Family Outings

29

Family Outings

    Elspeth scowled at her reflection in the master bedroom’s big cheval glass. The dress was a particularly bright royal blue satin. The skirt was narrow and rather tight. The bodice, unfortunately, was also tight, apart from a sort of pleated sash thing across the bust where Elspeth’s boobs weren’t, yet. It had a square neck, not low but low enough to show a strip of slightly sunburnt skin and her bony salt-cellars. The sleeves were enormous puffs, ornamented into the bargain with large bows in the middle of which were sequinned rosettes. It was a truly dreadful dress, but Elspeth had fallen hopelessly in love with it in the shop and since it wasn’t all that dear and all the other dresses she’d liked were equally vile, Hamish had given in and let her have it.

    “Put the shoes on, Elspeth,” prompted Mirry.

    Elspeth put the shoes on. They had tiny heels and Hamish had at first refused point-blank to let her have them.

    “Yes,” said Mirry, “that looks lovely.”

    Elspeth took a few cautious steps, scrunching up her toes like mad inside the shoes.

    “Just walk normally,” said Mirry faintly, for about the fiftieth time.

    Elspeth ignored her. She walked carefully up and down in front of the mirror, scrunching up her toes.

    Hamish sighed. Why had he agreed to this outing? Elspeth at a decent restaurant? God!

    “Darling!” cried Basil ecstatically. “The kilt! Scrumplicious!”

    Hamish eyed him with disfavour. He was only wearing the kilt at his daughter’s insistence. Unfortunately, once she’d suggested it, Mirry had firmly supported her. With it he was wearing a tweed jacket with a plain white shirt and the most unobtrusive tie he owned, and his everyday sporran. The restaurateur’s enthusiasm was quite obviously genuine—his round face was all pink and excited—so he contented himself with a dry: “Ma womenfolk talked me into it.”

    With much cooing and fluttering, Basil showed them to their table. The Chez Basil was very full, not unusual in early December. Mirry felt rather odd as she followed Basil; Hamish had politely stood aside for her, smiling a little, but Elspeth had come up very close and taken her hand in a small, hot paw. Mirry had never before been to a good restaurant as the older woman in a family party—they had taken Elspeth to the big Chinese restaurant in the city that did the fried ice cream dessert several times, but that was different, it was much more casual. Elspeth was clearly a bit overawed by the Chez Basil in full swing—thank goodness, because that was a lot better than being overexcited and above herself.

    When Mirry had chosen a daiquiri and Hamish had refused a drink before dinner, as he was driving, Basil cooed: “And what about the little girl?”

    Elspeth hated being called a little girl and Mirry looked nervously at her. She’d gone very red, but she didn’t look cross, she looked a bit lost.

    “Can I have the same as Mirry?” she said in a tiny voice.

    “I’m afraid not, Elspeth, dear, it’s got alcohol in it; you don’t want to lose me my licence, do you?” fluted Basil.

    Elspeth by this time knew both Gary and Basil quite well, but she was overawed by Basil in his maître d’s outfit—not to mention his maître d’s persona. “No,” she said in a squeaky voice, going very red and looking as if she might cry.

    “You could have absolutely anything else,” said Basil quickly in quite an ordinary tone. He eyed her uneasily: tears in a full restaurant were the last thing—

    “What about a pineapple juice?” said Hamish kindly; she liked that.

    “Or a Coke?” suggested Mirry, who had a better grasp of eleven-year-old tastes.

    “Yes; a Coke, please,” said Elspeth in a squeaky voice.

    “Splendid!” said Basil with relief. “One Coke, and one daiquiri, then. Now, darlings,” he added, handing round the menus, “I’ll let you have a nice brood over these, because I think Someone may need a little help!” He gave an arch giggle. “Drinkies coming up!” And he fluttered off.

    Hamish sighed heavily.

    Naturally Elspeth wanted the most unsuitable starter on the menu. Having warned her she wouldn’t like it, it had oysters in it, Hamish then found he had to explain that that word there was the French for oysters… Elspeth looked sulky. He sighed. She’d been so thrilled with her overdressed Coke, which sported not only a whole row of fruit on a spike, but two umbrellas and an artificial orchid; he’d thought maybe the evening might not be a total disaster, after all. “I told you we should never have brought her,” he said heavily to Mirry.

    “Don’t be silly. Everyone has to start, don’t they?” she replied mildly.

    Elspeth’s dinner was finally chosen and Hamish turned to Mirry. “What are you going to have, darling?”

    “I thought I might have the avocado and fresh pineapple cocktail to start with.”

    He repressed a shudder. “What about your main course? Have something with meat,” he urged.

    “Have the same as me!” urged Elspeth. She was having Tournedos de Noël. After they had sorted out that it had nothing to do with tornadoes as Elspeth had thought, and that Noël was not a person, as Mirry had thought, Elspeth had agreed eagerly that Gary’s Christmas special sounded lovely; besides, it had bits of bacon round the meat, and she loved bacon. Hamish had encouraged her to choose it out of a mean desire to see whether Gary would garnish it with holly.

    Mirry looked at them both weakly. Their lips were just parted and their eyes shone with an identical earnest eagerness. “You’re both such carnivores,” she said faintly.

    The Macdonalds chuckled pleasedly.

    Hamish urged the pork on her. “Cooked in cider with a peach sauce; I might have that ma’sel’.”

    Mirry looked uneasily at Elspeth. “Actually,” she said to Hamish, “I would quite like the stuffed squid.”

    “Have it, then.”

    “Ye-es... I think I will.” She eyed Elspeth again. She had earlier become tearful because the menu had described this dish as “baby squid”, but apparently she’d forgotten about that and was reading through the desserts. “They haven’t got much for pudding,” she said. “What does ‘Choyks dee gat-something’ mean?”

    Hamish closed his eyes for a second. “Choix de gateaux,” he said. “It means a choice of cakes—there’ll be a dessert trolley.”

    Elspeth didn’t know what a dessert trolley was. “Oh,” she said. “Does choyks mean choice?”

    Wondering if he’d sired a deaf offspring, Hamish replied wearily: “Yes.”

    “It’s pronounced ‘shwa’, Elspeth,” said Mirry. “You say it.”

    “No,” said Elspeth, going fiery red. She closed her menu.

    “The French language,” said Hamish caustically to Mirry, “would appear to be a source of deep embarrassment to the pre-pubertal; for reasons which I, for one, fail utterly to comprehend.”

    Mirry’s lips twitched. “Cut it out,” she said in a strangled voice.

    “You’re mean, Dad!” said Elspeth, still scarlet. She hadn’t understood what he’d said, but she had understood he’d been getting at her.

    Hamish raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth.

    “Hamish, if you say one more word, I’m going straight home!” threatened Mirry.

    Hamish subsided.

    “I don’t know why we had to come all the way out here,” said Helen, puffing.

    “Slow down!” replied Nat, puffing too.

    Behind the two large figures who’d come to a dead halt halfway up the long flight of stairs that led to Puriri’s best restaurant, Melanie winked slowly and elaborately at Carol. Carol gave a muffled snort of laughter. Melanie giggled.

    “Aw—bit of a change,” Nat said to Helen. “Besides, I fancied the drive up.”

    Helen had almost got her breath back. “Yes, it was a nice drive up the Coast,” she said judiciously. Since there was no-one but themselves in sight she wriggled her bust a bit and, diving her hand down her cleavage, adjusted her breasts more comfortably inside their huge, underwired bra—Nat, meanwhile, watching this manoeuvre with enjoyment. “Only now you’ll have to drive all the way home again,” she pointed out. “Don’t you dare to drink more than one glass of wine.”

    He shifted uneasily. “Thought you might like to drive,” he muttered.

    Helen glared. “I most certainly would not! You know I hate driving at night.”

    “I could drive, if you like, Uncle Nat,” said Carol in her high, clear voice.

    “Certainly not!” said Helen, before Nat could reply.

    “She’s quite a good little driver,” he muttered.

    “That has nothing to do with it,” said Helen majestically. “It’s too much of a responsibility for a child of her age.”

    “I’ll drive, Mum!” offered Melanie cheerfully.

    “You will NOT!” replied her parents simultaneously.

    “A-aw,” whined Melanie. When Helen and Nat had once more turned their backs on her she winked at Carol again. Carol choked.

    “Where is that boy?” said Nat crossly. He leaned over the stairs, glaring.

    “Looking in that computer shop,” said Melanie indifferently.

    “What? Drat him!” said Nat. He leaned further over, and bellowed down the Puriri Arcade: “DAMIAN! Get up here—pronto!”

    Damian would have ignored such a summons the first time round from any other member of his family (including his grandfather, whom he knew—though without verbalizing it to himself, he wasn’t a particularly calculating child—he could wind round his little finger); but he was considerably in awe of his Uncle Nat who, though Damian, in Damian’s opinion, was much too old to be spanked, didn’t hesitate to dust your breeches for you whenever he felt like it. Pride wouldn’t allow him to run, but he walked along the Arcade quite quickly.

    “Get UP here!” roared Nat. “What the Hell do you think you’re doing?”

