38
Further Revelations
Peter had returned home that evening not intending to tell his wife anything; not because he didn’t want to, but because he was quite sure she wouldn’t be prepared to listen.
Veronica was in the drawing-room, draped in a long cotton robe, with her feet up on a sofa.
“Have you had your dinner?” he asked hesitantly.
“Yeah,” she said, not looking up from her book. “The kids are in bed.”
He gave a tiny sigh. “I h’will take a wee peek at them.” She didn’t react in any way. He went out, sighing again. When he came downstairs again he looked doubtfully at the drawing-room door, hesitated, and went in. “Veronica?”
Veronica yawned, and didn’t look up.
“Would you loike a cup of tea?”
“No, thanks,” she said coldly, still not looking up. Peter went sadly away.
About a minute later Veronica looked up, gasped, bounded off the sofa, and hurtled for the kitchen.
Peter was over at the bench where the electric jug stood. He looked as if he was plugging it in—
“Don’t touch that!” she screamed.
Peter turned with a start, in time to receive the full force of his wife’s solid body as it hurled itself against him and shoved him away from the bench.
“Veronica!” he gasped. “What on earth—?”
Veronica stood there shuddering, clasping him to her. “The jug went bang!” she gasped. “You coulda been killed!”
Peter had long since realized that, in spite of her easy competence with her car, her electric typewriter, and the computer she had lately acquired, Veronica understood almost nothing about electricity—or, indeed, any other technical subject. Clasping her tightly back he replied gently: “It was the element, moy darling—it—eugh... It uses itself up, non? I would not have been killed.”
“Oh,” said Veronica uncertainly. “It went bang,” she repeated.
“It’s all roight, moy darling; all that happens now is that it will not work.”
“Oh.”
Peter smiled into her neck. “Nevertheless, I am very glad that you would not wish me to be electrocuted.”
Veronica went very red and muttered: “No.”
“Do you forgive me?” he murmured.
“I’m not sure,” she said honestly. “You wouldn’t take my word.”
“No,” he agreed meekly. “To tell you the truth, moy dearest, moy nose was very much put out—is that the expression?”—“Outa joint.”—“Ah! Merci. Moy nose was very much out of joint because I think I know Leo Schmidt so well, and what you say upsets all moy notions.”
“Oh,” said Veronica uncertainly.
“It was not the fact that it was Leo, so much—not in itself; it was the fact that I could be so wrong about someone.”
“I see,” she said slowly. “So… That means you did believe me and Polly.”
Peter silently thanked that Supreme Being in whom he did not believe for Veronica’s logical mind. “Yes,” he said, “that is precoisely correct, moy darlink; that is whoy I was so very cross.”
“Mm.” There was a short silence. Peter wasn’t worried: her solid curves were still pressed to him. “I still don’t think you’ve got a right to know everything I know, just because we’re married.”
Peter went very red. “No,” he agreed in a stifled voice. “That was—that was a very foolish thing to say; only I was very hurt to think you didn’t trust me enough to confoide in me.”
“It wasn’t a question of trust!” said Veronica in surprise. “It was because Polly told me in confidence. –At least I thought she did,” she added in a small, growly voice.
Peter looked up quickly into her face.
“As it turns out,” said Veronica, going scarlet to the roots of her yellow hair, “she never meant me not to tell you. In fact she took it for granted I would. So did he—Jake, I mean.”
Peter said gently: “They have been married longer than us.”
“He said I was a funny sort of woman!” revealed Veronica in a very high, disturbed voice that in her normal state she would have disowned utterly.
“He is a very simple-moinded man,” he replied mildly.
“Yeah,” she agreed gratefully. “He is, isn’t he? I dunno how Polly puts up with him.”
“No,” murmured Peter. “Do you forgive me?”
“Yes, ’course,” she replied, mildly surprised that he hadn’t already grasped this.
“Good,” he sighed. “In future when moy nose is—eugh—put out of joint, I will troy to behave loike a reasonable human being instead of a Russian nong.”
“A rabid Russian nong,” agreed Veronica, clutching him tightly.
“I do not loike to foind I am wrong about people,” he admitted.
“I gathered that.”
“So… You do trust me?”
“Yeah, ’course,” she growled.
Silence fell. They stood in the white kitchen with its cheerful red vinyl flooring, tightly clasped. At last Veronica sighed. “I didn’t have much tea, actually.”
Peter smiled. “I make us somethink noice—da? Nice and loight?”
“Ye-ah... “
“What could you fancy, moy darlink?”
“Actually,” said Veronica, going rather red all over again, “if you really want to know, what I’d really like is some of that cheese fondu stuff. I know it’s not that light, but—”
“Certainly, moy precious one, if that is what you wish. We have it with not just bread but—eugh—apples and celery, and perhaps maybe a little carrot?”
