—”
“To ferret it out himself!” cried Veronica. “Polly, you’re a genius!”
“Not bad, eh?” said Polly, grinning madly. “I reckon this calls for a drink, don’t you?”
“A real drink?”
“Absolutely.”
“Too right!” agreed Veronica fervently.
Polly laughed, and got out of the pool.
What with the real drinks, and further excited confabulation, not to mention much pouring of water from plastic buckets by all five of them over all five of them, they were all still in the paddling-pool when Jake came home.
“Hullo-ullo!” he grinned.
“Hullo, Jake,” said Veronica, making no effort to cover herself.
“What are you doing here?” cried Polly agitatedly.
“I live here,” he replied mildly. He picked up a glass and sniffed at it. “You girls been on the grog all afternoon?”
“No,” replied Polly, very flushed. “Go away, Jake; Veronica hasn’t got any clothes on!”
“What the fuck is this?” he returned, sniffing at the glass again. “Tequila?”
“Yes. We had some of those sunrise things. –Go away, Jake!”
“Nah, I’m enjoying the view; wish I had a camera on me.” His eye brightened. “Look—just hang on, eh? I’ll just nip in and get it.”
“You will not!” cried Polly.
“Aw, come on, Pol!” He grinned. “One for the family album, eh? None of you three girls’ve got a stitch on!”
“Sharon has,” said Polly indignantly. “She’s got her sun-bonnet on!”
Jake shook with chuckles. “You boys are the only ones here with any sense of modesty!”
“Look again,” suggested Veronica.
Jake looked again. Johnny was still wearing his minute blue togs, but below his genitals. He gave a yelp of laughter. “Aw, look, I gotta get this on film, Pol; Veronica won’t mind, will ya?” He looked at her pleadingly.
“No, but Peter’d go spare, Jake. I mean, he wouldn’t mind me sitting here starkers with Polly and the kids, of course, but he’d take one look at the photo and want to know who took it; and then he’d do his nut.”
“Aw, he’ll never know!”
“Yes, he will,” replied Veronica gloomily. “He loves looking through people’s family albums: he’s been through all of Mum’s; and Helen’s; and Granny Goldberg’s into the bargain.”
“Yes, so go away, Jake!” ordered Polly.
“All right, all right, I’m going,” he grumbled. He went a few steps. He looked back reluctantly. “Venus and Diana bathing,” he said wistfully.
“Diana was a virgin, you idiot,” replied Veronica mildly.
He laughed, and went inside.
“You’d have to be Venus,” said Veronica kindly to her flushed friend.
Polly scowled. “Twit,” she muttered, glaring in the direction in which the twit had disappeared. “Sorry, Veronica,” she said glumly.
“Don’t be a nit.” She watched as Polly turned a stop-cock and the green-tiled pool began to empty. The array of taps and things was temptingly near the twins’ level. “Won’t the twins, uh, T,U,R,N—”
“No, he’s got a key,” said Polly heavily “It’s all custom-designed, like most of his ruddy gadgets. Just wait: he’ll come out and lock it off. The key lives in his safe,” she added sourly.
“That’s a neat idea.”
“Isn’t it, just? Pity he didn’t extrapolate from it a bit. They turned on one of the upstairs baths and flooded the place only last week.”
Veronica collapsed in an agonised spluttering fit. She waited eagerly.
Jake came out with an armful of towels, which he tossed at them. Sure enough, he then operated with a huge key. “Nifty, eh?” he said proudly.
Veronica collapsed in another spluttering fit.
Next chapter:
https://themembersoftheinstitute.blogspot.com/2023/01/sorting-out-hamish.html
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