    “There was a computer shop,” said Damian. This was meant to sound casual and man-of-the-world; it came out sulky and defensive. The high-pitched squeak of his treacherous voice in the middle of “computer” didn’t help, either.

    “All right, matey; I’ll tell ya what,” said Nat, breathing rather hard: “you go and look in the computer shop, eh? And we’ll go and have dinner.”

    “No,” said Damian quickly. “I mean—I’m sorry, Uncle Nat.”

    “‘I’m sorry for being an inconsiderate jerk, Uncle Nat’,” corrected Nat grimly.

    “Yes,” said Damian turning puce. “I mean, I’m sorry I held you all up, Uncle Nat. And Aunty Helen,” he added quickly, as Nat opened his mouth again.

    Hurriedly Nat turned away. His broad shoulders shook. “That’s better,” he said in a muffled voice.

    “Come along, Damian,” said Helen majestically. “You can give me your arm.”

    Damian didn’t know what this meant, but he said obediently: “Okay, Aunty Helen.” He pushed past his sister, who stood aside politely for him, and his cousin, who blocked his path and muttered gleefully: “Inconsiderate little jerk!” before letting him past. He ignored her; to his surprize he felt much better for it.

    He soon found out what Aunty Helen meant: you had to bend your arm and then she grabbed it and leant on you—gosh, she was heavy! Wonder what she weighs? he thought, eyeing her vast bulk in awe. As for the scent—phew! They went very slowly up the stairs, with Helen doing her best not to put too much weight on the boy’s spindly arm and wondering worriedly whether he was getting enough to eat at Mum’s—Mum didn’t know a thing about boys, and she ate like a bird, herself, and Dad didn’t eat that much, these days; and with Damian wondering if she was going to break his arm, and whether that scent was going to asphyxiate him—and somewhere, way, way back in his burgeoning male being, thoroughly enjoying it all.

    Nat got to the top of the stairs first. “This is it. Pansy-looking place, eh?” He eyed the rag-rubbed lilac door, flanked by two tubs of hydrangeas; it said, in chaste gold script: “Chez Basil.”

    “The food had better be good,” said Helen threateningly. She panted.

    “Why don’tcha take that damn coat off?” he returned.

    Within the bright apricot satin evening coat, heavily trimmed with matching dyed swansdown, Helen’s massive bosom heaved indignantly. “It’s part of my outfit!”

    Nat eyed the nine-inch-wide strip of matching satin dress and the heaving cleavage that was visible between the two bands of apricot fluff. “You’d be much more comfortable without the damn co—”

    “No,” said Helen crossly. “And don’t swear.”

    “I think you look very smart, Aunty Helen,” said Carol loyally but untruthfully.

    “Thank you, dear,” said Helen, terribly pleased. She looked down her nose at Nat.

    “So do I,” said Damian. “Kind of like the Queen Mother.”

    “What?” said Helen. She glared at him suspiciously, as Nat gave a bellow of delighted laughter.

    Damian turned scarlet. His round brown eyes goggled at Helen in terror.

    “It was supposed to be a compliment,” explained Melanie tolerantly. “He’s a nerd.”

    Helen patted Damian’s hand. “Thank you, Damian, dear. But the Queen Mother is older than Grandma, you know.”

    “I didn’t mean…” said Damian in a strangled voice. “Anyway, she always looks nice, I think!” he finished defiantly, glaring at Melanie.

    “Don’t take any notice of Melanie,” said Helen comfortingly, “It was a very nice compliment.”

    Melanie put her hand over her mouth but a loud squeak of laughter escaped.

    Damian was even more agonized by Helen’s attempts to comfort him than he had been by his faux pas. He was unable to reply. Helen squeezed his hand. He wished he was ten foot underground.

     Melanie stood back to let the rest of the family precede her into the Chez Basil. She grabbed at Carol’s arm. “I don’t think she looks like the Queen Mother,” she hissed. “She looks more like the Queen Mary!”

    To her surprize Carol glared at her. “Talking of inconsiderate little jerks,” she said. She twitched away angrily and followed the others.

    Melanie registered with dismay that her eyes had filled with tears. “Oh, Gawd,” she muttered to herself. “Now what?” She shoved her hands into the pockets of her new, softly draped, pale blue nylon-jersey dress—which Helen had absolutely forbidden her to do—and mooched after the rest of them.

    “Look, Elspeth,” Mirry said encouragingly. “There’s a boy. He can’t be much older than you.”

    Elspeth looked without much interest at the group that had just come in. “Yeah,” she said. She could see the boy was miles older than her, but she knew it was pointless to say this to a grown-up. “This is migh-ty,” she said. She forked in another mouthful of Gary’s Terrine de Saumon Fumé aux Coquilles St Jacques, which Hamish had finally compromised on as less likely to make her throw up than the oysters. “You shoulda had it,” she said with her mouth full .

    “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” replied Hamish automatically. “Aye, it does look good.” He eyed it greedily. “Can I have a wee taste?”

    “No,” said Elspeth. She pushed his hovering hand away.

    Mirry giggled.

     Hamish smiled at her. “Is that nice, darling?”

    “Mm, delish. How are the mushrooms?”

    “Lovely; they’ve got garlic and olive oil and… I can’t identify it; some sort of herb, I think.”

    “Basil?”

    “Aye, l think it is,” he agreed.

    Elspeth stared at them.

    “Basil grows it,” explained Mirry. “I think Gary does use it for the mushrooms.”

    “What are you talking about?” demanded Elspeth crossly.

    “Basil,” said Hamish, his lips twitching.

    Suddenly Mirry put a hand on his. Reddening, he said to his daughter: “We’re not trying to pull your leg, lovey. Basil is the name of a herb, you see—as well as a man’s name.” He covered Mirry’s hand with his before she could withdraw it. She smiled at him in relief. Hamish smiled back. Mirry pinkened. “You look good enough to eat, yourself, in that cheongsam arrangement,” he said.

    Elspeth went red. She glanced round quickly to make sure that no-one had overheard. “Ooh, look!” she said. “There’s Charlie!”

    “Aye,” replied Hamish without interest, smiling into Mirry’s eyes and reluctantly releasing her hand.

    “With Danny’s mum,” discovered Elspeth, in an uncertain voice.

    “Mm—Caro Webber,” agreed Hamish. “I spotted them earlier.”

    “You should have said,” said Mirry. “We could have said hullo.”

    His eyes twinkled. “I didn’t think they wanted company.”

    “He’s kissing her hand!” gasped Elspeth in horror. “In the restaurant!”

    “Nae doot,” said Hamish indifferently.

    Elspeth stared into her now empty plate. Her ears were bright red.

    “Elspeth,” said Mirry gently, “people who are in love—grown-up people—do that sort of thing. I’ve told you before, haven’t I?”

    “Aye,” growled Elspeth, not looking at her.

    “It’s quite normal and—and natural,” pursued Mirry, rather desperately. “And Basil doesn’t mind. A lot of people come to restaurants—” She broke off. She couldn’t for the life her see how to finish that sentence.

    Hamish patted Elspeth’s hand. “A lot of people who are in love come to restaurants to have a nice quiet meal together—just the two of them. There’s lot of tables here with just two people at them, aren’t there?”

    She nodded silently.

    “It’s quite natural, like Mirry says, sweetheart,” he said. “Try not to be embarrassed; nobody else is.”

    Elspeth was still very red. “I didn’t think Charlie would do that.”

    “Charlie is a very nice man—almost as nice as Daddy,” said Mirry. “Lots of nice men do that.” She smiled at Hamish.

    Rather blindly he ate up his grilled mushrooms.

    Mirry looked at his bent red-gold head and felt she was almost bursting with love. She wanted to tell him this but was afraid of embarrassing poor Elspeth further. Eventually she slid her foot against his under the table. She felt his leg jump. He looked up quickly. She smiled into his eyes. Hamish turned scarlet. He looked down again quickly at his plate. Mirry could see his chest heaving. With a tiny, triumphant smile she withdrew her foot.

    At a much larger table on the other side of the room Helen sighed, and conceded:  “Maybe I will take my coat off after all, Nat.”

    “That’s the ticket!” He got up. “Let me give you a hand, old girl.” He came and helped her off with it. “Want it on the back of your chair?”

    “No; could you get them to hang it up?”

    Obligingly Nat agreed, and waved frantically at the waiter. Once the man had relieved him of the coat he sat down again and said to Carol, on his right opposite Helen: “How’s the drink?” He’d let her have a sweet vermouth.

    Carol smiled shyly. “It’s lovely, thanks.”

    “Good.”

    “Can I have a taste?” asked Melanie wistfully.

    Her father had earlier squashed her request for alcoholic refreshment. Carol looked uncertainly at him. Nat looked uncertainly at Helen. They all looked at Helen. “Well, if Carol wants to waste it on you—just a taste,” she decided. “And if you try and hog it you can go straight out and sit in the car.”

    This was no idle threat. “Aw, Mu-um!” protested Melanie. “Of course I won’t!”

    “Go on,” said Carol, passing her the glass. She watched anxiously but Melanie only took a tiny sip.

    “Mm,” she said, “it is quite nice. Not as nice as cherry brandy,” she decided.