“Yeah, that’d be nice,” she agreed gratefully. She hesitated. “Can I chop something, or anything?” she asked in an offhand voice.
Very pleased, Peter bustled over and fetched her the kitchen stool. “Da, da: sit here, moy dearest, and I give you things to chop.”
“Righto,” said Veronica happily, perching.
They ate sitting side-by-side on a sofa with the fondu apparatus on a little coffee table in front of them, together with a bottle of a boutique winery Gisborne Chardonnay, which according to Peter post-dated the infamous “Vine Pull” of 1986 and was quite drinkable—Veronica just smiled and nodded vaguely: she never listened when he blahed on about wine. They had nearly finished the fondu when Peter said cautiously: “Veronica; there is somethink I wish to tell you.”
“Yeah?” said Veronica with her mouth full. She looked at the remaining five pieces of apple on a pretty Indian papier-mâché tray that had been Pauline’s Christmas present to them and wondered if Peter would let her have three of them.
Peter pursed up his mouth. He speared a piece of apple. Veronica eyed it sadly.
“Eugh... It is very difficult to know where to start... “ He scraped up some cheese with the apple. “Eugh...” The apple fell off into the pot. “Merde!”
“Ya gotta pay a forfeit, now,” said Veronica pleasedly.
“Hein?”
“A forfeit: you know!” Peter looked blank; Veronica explained: “Sing a song, or something.”
“Sing a song?” he said weakly.
“Or kiss somebody,” said Veronica, spearing a piece of apple. She scraped up cheese and transferred the result deftly to her mouth.
“Kiss somebody?”
“’Sh wha’ a forfei’ ish.” She swallowed. “Party games,” she explained.
“There is no-one here to kiss but ourselves,” he pointed out.
“No,” agreed Veronica, beaming. “’S what makes it so good, eh?”
“Ah! Come here!” He kissed her enthusiastically.
“You taste of cheese,” she said with interest, picking up her wine glass.
“So do you; this is a change from poineapple—no?”
Veronica choked on her wine and had to be thumped on the back. “Don’t say that sorta thing when I’m drinking!” she ordered.
Peter smiled; but the smile faded and he stared unseeingly into the fondu pot.
“Shall I turn it down?”
“What?” he said, jumping. “Oh; yes, turn it off, moy darlink.”
Veronica turned off the flame under the pot. “What were you gonna say?”
Peter sighed heavily. “I have been meanink to tell you this for a long toime, Veronica; but it crops up first when you have just had James, and I am scared to upset you; then you are feedink him...”
Veronica picked up a sliver of carrot and ate it. “Not feeding him now,” she pointed out.
“No,” he agreed, sighing again. “To tell you the truth, I was hopink it will all blow over—fizzle out.”
“And didn’t it?”
“No,” he said gloomily. “It all suddenly blows up in our faces.”
“Oh,” said Veronica. “—There isn’t much fondu left.”
“No; you finish it, moy angel,” he said, pouring the last of the wine into his glass and gulping it down.
Veronica speared a large piece of French bread and scoured the pot with it.
“It is about Carol,” he said abruptly.
“Carol Rosen?”
“Da; you know she is not Jim’s choild?”
“Ev’body knowsh ’at,” she said thickly.
“Yes; down to and includink Damian,” he agreed grimly.
“Eh?”
Peter retailed Nat’s report.
“The mean little sod!”
“Da,” he agreed, getting side-tracked. “The schools here, they do not make boys work nearly hard enough.”
Veronica had heard Peter on the subject of the Bac before. “Yeah, well, never mind that,” she said hurriedly. “Was that it?”
“No,” said Peter unhappily. “Some toime ago, Nat comes to me with a theory.”
“Would’n’a thought he was capable of it,” she said, picking up another piece of carrot.
Peter pushed the tray towards her. “If you would not interrupt, Veronica; this is not very easy to say.”
“Go on,” she replied.
“Hé bien... This is goink to sound very silly, Véronique, so please if you will just let me tell it straight through.”
“Yes; go on!”
Peter said rapidly: “Nat catches soight of Carol and Hamish standink together at our weddink reception and is struck boy the resemblance between them.”
“Nat was?” –Veronica, in spite of daily contact with Peter, had not yet succumbed to the historic present.
“Please do not interrupt, Veronica!” he said in a very high voice.
“Go on,” she said weakly.
“Then after the accident, when Carol is so very upset and does not seem to be able to pull herself out of it, Nat takes it into his head that perhaps maybe she needs to—to be diverted out of it; shock therapy, I think is what one would call it; and so he goes to see Micky—”
“Micky Shapiro?”
“He is Nat’s lawyer; also his old friend, and also the Rosens’ lawyer; please do not interrupt loike this!”