    “And when the Hell did you have cherry brandy, Miss?” demanded Nat, staring at her.

    “Down at the bach—at Labour Weekend. Mum gave it to me!” said Melanie triumphantly.

    “Did she, just?” said Nat, stunned. He goggled at Helen.

    Unmoved, she said: “I thought it was time. After all, she’ll be sixteen next year.”

    Smugly Melanie reported: “We all had some: me, and Mum, and Aunty Veronica.”

    “Oh, didja? And where was l during this knees up?”

    “l dunno. Outside, or something. With Uncle Peter.”

    “Smoking filthy cigars,” said Helen in a deep voice. She sipped her own sweet martini genteelly.

    Nat choked on a mouthful of Perrier, remembering what he and Peter had talked about. “Oh! That evening.” He glanced cautiously at Carol. She was finishing her vermouth rather quickly before Damian could get in on the act and ask for a taste, too. Beyond her red-gold head, at the far side of the restaurant, he could see Hamish Macdonald’s red-gold head. He’d been wishing fervently for some time that they’d never come to the damn place. Shit.

    Food and drink had their usual soothing effect, and by the time Elspeth had almost waded through her tournedos, Hamish had eaten three-quarters of his pork and Mirry had managed half of the squid, they were in a very good mood. Elspeth had got over the shock of being faced with a large octagonal white plate on which reposed two small circles of meat in a little swirl of gravy and nothing else, Mirry had got over the shock of being faced with two bulging, overstuffed squid bodies where she’d expected one, and Hamish had got over having to explain to his daughter that the waiter would bring the vegetables in a minute.

    Mirry laid down her knife and fork with a little sigh.

    Hamish looked up quickly. She’d eaten nearly all of her vegetables, but she hadn’t touched the second squid. “Don’t you like it, darling?”

    “No, I do, it’s lovely. It’s just a bit much for me, that’s all.”

    “Try and eat a bit more, sweetheart,” he urged.

    “I won’t have room for pudding,” she said doubtfully.

    “Uh hon hee huff,” said Elspeth through a mouthful of potato. She swallowed. “Sorry,” she said quickly. “You don’t eat enough, Mirry.”

    “Aye, that’s right,” said Hamish anxiously.

    “You’ll get that rexia thing,” said Elspeth.

    The two pairs of grey-green eyes looked at her worriedly. Suddenly Mirry’s own eyes swam with tears. She looked quickly down at her plate.

    “Darling!” said Hamish in horror. “Don’t you feel we!!?”

    Mirry looked up, smiling and blinking the tears away. “I’m fine. It’s just... You both really care about me, don’t you?”

    They goggled at her.

    “You’re mad,” said Elspeth with conviction. “Of course we do.” She returned avidly to her dinner, apparently considering the conversation closed.

    Hamish laughed shakily. “Of course we do,” he agreed.

    Mirry looked at her plate again. “I really can’t eat all this; I’ll burst.”

    “No, all right, sweetheart; I didn’t mean to nag.”

    “My body isn’t as big as yours,” she explained.

    “Aye, well, thank God for that,” he murmured.

    “Stop it!” said Mirry, giggling.

    “Cuh hi—” began Elspeth thickly. She swallowed. “Can I have the rest of those carrots? Please,” she added quickly,

    “Will you have room for pudding?” asked Hamish doubtfully.

    “’Course I will!”

    “You don’t want to be sick,” said Mirry anxiously.

    Elspeth gave her a scornful look but didn’t bother to reply.

    “All right, go on,” said Hamish. “But that’s all.”

    Her face fell ludicrously. “All?” she said, very high-pitched.

    “He means,” said Mirry, trying not to laugh, “that you can’t have any more vegetables, not that you can’t have pudding.”

    “I knew that,” said Elspeth quickly. She scraped the carrots onto her plate and began to eat them. She swallowed nosily. “That—” she began.

    Simultaneously Hamish said to Mirry: “Veronica says—”

    They both stopped.

    “Go on, lovey,” Hamish said politely.

    Elspeth looked dubiously at him.

    “Ladies before gentlemen,” he said, smiling.

    “Well, I was only going to say,” she said rather uncertainly, “that that boy over there had three helpings of potatoes—I saw him. His daddy let him,” she added.

    Hamish and Mirry glanced over at Damian Rosen and said simultaneously: “He’s bigger than you.” They looked at each other and laughed.

    “I know that,” said Elspeth aggrievedly. “I think he’s greedy—don’t you?”

    “He’s a growing boy,” said Mirry. “They always eat like horses.”

    “Did you, Dad?” said Elspeth, eating up the last of what she thought was funny gravy but was actually one of Gary’s best sauces.

    “I can’t remember; I suppose I did,” he said vaguely. He glanced back over his shoulder again, frowning. “I’m sure I know those people,” he murmured.

    “I don’t,” said Mirry definitely. “I don’t think we know any families with teenagers round here, do we?”

    “Pam’s got teenagers!” Elspeth said indignantly.

    “The Andersons?” said Mirry. “Only one of them’s still a teenager, though, isn’t he?”

    This was an unfortunate remark, for it started Elspeth off. She recounted all of the Anderson boys’ ages and birthdays.

    “What were you going to say, anyway, Hamish?” prompted Mirry when she’d run down. “About Veronica.”

    “Eh? Oh—aye: Veronica says there’s a nice dining suite in that funny little antique shop about a mile south of Carter’s Bay.”

    “Let’s go up there next weekend, then.”

    “I thought we might go tomorrow; just the two of us.”

    “Aw, Da-ad!” cried Elspeth.

    “You’ve got school.”

    “It’s almost the end of term; I could miss a day!” she suggested eagerly.

    “No,” said Hamish, without even a pretence of interest in the matter. He looked at Mirry. “What do you say, darling?”

    “I’d love to; if you’re sure... Can you take the time off work?”

    “Aye; I’m the boss, remember? Right, that’s settled, then.”

    “Aw, Da-ad!” cried Elspeth.

    “That’ll do,” he said, but quite mildly. “You have lots of treats; Mirry doesn’t.”

    “This is a treat,” said Elspeth in surprize.

    “That’s what I mean,” he said, not looking at her.

    “No, for Mirry; I mean it’s a treat for Mirry, too!”

    “Is it?” said Hamish drily. “More like a trial by fire, I’d say.”

    Elspeth leaned back in her chair with a loud sigh. “I’m still hungry!” she complained. “What are we having for pudding?”

    Nat had kept a sharp eye on Carol and had been very relieved to see that not only had she eaten up her avocado and pineapple starter muck eagerly, she’d also made a damn good effort to get through her tournedos. “Can’tcha manage that last bit of meat, Carol?”

    Carol blushed. “I’m sorry, Uncle Nat,” she said shyly, “but I don’t think I’ll have any room for pudding if I eat it.”

    Beside her Melanie said eagerly: “I’ll have it.”

    “No, ya won’t,” said Nat. He leaned over and speared it neatly with his fork. He put it in his mouth and chewed juicily.

    Helen gave a little sigh. She had failed utterly in her attempt to convince Nat and Carol that neither of them should have the tournedos, because of the bacon round the steak. Of course, neither Becky nor Jim had set foot in the synagogue since their wedding, practically, but you’d think that Becky would at least have told the children... But Nat should know better—he did know better. She frowned. The fact that she’d succeeded in preventing Melanie from ordering the pork was no consolation whatever.

    Melanie sighed loudly. “I’m still hungry. That chicken wasn’t enough.”

    “Eat your peas, then,” said Nat. “Or l will,” he added.

    Melanie poked dubiously at her sugar-snap peas. “They’ve got their shells on.”

    “They’re supposed to, ya nong,” croaked Damian in his deepest voice.

    Helen had kept a sharp eye on Damian and had been very pleased to see him making an excellent meal. She had squashed Melanie’s attempt to beat him to the last of the potatoes and had very nearly sent her out to the car when she’d informed him that not only did he look like a pig, he also ate like one. She was more than ever convinced that Belinda wasn’t feeding him properly, and had made up her mind that they’d take him for the whole of the summer holidays and feed him up a bit. She had yet to break this news to Nat but was not in the least bit worried about doing so. She picked up the carrot dish. “Would you like to finish the carrots, Damian?”

    Damian gulped down his last mouthful of potato, nodding eagerly. “Yes, please, Aunty Helen.”

    “Damian,” she said cautiously when he was eating them: “does Grandma give you enough to eat?”

    “No,” said Damian with his mouth full. He swallowed. “No,” he repeated.

    Both Nat and Melanie snorted disbelievingly.

    “Oh, dear!” said Helen in distress.

    Damian shovelled in more carrots.

    “Mum, if you believe that you’d believe anything,” said Melanie. She ate a pea. It was quite nice. She ate another.

    “I’m hungry all the time,” said Damian simply. “Grandma never gives me enough meat.” He eyed the uneaten piece of potato on Helen’s plate.

    “There you are: I knew it!” she said.

    “Honestly, Mum!” said Melanie scornfully.

    “I eat a lot of bread,” said Damian wistfully. “To fill me up—you know.”

    “Well, that’s true, anyway,” said Carol uncertainly. “Last time I was round at Grandma’s he ate half a loaf of sliced bread before tea.”