“Sorry,” she muttered, regarding him with a fascinated eye.
“Where was I? Yes: Nat imparts his theory that Hamish could possibly be the father of Carol to Micky, who does not think much of it but agrees to investigate.—Here I skip a little, moy dearest.”—“Do that,” she muttered.—“The upshot is that they foind out that Hamish’s parents’ farm is very near a certain small town in Taranaki where—where Becky was at the crucial toime.” He took a deep breath.
“Go on,” said Veronica, with a sort of fatalistic resignation.
“This took several months, you understand.”
“Yes,” she said limply.
Peter took another deep breath.
“Peter—”
“Please, Veronica! Just to let me tell it!”
Veronica was silent.
“Then it is that Nat comes to see me; this is not very long after James is born, which us whoy I do not tell you then,” he said, flushing a dusky crimson. Veronica said nothing. “Nat and Micky are at an impasse: there is no way of foindink out whether Hamish was actually in Taranaki at—at the toime in question, without actually asking him. They have even sent a proivate detective down to this town,”—Veronica’s mouth opened slightly—“but of course after all this toime no-one remembers anythink. So—” He looked at her doubtfully but she merely goggled at him. “So, I work out a scheme whereboy Hamish shall actually tell us himself.” He swallowed, and eyed her nervously.
“You don’t mean... Not that bloody dinner party? Where you got Charlie and Caro together?”
“Yes, that was the one.”
“You mean... the Charlie and Caro thing wasn’t the object of the exercise?”
“Not entoirely,” he admitted uneasily.
“All those bloody pop songs,” said Veronica slowly.
“Da... That was moy ploy.”
“Jesus, Peter!”
“Yes: I’m afraid I am very devious about it; but it seemed the only way.”
“Devious?” said Veronica loudly. “You don’t know the half of it!” She gave a bark of unamused laughter.
“You see, I think that if we can get Hamish in a reminiscent vein—”
“You don’t have to spell it out,” she said grimly. “I get the picture.”
“Well, anyway, it worked. You will perhaps not remember—
“Oh, I remember all right!” said Veronica loudly and bitterly. “He coughed the lot, didn’t he? The year, and the bloody month—bloody lambing, for God’s sake! And the bloody pleurisy; in fact practically everything except the fact that he fucked my sister!” She got up and strode over to the French windows, breathing heavily.
“I’m sorry, Veronica: the last thing I wish is to distress you—”
“Jesus, Peter!” said Veronica, glaring out into the night. “Why the Hell didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I do not wish to upset you, moy dearest; you are upset enough now; what would it have been loike—”
“Bloody Hell!” said Veronica loudly, swinging round to face him. “I’m not upset, you idiot; I’m—I’m staggered!”
“Staggered?” he echoed weakly.
“Private detectives!” said Veronica wildly, ruffling her short, thick hair. “Months of investigations! Elaborate plots; Goddamn dinner parties; Nat in a stew—no wonder poor old Helen reckoned he was having it off with some bird, or coming down with something fatal— Jesus!”
“Yes, I know Helen was worried... But you see, moy dear, there was no other way.”
“Did you ask Mum?” she said abruptly.
“Yes; but Belinda knows nothink; though she has her suspicions, she has spotted the resemblance...”
Veronica walked over to her big armchair by the hearth, and sat heavily in it. “It never occurred to any of you to ask me, of course.”
“We did not wish to upset you boy tellink—”
“I said ask me, not tell me,” said Veronica tiredly. Peter gaped at her. “Becky told me about Hamish ages ago,” she said flatly. “When he first got his appointment.”
“WHAT?” he cried.
“That time I was over here for mid-term break.”
Peter licked his lips. “And you never think to tell me?”
“I hardly knew you,” she pointed out.
“No—later,” he said hoarsely.
“Becky made me swear not to tell a soul,” she said dully. “She made me promise.”
“I see,” he said faintly.
There was a long silence.
“I am afraid that verdammt dinner party must have been extremely painful for you, Veronica; I am sorry,” he said formally.
“Yeah—was,” replied Veronica simply.
“Are you very angry with me?” he said in a high, scared voice.
Veronica looked up in surprise. As she had her contact lenses in and he wasn’t very far away she could see that his dark brown eyes had filled with tears. “No; I’m not angry. Feel rather stunned, actually.” She hesitated. “Limp,” she elaborated.
“So do I,” he said miserably, drooping on the couch over the debris of the fondu like a sad garden gnome over his fishing pond.
“Come over here,” she said gruffly.
Peter stood up uncertainly.
“Come on,” she growled.
He came over to her.
“Here!” she said, slapping her knee.
“I am too heavy.”
“Balls!”