    “Right!” said Helen, nodding. “That settles it!”

    “Settles what?” asked Nat blankly.

    “Never mind,” she replied majestically.

    “Aunty Helen,” croaked Damian wistfully, “are you going to finish that bit of potato?”

    “What? Oh—no; would you like it, dear?”

    He nodded vigorously; Helen passed him her plate.

    Nat, Melanie and Carol all laughed unkindly.

    Helen bridled. “That’ll do! He’s a growing boy!”

    Damian ignored this byplay; he ate the last of Helen’s potato and for good measure a bit of chicken gravy that she’d left on the plate.

    “Mirry,” said Elspeth in a hoarse whisper that could have been heard from at least three yards away: “I need to go to the toilet.”

    “Go on, then,” said Hamish.

    She reddened and looked at him reproachfully.

    “You shouldn’t have had that second Coke. It’s over there; off you go.” He nodded vaguely in the direction of the pale blue screen that veiled the lilac door that said “Toilettes”. “It’s the one that says ‘Dames’, not the one that says ‘Hommes’,” he added, beginning to enjoy himself.

    Mirry got up quickly. “Come on. I think I’ll go, too, before the dessert comes.”

    “Dames,” ascertained Elspeth in English, when they got there.

    “Ye-es; well, it’s ‘Dames’, really; it’s French for ‘Ladies’; the other one is French for ‘Men’.”

    Elspeth stood in front of the door that said “Hommes”.

    “Blue for a boy,” she said pleasedly. “—I don’t see how it can mean ‘Men’.”

    Mirry was incapable of explaining this. “French is different from English,” she said vaguely. “Just like Maori is different,” she added hopefully. “Don’t stand there, Elspeth.”

    Elspeth moved away just as a large man came out. He gave her a curious look.

    “I told you not to stand there!” hissed Mirry. “Come on!” She dragged Elspeth through the pink door that said “Dames”.

    The large man was Nat Weintraub and he had given Elspeth a curious look not because she’d been standing in front of the Gents’ but because he’d recognized her as the little girl who’d been at Macdonald’s table. She must be his daughter. The other girl, though, now he’d got a close look at her, was not Macdonald’s daughter, he was sure. Not his type, really—but what a little honey! Those big slanted eyes, and the long black hair; and those delicious little tits; so many girls these days seemed to be as flat as pancakes, but she very definitely wasn’t. In spite of his strenuous and prolonged encounters with Phoebe over the last couple of weeks—which had more than made up for the fact that Brenda and that husband of hers had unexpectedly taken off for Queensland permanently, they’d had a huge win on the Melbourne Cup this November—and of what he fully intended for tonight, which was going to be a real treat for old Hell’s Bells, a familiar warmth invaded his genital area. Gor, he thought: Macdonald’s a lucky sod!

    It wasn’t until he reached his own table again that it dawned on him that Carol was in the Ladies’ at this precise moment. He felt rather odd, and sat down quickly, grabbing the wine bottle before Helen could stop him and filling his glass.

    “Nat—!” she began angrily.

    He swallowed, and shuddered slightly. “Just the one,” he said, avoiding her eye.

    “Are you all right?” she asked sharply.

    “Yeah. ’Course. No, well,” he said on a weak note: “been a long day eh? Just felt like a wee belt.” He looked round. “Where’s that damn waiter? I want my pudding!”

    “So do I,” agreed Melanie.

    “Me, too,” croaked Damian.

    Helen sighed. She'd better just have fruit salad—without cream: the gravy on that chicken had been very rich… Oh, well.

    In spite of himself Nat began to brood about Carol and Macdonald, again. Some people would say the kid had a right to know, he supposed gloomily. Actually, some people would say Macdonald had a right to know, too; only personally, he’d rather give the joker a swift kick where it’d do most g—

    “Nat!” said Helen sharply.

    Nat jumped violently.

    “The dessert trolley,” said Helen with heavy patience.

    The pansy maître d’ was smirking at him. “Aw—yeah. –Where’s Carol?”

    “I’m here!” said Carol indignantly.

    “Oh—so you are,” he said sheepishly. “I’ll have the pavlova, ta.”

    “The pavlova’s got strawberries on it: early strawberries will give you a rash,” Helen pointed out.

    “It is December,” said Nat sulkily.

    “Early December,” replied Helen firmly.

    Melanie snickered. She raised her spoon over her huge mound of strawberried pavlova.

    “Don’t start,” said Helen in an iron voice: “the adults haven’t all been served, yet.”

    “We have another pavlova in the kitchen with peeled grapes on it, sir,” said the pansy maître d’. “Absolutely delicious, I assure you; and not acid.”

    “Oh—all right; that’d be nice; thanks,” Nat agreed.

    “Now is everyone else quite happy?” fluted the maître d’. “Splen-did! I’ll be back in one sec, sir.” He waffled off.

    “Ya know what he’s gonna do, don’tcha?” said Nat to the table at large. “He’s gonna take those strawberries off that other pav on the bottom of ’is trolley and put grapes on it, instead.”

    Melanie gave a huge snort of laughter.

    “Rubbish!” said Helen.

    Damian said in a sort of hoarse wail: “I haven’t got any pudding! He forgot me!”

    “Oh, dear!” cried Helen. “Poor boy!°

    “He asked if everybody was happy—why didn’tcha speak up, ya nong?” demanded Nat.

    Damian looked confused. He was happy; he hadn’t been sure whether the man had meant did he want pudding, and he’d felt shy about speaking up.

    To his horror his Aunty Helen put her warm, pale hand over his knobbly one and said: “He was shy, poor boy; never mind, Damian, the man’s coming back.”

    Melanie gave a snort of laughter. “Shy? He’s a nerd, ya mean!”

    “That’ll do,” said Helen mildly. She squeezed Damian’s hand—it hurt, hers was laden with rings—and released him.

    “Can I start now?” asked Melanie plaintively.

    Nat opened his mouth to say: “Yeah, go on.”

    “No,” said Helen. “Have some manners.”

    Melanie looked gloomily at her pudding. She looked at Carol’s. “Yours look nice,” she said. “What is it?”

    “Black Bottom Pie.”

    Melanie gave an explosive giggle.

    “That’ll do,” said Helen mildly.

    “That is its name, Aunty Helen,” Carol assured her anxiously.

    “Yes, I know, dear.”

    Nat noted cheerfully: “Mel doesn’t, though; she’s a right little ignoramus.” Carol tried not to laugh. He patted her hand. “That’ll put a bit of meat on your bones, eh, sweetheart?”

    “Ye-es,” she agreed. “It’s an awfully big piece, though; I didn’t realize he’d give me so much.”

    Nat eyed it greedily. “I could always finish it off for ya—”

    “You will not!” said Helen. “It must have a million calories in it: do you want to drop dead of a heart attack?” She eyed the pie gloomily. It was about a million years since she’d dared to eat Black Bottom Pie, herself.

    “No, you mustn’t, Uncle Nat,” agreed Carol.

    The big eyes looked at him anxiously. Nat pinched her chin. “Cheer up, Poppet; I’m not gonna drop dead of a heart attack just yet; old Iron Lady here”—he jerked his head at Helen—“won’t bloody well let me!”

    Helen said grimly: “Just as well one of us has the sense to watch your diet. And Heaven only knows what rubbish you stuff yourself with at lunchtime!”

    “I hardly ever have a big lunch!” said Nat indignantly. He became aware that Carol had gone very red and was staring at him in a sort of stupor. “That was a special occasion,” he said. “Those crays were good, eh?”

    “Yes,” she agreed faintly. She shot a glance at Aunty Helen and was relieved to see that she wasn’t looking cross with him.

    “Why don’t you ever take me out to lunch?” said Melanie in a whiny voice.

    “Ugh!” said Damian hoarsely. “Need you ask?” He chuckled nastily.

    Nat ignored this and said to Melanie: “Because you’re not in your last term at school, Miss. I’ll take you out when you are.”

    Melanie turned scarlet with gratification “Promise?”

    “Yeah—’course I promise. You, too, Damian, if you like,” he added.

    Damian, too, turned scarlet with gratification. “Yeah, that’d be okay,” he agreed.

    “Not at the same time,” said Melanie quickly.

    Nat chuckled. Melanie’s round face was very, very pink; her blue eyes were round with a kind of desperate earnestness. Damian’s longer, thinner face—that kid was getting a real schnozz on him like his ruddy grandfather’s: pity, that—was an unlovely tomato shade, and his dark brown eyes were as round and desperate as Melanie’s. In spite of the physical and sexual differences between them the blood relationship suddenly appeared quite clearly to Nat: they looked extraordinarily alike. “No,” he reassured them. “Separately—different days.”

    “Ooh, tha-anks, Dad,” breathed Melanie.

    “Yeah; thanks, Uncle Nat,” growled Damian.

    Helen twisted round in her chair and said crossly: “Where is that man?”

    “I toleja,” said Nat happily. “He’s whipping them strawberries off—”

    “‘Those’,” said Helen crossly. “Honestly, Nat! Your grammar! What sort of example is that for the children?”

    Nat grinned, unabashed. “Prob’ly peeling the bloody grapes ’imself.”

    The young people giggled.

    “Nonsense,” said Helen in a very weak voice.

    Nat, of course, was quite right. Basil had wheeled the dessert trolley smoothly out to the kitchen. Once there, he hissed furiously at Murray, the sous-chef: “I told you not everybody likes strawberries! Why didn’t you use some of those grapes?”

    “I couldn’t? There weren’t enough left? Gary used them? In the sauce for the chicken?” Murray replied in a series of interrogatives—a habit which got on Basil's nerves terribly.

    Basil turned to crossly to Gary. “Lover, you are hopeless! I told you I needed grapes for my puddings!”

    “Yeah, and I told you I needed them for my chicken,” replied Gary mildly. “I said you should have bought more, but you’re such a skinflint.”

    “Skinflint!” cried Basil, nostrils dilating dangerously.—Jeremy, their student help, backed away into an unobtrusive corner.—“Whose economies pulled this business out of the red, may I ask? Not yours, lover, let me tell you! Cream with this, cream with that, asparagus out of season, peaches out of season, all those egg yolks gone to waste, saffron at a hundred dollars a pinch—”

    “Balls,” said Gary brutally. “It wasn’t your miserable economies—which by the way have done their best to drag my reputation in the mud—It was that ruddy great loan from Jake Carrano that pulled this dump out of the red! And how you can have the brass face to charge him for his dinner, after all Polly and him have done for us—”

    “I do not!” cried Basil. “That is a downright lie! And anyway he insists on paying! And anyway, it wasn’t him, at all, it was Polly that—”

    “Crap,” said Gary briefly, turning his back. “It was his dough.”

    “But Polly talked him into it!” cried Basil with a sob in his voice. “He’d never have lent us a brass razzoo off his own bat—and don’t you turn your back on me!” His bosom heaved passionately.

    Jeremy squashed himself further into his corner, but his eyes were glued to the pair of them. Murray was unmoved: he sniffed and began to grate chocolate.

    Gary said patiently: “Baz, we’re in the middle of dinner. Can’t this wait?” He began to pipe cream onto another Black Bottom Pie.

    Basil gave a sob. Nobody took any notice, except Jeremy, who swallowed nervously.

    “Get over here and chop those cherries? Like I told you?” said Murray crossly. “What the Hell do you think you’re doing?”

    Jeremy edged out of his corner, Adam’s apple bobbing. He picked up a knife but his eyes were on Basil.

    “Get on with it,” said Murray angrily, “or I’ll chop your bloody cherry off for ya!”

    Jeremy went scarlet. Silently he began to chop Maraschino cherries in half.

    “Is that chocolate ready?” Gary asked Murray.

    “Yeah; shove us over the pie?”

    Gary handed the pie carefully to Murray and Murray carefully laid slivers of chocolate on it.

    “Yes, that’s pretty,” the chef approved. “Where are the cherries?`

    “What about my grapes?” wailed Basil.

    “Get out and pick some,” said Gary unkindly. “—These aren’t very neat, Jeremy.”

    “Sorry, Mr McNeish, I mean Chef! I didn’t realize they were for the top!” gasped Jeremy.

    “Yeah, well, ya been promoted,” said Gary drily. “They’ll have to do; but do ’em neater next time, eh?”

    “Yes,” whispered Jeremy.

    “I promised a customer!” wailed Basil. “What’ll I do?”

    Gary and Murray ignored him.

    Jeremy cleared his throat. “Um, Mr Keating—”

    “What?” said Basil sulkily.

    “Um, there are some left.”

    “Where?” cried Basil.

    “Over here.” Jeremy produced a bowl in which sat half a dozen large grapes. He didn’t reveal that Gary had given them to him to eat.

    “Darling boy! My life-saver!” cried Basil.

    Jeremy blenched. He stood aside quickly as Basil swooped, but to his terrific relief he was only swooping on the grapes.

    “Now! Where’s my trolley?” cried Basil. “Jeremy, darling, hand me that pav—yes, that one down there—no, put it on the bench, here.”

    Jeremy put the pavlova on the bench.

    “Now,” said Basil, “let me think!” He cast his eyes up to Heaven, took a deep breath, and closed them.

    Gary sighed. He removed the sticky, empty Black Bottom Pie platter from the trolley and put the fresh pie in its place. “That’s gone well tonight,” he said to Murray.

    “Yeah: it’s the pre-Christmas crowd?” agreed Murray. “Eating themselves silly, as per usual?”

    “Yes; we’ll put it back on the lunch menu,” decided Gary,

    Trevor shot in. “Three crème caras!” he announced on a triumphant note.

    “Thank God,” said Gary. “l thought they were never gonna move.”

    “All those egg yolks gone to waste?” said Murray slyly. He got three crème caramels out of the fridge.

    “And where’s the trolley?” said Trevor crossly. “We’ve got four tables out there panting for pudding!”

    Josie, the waitress who was Mirry’s replacement, shot in. “Two lemon sorbs, one rasp sorb and we need the trolley!” she panted.

    “I’ve just told ’em,” said Trevor. He grabbed the trolley, now complete with his crème caramels, and shot out.

    “Come here,” said Gary with a sigh. “Turn round.” He retied the bow of Josie’s minute organdie apron. “Why can’t you look neat?”

    “I dunno,” said Josie cheerfully. “Those sorbs ready?”

    Murray had swiftly decorated the lemon sorbets with a twist of peel and two angelica slivers each, and the raspberry one with a whole raspberry and one angelica sliver. “Here?”

     “Ta.” She grabbed them and shot out.

    Over at the bench Basil had ordered Jeremy to dispose of the strawberries that had been on the pavlova.

    “Where?”

    Basil was peeling grapes with shaking fingers. “I don’t know! Why can’t anyone else make a simple decision round here? Why don’t you eat them?”

    Jeremy ate the strawberries.

    “Get me some of those angelica leaves,” he said tensely.

    “Yes, Mr Keating. Um—what sort of leaves?”

    “My God!” cried Basil. “Where do these pathetic children come from? An-gel-i-ca leaves, you tiny cretin!”

    “Cut it out, Baz,” said Gary on a cross note. “Here ya go, kid.” He handed Jeremy a dish of angelica shapes.

    Basil’s final effort was a froth of green angelica slivers and green mint leaves—Jeremy had known what they were, fortunately—with the half-dozen grapes forming a sort of centrepiece.

    “There!” he cried. “It’s too pretty to eat!”

    “Just as well,” said Gary drily, “’cos I bet that customer’s gone home by now.”

    “Gosh, I’m full!” said Melanie. “That second lot of pav was extra!” She gave a sigh of repletion.

    “When it came,” said Nat, but only as a matter of form, for he was mellowed by food.

    Damian had had a huge helping of Basil’s overdressed pavlova as well as a huge slice of Black Bottom Pie. He sighed, too.

    Helen had broken down not only so far as to let Melanie and Carol start their puddings (and in Melanie’s case also finish) before Nat got his, but also so far as to have a slice of Basil’s pavlova. She felt much better, even though telling herself she’d have to diet strictly for the next week. “Have you had enough, Damian, dear?” she asked.

    “Mu-um!” said Melanie. “He’s absolutely bloated: look at him!”

    Helen looked tolerantly at Damian’s face, which did, indeed, present a shiny and somewhat stretched appearance.

    “Yes, thanks, Aunty Helen,” he croaked, manfully ignoring his cousin.

    “Anyone for coffee?” asked Nat.

    “Yes, please!” said Melanie immediately.

    “Not you; this place serves real coffee.”

    “How do you know? You said you’d never been here before!” she cried indignantly.

    “Peter told me,” said Nat mildly.

    “Uncle Peter?”

    “Nah: Peter Pan,” said Nat. He made a face at her.

     Damian and Carol laughed.

    “Well, it coulda been another Peter,” said Melanie defensively.

    “No it couldn’t; ole Peter knows all the good restaurants.”

    “Uncle Peter?”

    Damian grinned. “Uncle Peter, Uncle Peter, Pretty Polly, Pretty Polly, Uncle Peter!” he croaked.

    Melanie made a face at him. “Well, anyway,” she said, “I can’t see it.”

    “Can’t see what?” said Helen blankly.

    “Uncle Peter,”—she glared at Damian—“in this environment.”

    “Environment?” said Damian to himself. He shook his head wonderingly.

    “I toleja,” Nat said to Melanie. “He knows all the good places—dates from his bachelor days; quite a lad, ole Peter was, ya know: not ‘a bachelor gay’!” He gave a dirty chuckle.

    “Nat—” warned Helen.

    Melanie gave a scoffing laugh. “Aw, come off it, Dad. Uncle Peter!” She laughed again.

    Damian was too amused at the thought of Aunty Veronica’s husband as “quite a lad” to react to the fact that Melanie was doing her parrot act again; he laughed, too.

    Carol ventured dubiously: “Do you mean Uncle Peter had girlfriends?”

    “Scads of ’em!” Nat said cheerfully. He gave another dirty laugh. “I could tell you a few tales about hi—” He caught Helen’s awful eye, and stopped.

    “That’ll do,” she said majestically. She got up. “I’m going to the powder room,” she announced. “And while I’m away you can order me a coffee.”