Peter sat cautiously on her knee. Veronica put her arms round him. “We’re a right pair of birks,” she said into his shoulder.
“Da...”
There was a short silence.
“All those months... poor old Peter,” she muttered.
“No, it was poor old Nat, really; he goes through it twoice as long as I.”
“Mm. –He’s a twit, anyway; why on earth didn’t he speak to me?”
“You were pregnant, moy dearest. He did not wish to upset you.”
Veronica sighed. “Well, you’d think Micky would at least’ve had the sense to ask me.”
“I think they are both scared of you,” he murmured.
Veronica chuckled complacently. “Ya could be right!”
Cautiously Peter asked: “Exactly what did Becky say, moy dearest one?”
Sighing a little, Veronica gave him a verbatim account.
“I see... So it is not Hamish’s blame,” he concluded.
“No,” she agreed, not correcting his English.
“I feel so...”
“What?”
He sighed heavily against her. “Drained, I think is the word.”
“Would you like to go to bed?”
“I do not think I could, just at the moment.”
“No,” said Veronica in a strangled voice: “to have a nice lie-down, I mean.”
“Okay,” he said, sitting up. “That’s a good oidea—oh; merde, no.”
“What?”
“I must ring Nat immediately; at the moment he is convinced that Hamish has—eugh—has deserted Becky—”
“Can’t it wait till tomorrow?”
“No—well... No,” he decided. “I think I must tell Nat as soon as possible; you see, we have decoided that he will come over here tomorrow evenink, and we will both speak to Hamish,”—Veronica gulped—“but perhaps maybe Nat will lose his cool if Carols asks him about it again, and tell her it is Hamish who is her father—for he is a very emotional man, you know, and although I troy many toimes to tell him Hamish is not a man who would wilfully desert a woman whom he knows is pregnant, he does not believe me! And if he tells Carol—and then, you see, perhaps maybe she rushes off to confront Hamish—”
“I geddit,” agreed Veronica unemotionally, pushing him off her lap and standing up. “Tell ya what: I’ll give Nat a ring; you can push off to bed.”
Peter opened his mouth. He shut it again. “Would you?” he said weakly.
“Yeah,” replied Veronica in a very firm voice.
Peter swallowed. “You would not moind?”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” said Veronica, rather grim.
“Well, then... Thank you, moy dear.” He hesitated. “The fondu pot—”
“I know.” She steered him towards the door. “Hot water; soak overnight; go on, for Pete’s sake!”
Peter smiled. “That is noice, what you say there: ‘for Pete’s sake’!”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Veronica, not listening. “Go on.”
Peter went.
He was asleep when she went upstairs after the phone call. When she went up about two hours later and began to get quietly undressed he woke up, and switched on his bedside light.
“What did he say?” he said.
“Go back to sleep,” she returned.
“No,” he said, blinking at her like a ruffled owl. “What did Nat say, Veronica?”
“Aren’t you too hot with this on ya?” she replied, peeling off the old-rose silk brocade duvet.
“No—I was feeling rather chilly,” he murmured. Veronica swallowed and hastily replaced the duvet. “What did Nat say?” he insisted.
Veronica sat down heavily beside his legs. “Said I was a close-mouthed bitch.”
“What?” he cried.
“Calm down; that was after I told him he was a pig-headed birk.”
“Oh.”
There was a silence.
“Does he believe now that it was not Hamish’s blame?”
This time Veronica said firmly: “Hamish’s fault.” Peter’s forehead creased and his lips moved silently. “Not really,” she admitted. “I mean, he believes Becky never told him she was pregnant, and that; but he still blames him.”
Peter sighed. “I thought he would.”
“Yeah.” She paused. “He’s that sorta man.”
Peter looked at her with approval. “That is very percipient of you, moy dearest.”
“Very what?”
“Percipient—is that not correct?”
“Oh, yeah, it’s correct,” said Veronica heavily. “I’ve just never heard anyone actually say it before.”
“Oh. Shall you come to bed, now?”
Veronica looked at the duvet with disfavour. “Not under that,” she muttered. She retired to the ensuite. When she opened the door again he’d put the bedside lights out. She paused with her hand on the bathroom light switch. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, certainly. Your silhouette is most sexy... That back-loighting,” he sighed.
“Thanks,” she said drily. “Feeling better, are ya?”
“Very much, thank you. Though perhaps maybe I could feel even better.”
Veronica replied: “Hah, hah,” but she came over to the bed and, though hurling the duvet aside, got in beside him.