    “Sure you wouldn’t like a brandy, old girl?” said Nat hopefully.

    “No,” said Helen, giving him a hard look. She looked around her for some responsible deputy, and fell back on Carol. “Carol,” she said commandingly, “see that your uncle doesn’t order himself a brandy.” With that she sailed majestically away.

    “Dad,” said Melanie, leaning forward eagerly the minute she was out of earshot, “did Uncle Peter really have loads of girlfriends?”

    Nat chuckled. “Too right! Talk about a ladies’ man! Phew!” He shook a hand as if he’d burnt it, and chuckled again. “Jesus, I could tell you—” he began. One pair of round blue eyes, one pair of round brown eyes, and one pair of soft grey-green eyes were fixed on him avidly. “No, I couldn’t! Where the Hell’s that damned waiter?” He looked round crossly.

    “I can’t believe it!” said Melanie. “Uncle Peter? He’s not the type.”

    “Gosh, no,” agreed Damian.

    “Balls,” said Nat. “Where the Hell is that waiter? –He’s got charm,” he said in a vague voice, peering round for the waiter. “Well, you oughta know,” he added to his daughter, turning back: “you turn cartwheels if he so much as looks as ya.”

    “I do not!” cried Melanie, going very red. “I can’t even do cartwheels!”

    “Metaphorical cartwheels, silly,” said Carol, before Nat could reply. “Yes, you do, Melanie; I’ve noticed.”

    “Yeah, ya go all silly and giggly,” agreed Damian.

    “I do not! You’re all horrible! I’m going to the Ladies’!” She bounced up and rushed off.

    “She does,” said Damian defensively.

    “Yeah, ’course she does,” Nat agreed. “Ole Peter can wind the womenfolk round ’is little finger; poor little Mel doesn’t stand a chance.” He chuckled. “Putty in ‘is hands!”

    Damian laughed. Carol smiled.

    “Ah!” said Nat, catching the waiter’s eye. “Some coffees, here. –You two want coffee?”

    “Yes, please, Uncle Nat,” said Damian quickly.

    Carol blushed. “No, thanks, I don’t think I will, not if it’s very strong.”

    “Would you care for a café au lait, Miss?” asked Trevor politely.

    “Is that, um, with milk?” she said to Nat.

    “Yeah, that’s right—wouldja like that, sweetheart?”

    She nodded, blushing again. “Yes, please, Uncle Nat.”

    “Right;”—he glanced at Damian—“make that three café au laits, and two black coffees, then.”

    “Certainly, sir. Would you like brandy—liqueurs?”

    Nat winked at Carol. “Nah—we’re not allowed to, are we?”

    She blushed again.

    When the waiter had gone Damian made elaborate coughing and shuffling noises and finally took himself off to the Gents’.

    Nat sighed. “I could do with a decent cigar,” he said to Carol.

    “Aunty Helen wouldn’t like it,” she replied.

    “No. Never think she had a weak stomach, to look at her, wouldja?”

    “I don’t know...” she said slowly. “Appearances can be deceptive, can’t they? Look at Uncle Peter. I’d never thought about it, before; I mean, I hardly know him, really; bet you’re right, he has got charm, hasn’t he? And you’re absolutely right about Melanie; she—she practically purrs if he smiles at her!”

    “Yeah, that’s right,” agreed Nat, grinning. “She’s his type, of course.”

    Carol looked at him in surprize.

    “Well, look at Veronica: big blonde woman—wide hips, great tits! Melanie’ll be a dead ringer for her in another twenty years. Well, a bit shorter, maybe.”

    “Ooh, yes; so she will,” said Carol in an awed tone.

    “Mind you—” said Nat, chuckling richly. He looked sideways at her. “Helen isn’t exactly immune to old Peter, either.”

    “Uncle Nat!” she said dazedly.

    “Think about it, Poppet,” he said smugly.

    Carol thought about it. Her cheeks pinkened. “Ooh, yes,” she discovered.

    Their eyes met. He winked. Carol dissolved in giggles.

    The restaurant was slowly starting to empty, now, and there was a much better view from Elspeth’s table of the family party at the other side of the room. “See that girl over there?” she said to her father.

    Hamish sipped black coffee. He was dying for a malt; he was also dying for Mirry. He felt a surge of pleasurable anticipation on both counts. “Where?” he replied vaguely.

    “Over there!” said Elspeth, nodding energetically. She knew she wasn’t allowed to point in public, though she rarely bothered with this nicety now. “The girl with the ginger hair!”

    “Oh, yes,” said Mirry, sitting up and taking notice. “The girl we saw in the Ladies! –Look, Hamish: there’s a girl over there who looks just like you!”

    Hamish looked round vaguely. “Nonsense,” he said mildly.

    “It isn’t nonsense, Dad,” urged Elspeth: “she looks exactly like you—doesn’t she, Mirry?”

    “Yes, she does, really, Hamish; it’s quite extraordinary. Well, her features are more delicate, I suppose, but—”

    Hamish looked, a dubious expression on his face. Certainly the thin girl in the pale green dress had red hair, but... “Just because she’s got red hair—”

    “It’s just like yours, Dad.”

    He touched his silvering temples and made a face. “I hope not!”

    “Don’t be silly; not that; but it’s short and curly, just like yours!”

    He looked at the girl again, not as if he was interested, but as if he was humouring his female belongings.

    “And she’s got the same sort of face!” added Elspeth.

    He gave a crack of laughter. “Poor girl!”

    “Dad, be serious!” said Elspeth crossly”

    He looked tolerantly over at the red-headed girl and said: “Aye, well, I suppose there is a resemblance; but it’s a fairly common type, you know.”

    “No, it isn’t,” said Mirry in surprize. “I don’t know anyone else who looks like you.”

    “Nor do I!” agreed Elspeth loyally.

    Hamish looked at the two earnest, dark-haired little figures and smiled. “Och, well, it is in Scotland. So what?”

    Mirry and Elspeth didn’t know so what. They adored him; that girl looked like him; it was interesting and rather exciting to them. They looked at each other uncertainly.

    Finally Elspeth said, sounding rather sulky: “It’s interesting, that’s all.”

    “Yes,” agreed Mirry.

    Hamish sipped his coffee, frowning a little. He was sure he knew the middle-aged couple at the red-haired girl’s table—though the tribe of teenagers didn’t seem familiar...

    “You know our moles?” said Elspeth to Mirry. “These ones, I mean,” she said, putting her hand on her bony salt-cellar. There was a tiny mole beside it. Hamish had one exactly like it—you couldn’t see it at the moment, but it was there all right.

    “What about them?” replied Mirry.

    “Well, she’s got one exactly the same!” said Elspeth, leaning eagerly across the table and speaking with great energy.

    “How do you know?” asked Mirry in trepidation.

    “I saw it, of course.”

    “Elspeth, when I was in the toilet... Did you stare at her?”

    “No!” said Elspeth, reddening. “I only looked. I had to look at something. And she was looking at herself in the mirror, she was doing her hair, and putting on more lipstick. –Is she a girl or a lady?” she demanded, frowning.

    “A big girl: she’d be about seventeen or— Don’t change the subject!”

    “I’m not!” said Elspeth in indignant surprize.

    “Yes, you— Elspeth,” said Mirry in horror, “when I was in the toilet, and you said to the girl: ‘I’ve got one just like that,’ were you talking about her mole?”

    “Yes, of course.”

    “Oh, Elspeth,” said Mirry in despair.

    “What’s wrong with that?” demanded Elspeth, bristling.

    Hamish hadn’t been listening: he was looking at the Weintraubs, trying to remember where he’d seen them before. He became aware of something in the atmosphere. He looked round. “What’s she done?” he said resignedly.

    “Nothing!” said Elspeth crossly.

    Mirry was looking flushed and despairing. “She’s been making personal remarks to strange ladies in toilets!”

    “No, I haven’t! Anyway, you just said she was a girl, not a lady.”

    Hamish stared at her. “What on earth did you say?”

     Elspeth glared, very red, and was silent.

    “What did she say?” he said to Mirry.

    “Well, I was in the toilet at the time,” said Mirry in a very high voice, “so I don’t know exactly what happened; but I gather she stared at that red-haired girl’s throat and told her she had a mole just like hers!”

    “Did you?

    “So what?” she said sulkily.

    “Lovey,” he said, trying not to laugh, “that wasn’t very nice, was it? You might have embarrassed the poor girl.”

    “Yes,” said Mirry: “it was rude!”

    Elspeth pouted. “Moles aren’t rude,” she muttered.

    “You see?” said Mirry despairingly. “She doesn’t even understand! –Mum was right,” she added gloomily.

    “About what?” asked Hamish suspiciously.

    Mirry glared at the tablecloth. “She said I was too young to look after Elspeth properly. She said she needed an older woman’s hand.”

    “Oh, did she?” he said grimly.

    Mirry looked up doubtfully.

    “Listen, sweetheart,” he said firmly: “in the first place, that was just Kay’s way of angling for an invitation to stay—which she isn’t going to get,” he added grimly. “Well, not for more than a long weekend at the most,” he conceded.

    Mirry was looking more hopeful.

    “And in the second place,” said Hamish carefully, “I don’t think there’s any need for to feel you have to try to—uh—enforce Kay’s standards. Elspeth and I love you as you are; we don’t want you to turn yourself into a miniature Kay; and Elspeth may not have the—e-er—the subtlest of personalities,”—he smiled slightly—-“but I really don’t think she’s going to the dogs—do you?”

    “No,” she admitted.

    “No,” agreed Elspeth with satisfaction. She gurgled in her glass through her straw.

    Hamish glanced at her. “I don’t know about the dogs, but you can go off to the Ladies’ again after that huge drink.”

    “But—”

    “Go.”

    Elspeth went.

    Mirry was looking down at the tablecloth again.

    “Do you see what I mean, darling?” he said gently.

    “Yes,” she said huskily. She looked up suddenly. “Sometimes I can feel myself being just like Mum; and I don’t mean to; but I don’t know what to do about it!”

    “Aye; it’s the mothers and daughters thing, isn’t it?” Mirry looked at him gratefully. “I read a book about it,” he said vaguely. “Darling, just try not to worry too much about the little things.”

    “I know,” she said huskily. “Only sometimes there’s things I feel she ought to know.”

    “Aye; but she’s still only a little girl. And I’ll jump on her good and hard if she gets out of line, never you fear.”

    “Good. That really helps.”

    “Aye.” He hesitated. “In a way your mother’s right... Dammit, there’s only about ten years between you!”

    “Yes, but— I love Elspeth: she’s part of you,” said Mirry in a low voice. She swallowed. “And anyway, I like her,” she added in a more normal tone.

    “Aye, I know. I’ll try and take as much of it off your shoulders as I can, sweetheart. Anyway—” He stopped.

    “What?”

    He’d almost said “You’ll be free of her, these holidays.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve been pretty well swamped, this year, with the new building not being ready, and coping with the damned students when we weren’t expecting to do any teaching—anyway, next year should be a lot easier: more relaxed; I’ll have a bit more time to spend with the pair of you.”

    “Yes, good. That’ll be great!” Suddenly she smiled, and leaned over the table towards him. “I hope she isn’t talking to any more ladies in there about their moles!” she hissed.

    Hamish chuckled. “Aye; mebbe you’d better go and winkle her out?”

    She got up, grinning. “Yes; that’s one thing you can’t do for me, isn’t it? –I dunno, though,” she added pointedly. “In that skirt—!” She gave a loud giggle and hurried off before he could reply.

    “Who is that man?” said Helen abruptly. “I’m sure I know him. He keeps looking at us.” –Hamish’s womenfolk were still immured in the ladies’ lavatory; if he looked the other way, he could see Caro and Charlie holding hands and looking into each other’s eyes; being caught watching them would be embarrassing for them all, so he was again staring vaguely over towards the family group, trying to remember where he’d met the large lady and gentleman. He’d got as far as associating them vaguely with Peter.

    Carol turned her head. “Oh; that man. I think he’s the father of that funny little girl I met in the toilet.”

    Nat followed their gaze. He turned puce, and buried his nose in his coffee cup.

    “What funny little girl, dear?” asked Helen interestedly.

    “I don’t know whether you’d have noticed her, Aunty Helen; she’s wearing a blue dress; she’d be about eleven or twelve, I think.”

    “I noticed her,” said Melanie gloomily. “I was never allowed to wear a dress like that when I was her age. And she’s got shoes with high heels, too. Well, small high heels,” she amended, as her mother looked at her disbelievingly.

    “Oh, yes,” said Helen. “A skinny little girl with black hair; yes, that dress is most unsuitable; I don’t know what her mother can be thinking of, to dress the child up like that, she looks like—” She broke off.

    “A miniature tart,” finished Nat unthinkingly.

    “Nat Weintraub!” said Helen, scandalized. “Like nothing on earth, I was going to say,” she ended majestically, if not altogether truthfully.

    “Anyway, what’s funny about her?” asked Melanie.

    “It was just... Well, I was doing my hair,” said Carol, “and she was waiting for the lady who’s with her—I don’t think she is her mother,” she added in a doubtful aside.

    “And?” said Melanie impatiently.

    “It’s silly, really... Well, she was looking at me in the mirror, you know; well, she was staring, really; and I suppose I looked at her... And she suddenly said,”—Carol’s hand went to the base of her slender throat—“‘I’ve got one just like that,’ and I realized she was staring at my mole;”—they all stared fixedly at her throat, but couldn’t see the mole because her hand was over it—“and the funny thing was, she did have, too: in just the same place!”

    “I’ve never noticed you had a mole,” said Melanie.

    “Yeah, ’course she has,” said Nat in a strangled voice.

    “Oh—” said Carol, taking her hand away in confusion. “Yes; just here, see?”

    They all peered at Carol’s mole.

    “You’ve always had that,” said Damian, without interest.

    “It’s not a very big mole,” said Melanie.

    “It isn’t a blemish, dear,” Helen reassured her niece. “At a certain period moles were considered to add considerably to a woman’s beauty—in the right place, of course.”

    Nat choked, in spite of his inner turmoil.

    “Yeah; not on the end of her nose,” agreed Melanie innocently. “Was hers exactly like yours?”

    “Yes; well, as far as I could see. It was in exactly the same place. Funny, wasn’t it?”

    “Spooky!” agreed Melanie pleasurably.

    “Odd,” conceded Helen.

    “Rubbish!” said Nat, too loudly. His womenfolk all stared at him. Damian had lost interest. He was wondering what Grandpa was going to give him for Christmas. Maybe a second disk drive? Then he could copy all those disks of Simeon’s and Mike’s... It wouldn’t be a motorbike, of course... Disk drives didn’t cost all that much...

    “Lots of people have moles,” Nat said defensively. “Nothing funny about it! I’ve got moles.” He glared at Helen. “You’ve got moles: you’ve got one on ya bum; what’s more, so has Mel, here!” Immediately realizing this genetic reference was absolutely the wrong tack, he added loudly before his purpling wife and child could respond: “Dare say Damian’s got moles, too: haven’tcha?” He glared at his nephew.

    “I think that’s quite enough on the subject of moles,” said Helen, very firmly. Her slab-like cheeks had taken on a mottled hue. Really, Nat was too much; and in front of the children, too! And poor Melanie, she’d gone as red as a beet; fancy saying that about the poor child in front of her cousin! The fact that Damian hadn’t reacted in any way whatsoever to the news of the mole on Melanie’s bum didn’t influence her to abate her mental censuring of Nat one iota.

    “Yes,” Nat agreed hastily. “What we were talking about, anyhow?”

    “That man,” said Melanie. “Over there: the one with red hair.” She turned right round and stared. “Actually he looks a bit like Carol,” she announced.

    Nat could cheerfully have strangled her. He would have suggested they leave, but unfortunately Helen was only halfway through her coffee, and he didn’t dare risk getting her any more riled up.

    “Nonsense,” said Helen automatically. She peered across the room. “I’m sure I’ve met him, though.”

    “Put your glasses on, Mum; then you might be able to see him,” suggested Melanie mildly.

    “That’ll be quite enough out of you, Miss!” said Nat quickly. Melanie glared: she hadn’t forgiven him about her mole.

    Helen said: “I really only need them for the TV—and driving, of course.” She always said that, so her relatives ignored her. “Oh, well...” she said. She fumbled in her handbag.

    “Have you finished your coffee, old lady?” said Nat quickly.

    “No,” Helen replied crossly, “and don’t call me that!” She put her glasses on and stared at Hamish.

    Melanie turned round again and stared, too.

    “Melanie, don’t stare like that, for Heaven’s sake!” Helen hissed.

    Melanie turned back, grinning. “I know why he looks like Carol!” she discovered gleefully. “He’s swearing a skirt!” She collapsed in snorting giggles.

    “It’s a kilt, ya great raving nong,” said Damian scornfully. “He must be Scotch.”

    “Surely—” said Helen. “Nat, isn’t he Peter’s boss at the Institute? I’ve forgotten his name... We met him at Veronica and Peter’s wedding; and then at dinner, once, at their place—you must remember. He is Scottish, that’s right. Oh, dear, now what is his name?” She looked over at Hamish again, but the sight of him scowling at his watch failed to bring his name to mind. She looked back at her husband, and took her glasses off. “Nat!” she said crossly. “Are you listening?”

    “Yeah,” said Nat sulkily. “You reckon that joker in the skirt’s Peter’s boss, Whatsisname.” He shot a quick glance over at Hamish, not focussing on him. “Well, I don’t reckon it is him.”

    “Rubbish!” said Helen robustly. “Of course it is; he’s recognized us, too; that’s why he’s been looking at us.”

    Melanie and Carol had both turned and were looking at Hamish.

    “I think we’d better go,” said Nat, in his weightiest paterfamilias manner.

    “When I’ve finished my coffee,” replied Helen firmly. She picked up her cup and took a tiny sip. “Wait a minute!” she said. Nat jumped. “I’ve got it!” she said. Nat winced. “Mac—something,” she said. “Bother, it’s gone again.”

    Nat let out his breath very slowly in a concealed sigh.