“Go and get your shoes on, if you’re coming,” said Hamish irritably. Elspeth had insisted on accompanying him to the Riabouchinskys’ this evening, in spite of his repeated assurances that he wouldn’t be long, that he and Peter were only going to talk about work, that Veronica would probably be too busy to want to entertain her (refraining with difficulty from telling her Veronica wouldn’t want to entertain her—or anyone, if she was still in the filthy mood she’d been in all week), that James would undoubtedly be asleep—“He might not, Dad; anyway I could go up quietly and look at him!”—Hamish winced—and that Sharon would probably also be in bed by the time they got there.
“I’m going to walk,” he warned her as she returned with her sneakers on.
“That’s okay; can we take Puppy?”
Hamish sighed. “Aye, I suppose he could do with the exercise... The Riabouchinskys haven’t got a cat, have they?”
“Da-ad! Of course not!” returned the fully-paid-up member of the Kowhai Bay suburban subculture with deepest scorn.
“Put that creature’s lead on him,” he returned irritably.
Elspeth attached Puppy’s leash to his collar. “You’re not a creature, are you?” she cooed at him. Puppy licked her face. She wasn’t supposed to let him do that. Hamish sighed.
Veronica seemed to be in a better mood: she came across the front garden to greet them and appeared to accept the advent of Elspeth with equanimity. She was dressed in an extraordinarily feminine garment: some sort of pale blue lacy cotton material, cut straight across her generous bosom (and rather low) and held up with tiny straps; the waist was loose and the long skirt was a great drift of pale blue.
“Ooh, that’s a pretty dress, Aunty Veronica!” Elspeth greeted her enviously.
Veronica made an awful face. “Sweetly pretty, isn’t it?” she replied, addressing them both impartially. “Mum gave it to me, so I thought I’d better get some wear out of it.”
“I think it’s lovely,” said Elspeth firmly.
“Yeah,” replied Veronica drily.
“Where’s James and Sharon?” Elspeth demanded.
“James is in bed.” Elspeth’s face fell. “I don’t think he’ll be asleep yet,” said Veronica kindly. “You wanna go up and see him?”
“Yes, please!” she gasped, turning an unlovely tomato shade out of relief and excitement—and possibly, her father thought dubiously, some ghastly sort of embryo maternal instinct.
“Sharon’s over there,” added Veronica vaguely, jerking her head towards the trees at the far side of the garden.
“Where?” asked Elspeth doubtfully.
“See that bloody great cardboard box?”
“Ye-es.”
“She’s in it,” said Veronica briefly.
“What?” said Hamish in a staggered voice, as Elspeth shot off across the lawn, roaring: “Sharon! Sharon!”
“Playing Back to the Womb, or something,” said Veronica. “It’s the box Peter’s new freezer came in.”
“Did you put her in it?” Hamish asked, trying not to laugh.
“No,” replied Veronica without resentment. “Mind you, that’s not a bad idea—keep her out of the way, wouldn’t it?” She began to stroll slowly across the lawn towards the box. Hamish followed with Puppy, feeling a little weak. “The box is on its side,” she explained. “She went in it. Peter reckons she’s playing House.”
“Oh “
“Only I reckon it’s Back to the Womb,” said Veronica firmly. “Mind you,” she added as they came up to the huge box, “House is, don’tcha reckon?”
Elspeth’s pink, beaming face poked out of the interior of the box. “Look! Sharon’s got a little wee house!”
“Aye; indubitably,” Hamish said to Veronica. They both sniggered. Elspeth looked at them reproachfully and said: “Look: she’s got a cushion and a rug in it, and her Teddy and Koala!”
“Aye,” agreed Hamish shakily.
“If she had a little tea-set like the Twinnies have got, we could have a wee tea party,” said Elspeth in a rather too pointed voice to Sharon’s adoptive mother.
“She’d only break it,” replied Veronica, unmoved.
“No, she wouldn’t, Aunty Veronica, it’s plastic.”
“Breaks everything; broke a plastic mug the other day.”
“Ye-es; but it’s a kind of soft plastic: you know, Dad!”
“No, I don’t,” said Hamish.
“He’s hopeless,” Elspeth muttered crossly to Sharon.
“I s’pose I could find you a couplea plastic plates or something,” said Veronica, as Elspeth’s veiled suggestion finally penetrated.
“Ooh, goody!” she cried, lighting up like a Christmas tree.
“You wanna come and see James first?”
“Yes,” decided Elspeth, crawling out of the box. “Come on, Sharon,” she said, holding out her hand to her.
“She won’t—” began Veronica uneasily. “Blimey!” she said, as Sharon crawled out of the box and took Elspeth’s hand.
“Come on,” said Elspeth, standing up and simultaneously hauling Sharon to her feet without noticing her hostess’s stupefaction.
Taking the hand Elspeth was holding out to her in an automatic sort of way, Veronica said weakly to Hamish: “She’s been in the ruddy box all ruddy afternoon; wouldn’t even come out for her tea—had to have it in there; hadda be potted in there, too.”
“Oh, aye?” he returned vaguely.
Seeing he hadn’t got the point, Veronica added: “Dunno what Elspeth’s got that me an’ Peter haven’t got!”
“Eh? Oh!” He smiled and said as they walked slowly across the lawn to the house: “It’s the sub-teen peer group,” and imparted Margaret Prior’s theory about the “kids and pets” suburban subculture.
“Ye-ah,” said Veronica thoughtfully. “She could be right... Sharon’s a bit young to be into that, yet—but she’s made friends with next-doors’ cat!” She chuckled. “Even knows the bloody creature’s name!”
“What is its name?” asked Elspeth, who hadn’t appeared to be listening.
“See?” said Hamish, grinning.
“Yeah,” said Veronica, grinning back. “I dunno, Elspeth; you’ll haveta ask Sharon.”
Hamish waited for her to do so but to his disappointment she didn’t. Instead she said in an important voice to Veronica: “I know a hen that lives in a box. Not as big as Sharon’s, though.”
“Aw, yeah? That’d be Gottfried, would it?” returned Veronica, pausing at the French doors opening out from the big drawing-room.
“Yes; do you know Gottfried, too?” beamed Elspeth.
“Yeah; how come you do?”
“We-ell… You know Darryl?” began Elspeth, taking a deep breath.
“Yeah,” said Veronica, watching to see that Sharon was negotiating the steps safely.
“Well, she left her wallet in Dad’s office one day, and me and Dad took it round to her place after work!”
“Oh; I get it.” She held out a hand to Sharon but Sharon said crossly: “ME!” and mounted the top step, panting.
“She’s got a super house,” said Elspeth wistfully.
“Yeah; not bad, eh?” agreed Mrs Riabouchinsky, standing just inside her palatial drawing-room on a Persian rug. Hamish’s mouth twitched.
“And a super garden.”
“Yeah, it’s great,” agreed Veronica—quite sincerely, as far as Hamish could see.
“She let me pick some peas,” said Elspeth, taking Veronica’s hand again.
“That right?”
“Yes; she said she didn’t mind.” She sighed. “It’s miles nicer than our garden.”
“What’s wrong with our garden?” said Hamish indignantly.
“Da-ad!” cried Elspeth scornfully.
“Practically nothing to it, all bloody concrete,” explained Veronica, leading the way—slowly, because Elspeth’s other hand was clutching Sharon’s again—over to the door into the hall.
“What about up the back?” he said feebly. “There’s all that bush along the gully.”
“It’s too steep,” said Elspeth briefly.
“Aye, well...”
“And the back garden’s boring!” said Elspeth loudly and accusingly. “It’s got all those stupid... shelves,” she ended on an uncertain note.
“Terraces,” said Veronica. “Yeah, it’s dead boring, eh?”
“Aye,” said Elspeth with satisfaction.
“Well, at least it’s no’ a bluidy jungle, like Darryl’s!” he said indignantly.
“Don’t be a twit, Hamish,” said his Senior Research Fellow mildly. “That’s what’s so good about Darryl’s place, eh, Elspeth?”
“Yeah, it’s fabulous,” agreed Elspeth. “Yours is nice, too,” she added to Veronica. “Lots of trees.”
“Ye-ah; the back garden’s about as boring as yours, though.”
Elspeth apparently agreed with this sentiment; she returned in an understanding voice: “Uncle Peter doesn’t let you pick his peas.”
“No,” agreed Veronica glumly. Hamish’s mouth twitched.
They had reached the foot of the staircase and were all watching as Sharon negotiated the first step at her own pace.
“He’s in his study, by the way,” Veronica added to Hamish, jerking her head more or less in the direction of Peter’s study.
Hamish was a little dished at being excluded from the nursery party. “Aye, well—” With a start he realized he was still leading Puppy. “E-er... shall I tie this animal up outside?” he offered sheepishly.
“Nah, he’ll be okay,” said Veronica, happily disregarding the fact—of which Hamish himself was quite aware—that her husband didn’t like dogs much. “Give us that.” Hamish gave her the leash and she unclipped it and draped it over the banister rail. Puppy pressed against her long blue skirt.
“Come on, Sharon,” she said, swooping on the little girl. “Vronny’ll carry you up to see baby James, eh?”
“Ezpa!” cried Sharon anxiously.
“Yeah, Elspeth’s coming too.” Veronica mounted the stairs.
“Doggie!”