    “Macdonald,” said Melanie. Everyone stared at her. She looked surprized, and very pleased with herself. “Macdonald,” she repeated. “It just popped into my mind; Uncle Peter was talking about him the other day: I just suddenly kinda heard his voice in my head—y’know?”

    Helen slapped the table. “Of course! Dr Macdonald!”

    “Yeah, only it isn’t him,” said Nat sourly.

    “Of course it is, Nat, don’t be silly; goodness, I don’t know why I didn’t recognize him immediately!” She gave a tentative wave, and tried to catch Hamish’s eye.

    “Ooh!” squeaked Melanie. “They’re coming over!”

    Helen gave Nat a minatory look, and assumed a polite welcoming expression. She looked like a cross between the Queen Mother and the Queen Mary.

    “She does look like you, Dad,” said Elspeth sleepily from the back seat.

    “Aye,” Hamish agreed wearily.

    Elspeth gave a shattering yawn.

    “The blonde girl—Melanie, was that her name?—she looks a bit like Veronica, don’t you think, Hamish?” offered Mirry.

    “Definitely—fatter in the face, though. Her mother looks a lot like Veronica, doesn’t she?”

    “No, she doesn’t! She’s—” Mirry would probably have said “fatter” if Elspeth hadn’t been there. “—a lot bigger.”

    Hamish chuckled. “Aye, they’re an imposing couple, aren’t they? But she is a lot like Veronica: you imagine Veronica several stone heavier, and—e-er—ten or twelve years older, I suppose.”

    “Ye-es,” Mirry agreed doubtfully. “But she isn’t like Veronica in other ways... She reminded me more of Mum, if you want to know!”

    Hamish laughed. “Aye, she is a bit that type!”

    Elspeth said sleepily from the back seat: “I like Aunty Kay!”

    “We know,” said Mirry sourly.

    Hamish laid a hand gently on her knee. She gave a tiny sigh and put her own hand on top of it.

    “Anyway,” said Elspeth, “that girl does look like you.”

     Hamish breathed in hard through his nose. “We know.”

    “Shut up about it, Elspeth, you’re driving Daddy nuts,” said Mirry.

    Elspeth was bound in tightly by her seatbelt; nevertheless she managed to make a flouncing movement. It was just as well that Mirry couldn’t see her: she looked horribly like Kay Field.

    From the back seat Damian reported grumpily: “Melanie’s gone to sleep.”

    Nobody replied.

    “She’s leaning all over me,” he said grumpily.

    “Lucky you!” said Nat with a chuckle.

    “Nat!” said Helen swiftly.

    They were going down the motorway, because Helen thought the coast road was too dark late at night, and they practically had it to themselves.

    “She weighs a ton,” complained Damian.

    “Push her off,” said Carol sleepily from his other side.

    “I can’t: she’s too heavy,” grumbled Damian. He wriggled a bit.

    After quite a while Helen said thoughtfully: “You know, Melanie was right; Dr Macdonald does look rather like Carol.”

    Nat’s left hand had been about to reach for her weighty thigh. Hurriedly he put it back on the wheel, sweating.

    “Yeah,” agreed Damian. “He’s got the same kinda nose.” He snickered. “Only on him it looks good.”

    Carol was sensitive about her high-bridged, elegant nose. She retorted: “Well, at least I haven’t got Grandpa’s nose, like you have—Mister Durante!”

    This last reference puzzled Damian: he wasn’t into old movies. Assuming it was something he should recognize, he blushed in the darkness, and fell silent.

    “Dr Macdonald’s a very handsome man,” Helen said judiciously.

    “Is he?” Nat retorted in a nasty voice.

    Ignoring him, she continued kindly: “And Carol is going to be a very good-looking woman. –You just need to grow into your face a little, dear,” she added over her shoulder.

    Carol went scarlet, and didn’t know what to say.

    “Needs to put a bit of meat on her bones,” agreed Nat, hoping to get Helen off the subject of Macdonald. “Feed her up a bit these holidays, eh?”

    “Yes,” agreed Helen. She hesitated. “You do want to come down to Taupo with us, don’t you, Carol?”

    Nat looked at Helen uneasily out of the corner of his eye: he was remembering last Christmas holidays, and Becky and Jim. Helen felt hot: her heart pounded painfully and she found she was perspiring a little. Oh, dear, the poor child: that would remind her about last summer holidays, and her parents and poor little Rosemary. Only it was no use shirking things, was it?

    Carol was too young to live very much in the past and although of course she remembered what had happened last Christmas she was more concerned with her own immediate problems. “Yes, I do, Aunty Helen, only—” She hesitated.

    Helen’s and Nat’s hearts beat fast.

    “I must get a job for at least part of the holidays,” she said.

    The Weintraubs were flooded with relief.

    “There’s old Robbo next-door,” suggested Nat.

    “Who?” said Helen blankly.

    “Old Robinson—you know—next-door to old Jerry’s place at Taupo.”

    “Oh, yes.—Don’t say ‘old Jerry’.—What about him?”

    “Eh? Aw, well, he’s always looking for someone to help him with that boat-hire business he runs during the holidays—and the bait, and that. For coarse fishing, of course,” he added quickly.

    Helen wasn’t a fisherwoman, so she ignored this aside. “Ye-es; but—well, I suppose the boat-hiring side of it... But I don’t think Carol— Well, it isn’t a nice job for a girl.”

    Carol said eagerly: “I wouldn’t mind, Aunty Helen! I like fish; I wouldn’t mind cutting up bait!”

    “Yeah, she’d be okay,” agreed Nat. “Always used to help me an’ Jim clean our fish, didn’tcha, Poppet?”

    Helen winced at this callous reference to Carol’s dead father, but Carol said: “Yes. Do you think he’d have me, Uncle Nat?”

    “Yeah, I’m sure he would: he’s really fed up with those boys he’s had working for ’im: they keep skiving off to go waterskiing, and that.”

    “I wouldn’t do that,” said Carol .

    “No, I know,” he agreed.

    “You would have to stick at it, Carol,” said Helen dubiously. The mere thought of cleaning fish and chopping bait turned her stomach, she had to admit. She wound her window down a bit.

    “Yes; I know,” said Carol earnestly.

    “Well, if you think it’d suit you,” said Helen, rather faintly.

    Nat offered cheerfully to give old Robbo a ring; Carol accepted gratefully. Helen breathed deeply of the fresh night air and tried to repress the thought of what the child would smell like, after spending all day messing round with fish and bait... “Don’t go so fast!” she said irritably.

    “Why not? Got the bloody road to ourselves, practically!”

    “Nonsense,” said Helen crossly. “And don’t swear!”

    Nat slowed down. “Not feeling queasy, old girl, are ya?”

    “No,” said Helen, frowning. She eased her window down again.

    They drove on in silence.

    When eventually the Harbour Bridge hove in sight she said: “Take the—”

    “Outside lane; yeah, yeah,” interrupted Nat tolerantly.

    She scowled. “You know perfectly well it’s the inside lane where the accidents happen.”

    “Mm.” He took the outside lane. “Okay?” he said mildly.

    “Yes. Thank you, dear,” said Helen grudgingly.

    He was once again about to put his hand on her knee when Carol, who hadn’t spoken for some time, said: “Funny, wasn’t it? The little Macdonald girl having a mole just like mine, I mean.”

    Nat felt an unexpected wave of nausea. He gripped the wheel tightly with his left hand and furtively wound down his window a bit with his right.

    Helen said weightily: “Yes. An odd coincidence.”

    Sweating, Nat waited for her to connect it with Macdonald’s red hair.

    “Take the overpass,” she said.

    “Eh? Aw—yeah, I was going to,” he croaked.

    “Are the children both asleep, dear?” she said cautiously to Carol.

    “Yes, I think so.”

    There was no indignant denial from Melanie or Damian, so they must have been.

    “I told you we should have started earlier,” Helen said to Nat. “Just as well I told Mum we’d keep Damian overnight,” she added.

    Nat was still waiting for her to remark on the further “coincidence” of Macdonald’s and Carol’s looks. It was like waiting for the bloody guillotine to descend, or something. “Yeah,” he grunted.

    “Go straight home,” she said.

    “Look, do you wanna drive this thing?” he retorted angrily.

    “I only—”

    “Then shut up!” He put his foot down.

    “Nat!” cried Helen angrily. In the back Carol gasped.

    Nat found he was sweating again, and gritting his teeth into the bargain. He tried to tell himself he was being stupid: there was absolutely no reason, even if Helen had noticed the resemblance between Macdonald and Carol, for her to think... After all, the whole idea was fantastic, anyway, if you looked at it objectively— Oh, God. With a sickening jolt he remembered what he’d said to her after Veronica and Peter’s bloody wedding reception... Bugger, bugger, bugger!

    No, he was nuts, she’d never remember that, and anyway what if she did, as far as she knew there was no more reason to suppose the joker was the kid’s father, now, than there had been… Sod those bloody moles! Sod that bloody Elspeth kid!

    He continued to feel tense, sticky, and slightly sick the rest of the way home.

Next chapter:

https://themembersoftheinstitute.blogspot.com/2023/01/reactions-and-ructions.html