“Yeah, Doggie’s coming too,” said Veronica, beginning to climb the stairs without a backwards glance, clutching Sharon to her right shoulder and holding up her long blue skirt with her left hand in a very dainty, ladylike way, the picture somewhat spoiled by her bare and none-too-clean feet. Hamish watched limply as Puppy and Elspeth followed in her wake. Elspeth began to tell Veronica about Darryl’s plum tree. Veronica replied with some story about Peter’s making sauce from their plums. Elspeth’s voice, asking anxiously if he’d used all the plums, faded round the bend of the stairs. As he turned away towards the study Hamish heard Veronica assuring her that they’d eaten a lot of the plums, too. This was followed by a fervent, and apparently entirely altruistic: “Oh, good!” from Elspeth.
The presence of a large maroon Jaguar at the top of the Riabouchinskys’ steep, tree-lined drive hadn’t struck Hamish as significant, so he was surprised to find Veronica’s large brother-in-law closeted with Peter in his charming study. Unfortunately he’d forgotten his name, though he did remember meeting him at the Chez Basil, but fortunately Peter said: “You remember Veronica’s brother-in-law, do you not, Hamish? –Nat Weintraub.”
“Aye; how are you?” Hamish said, holding out his hand. He was considerably surprised when the large, florid man glared at him—it was unmistakeably a glare—and shook hands painfully hard with a sort of grunt.
Peter gave an audible sigh, and said: “Please sit down, Hamish.”
Hamish sat down on a pretty little easy chair covered in a floral blue linen that matched the window-seat. Peter himself perched on this window-seat, and Nat Weintraub sank heavily back into the big crimson leather Victorian armchair. Hamish wasn’t particularly sensitive to atmosphere but as the silence in the pretty room lengthened it began to dawn on him that it was an uncomfortable silence.
“E-er... Something about the Ph.D. students, was it, Peter?” he asked at last, since no-one else seemed to be volunteering anything.
Peter swallowed. “No,” he said baldly. He swallowed again. “The fact is, Hamish, that—that Nat and I have somethink we wish to say to you.”
“Oh?” said Hamish, looking at Nat Weintraub in astonishment.
The big man coughed, and said, avoiding Hamish’s eye: “For Chrissakes let’s have a drink, Peter!”
Hamish now registered they both had empty glasses at their sides, as Peter, retrieving his from the windowsill and Weintraub’s from a dainty little occasional table, said: “What would you care for, Hamish? I have whisky and vodka, here, but there are other drinks in the drawing-room; or would you prefer a beer?”
“Whisky’s fine, thanks.” He watched in some amazement as his host, first pouring him a reasonably-sized whisky, filled his own and Weintraub’s large tumblers almost to the brim from a bottle with Russian writing all over it. Weintraub then sank half of his in one gulp, shuddering convulsively after it.
Peter sat down slowly on the window-seat.
“Get on with it, for the Lord’s sake!” said Weintraub crossly.
Peter muttered something in Russian, raised his tumbler, and sank the lot. He didn’t even twitch. Hamish stared at him incredulously—though he’d known a few Scots who could knock back the malt like that—and, beginning to realize that something must be up, took a gulp of his Scotch.
“What is it, Peter?”
Peter had prepared a speech but now that the moment was upon him he lost his nerve. “Do you remember Veronica’s sister, Becky—Becky Rosen?” he asked in a high, hoarse voice.
“E-er—vaguely,” said Hamish, staring at him as if he’d gone nuts—as well he might, thought Peter gloomily.
“I think you know her better as Rebekah Köhn,” he said hoarsely.
“What?” said Hamish in a blank voice, staring at him.
“Rebekah Köhn,” repeated Peter.
“With a K,” said Nat abruptly.
“Da: Köhn with a K,” agreed Peter, swallowing hard.
Hamish frowned. “Rebekah... I did know a Rebekah once, years ago; I can’t remember her surname; well, mebbe it did start with a K... What is all this?”
“That was her,” Weintraub said to him, leaning forward and going very red. “Becky: that was her.”
“Becky— You mean Veronica’s sister was Rebekah? But I’d have recognized her,” he said dazedly.
“Balls; ya’d practically forgotten her bloody name, even!” said Weintraub.
Hamish ran his hand over his curls. “Aye, well... it was years ago... Are you sure?”
Before the heavy man could answer Peter said earnestly: “We are positive, Hamish.”
“But— No, I’m sure there must be some mistake. Even if I didn’t recognize her, she’d have recognized me; I know it was ages ago, but I haven’t changed much in the last twenty years.”
“She did,” said Weintraub grimly, glaring at him.
“Da,” said Peter. “She recognoizes you instantly.”
“Och, havers, Peter!” He ran his hand through his curls again. “I met her at your in-laws’—a couple of times, it would have been—and she never mentioned she knew me!”
“She mentioned it to Veronica,” said Weintraub, glaring at him again.
Hamish decided the pair of them had been on the grog for some time, and thought he’d better humour them. “Well, I’m sorry, but I definitely didn’t recognize her.” He sipped his whisky. Now they were both glaring at him! “It was getting on for twenty years ago—when I was finishing my Ph.D. –If it was the same girl,” he murmured.
“Yes; you are finishink your Ph.D. and you come home after the pleurisy—to—to recuperate...? Merde! What is the word?”
“Convalesce,” said Hamish obligingly.
“Yes; and Becky has the holiday job at—what is the verdammt place, Nat? I forget.”
“Heard’s Crossing.”
“Da, Heard’s Crossink! Where Becky has the holiday job; and there you meet her—da?”
“Rebekah; yes,” agreed Hamish. “How on earth do you know all that?”
“You tell me most of it yourself at moy dinner party last year.”
“And Veronica told us the rest,” said Nat grimly.
“I see,” replied Hamish politely. “I’m sorry I didn’t recognise her.”
Silence fell.
Nat got up and helped himself to the vodka. “Go on,” he said to Peter, sitting down heavily.
“That is eighteen years ago—noineteen, next August,” Peter said to Hamish.
They were both drunk. “Aye, I dare say.”
“You have not got the point!” Peter said in a very high voice.
“No. Look, Peter, I’m sorry I didn’t recognize Rebekah—but good God, man, you’ve just said yourself it was bluidy nearly nineteen years ago—and why the Hell didn’t she say, if she recognized me?”
“Ah; that is the point!” said Peter.
“Yeah,” said Weintraub heavily. He knocked back a mouthful of vodka, and shuddered.
Hamish began to feel distinctly fed up with the pair of them. He tried not to scowl, and suppressed an urge to look at his watch.
“You will perhaps maybe recall,” Peter said in a very high voice, “that Carol Rosen—Becky’s daughter—is one of our First-Year students this year?”
“Veronica’s niece: aye,” he agreed in a bored voice, drinking more whisky. Did the little Rosen girl perhaps want to switch courses? But Peter had worked for the university for years, he must know the ropes by now, and switching courses at this stage of the year was a very simple matter. “E-er... there’s no problem with that, is there?”
“Huh!” said Weintraub. He knocked back the rest of his vodka.
“Carol will be eighteen in June,” said Peter in a trembling voice.
“Yeah; the first of June,” agreed Nat pointedly.
Over-protective uncles, or something? The child’s parents were both dead, of course... “Aye, well— Perhaps she is a wee bit young; but lots of students have their eighteenth birthdays in their first year.”
“What are you talkink about?” said Peter loudly, glaring at him.
Hamish was rather taken aback. “E-er... to tell you the truth, I haven’t the faintest idea. Have you two been on the vodka all afternoon?”
“No!” said Peter crossly, going very red. “Listen, Hamish, I am troyink to make a point! You have a relationship with Becky Cohen eighteen years ago last August—”
“August and September, it woulda been,” Weintraub interrupted sourly.
“Yes, that is correct. And Carol will be eighteen on the first of June—”
“And she’s got red hair!” said Weintraub loudly.
“Da; does this not suggest anythink to you, Hamish?”
“Like ya might be the kid’s father, for instance?” said Weintraub loudly and furiously.
There was a tingling silence in the charming little study. At last Hamish said feebly: “Och, but... That’s absurd!”
“Work it out,” said Weintraub in a hard voice.
Hamish sat there, working it out, feeling the heat rise up his neck. Peter watched sympathetically. Nat watched without any sympathy at all.
“Aye,” he said in a shaken voice. “I suppose it is possible.”
“Possible?” cried Nat.
“Hush, Nat,” said Peter quickly. He was beginning to recover himself. “There can be no mistake, Hamish: Carol is your child. Becky recognoized you instantly—though naturally enough she does not approise you of it when you do not recognoize her.” He paused. “Carol looks very loike you, you know,” he said gently.
“Dead ringer,” muttered Nat sourly.
Hamish swallowed the rest of his whisky in one gulp. “I had no idea,” he said dully.
“No,” agreed Peter sympathetically.
“We thought at first ya might’ve done the dirty on Becky,” said Nat awkwardly. “Only Veronica put us right on that—eh, Peter?”
“Da, da,” agreed Peter quickly, flushing. “We know you never had any oidea, Hamish.”
Hamish looked up suddenly. “No; I— God. I swear, Peter, I never knew—I never dreamed— Why the Hell didn’t she tell me?” A look of startled guilt came over his face; he stammered: “I suppose... Mebbe she didn’t find out until after I’d gone back to Scotland... But good God, she knew I was at the university; and she knew ma parents’ address—!”
Peter looked at Nat, but he just scowled. He sighed. “It would seem—this is what Becky tells Veronica only relatively recently, you understand, when she hears that it is you who have been appointed Director of the Institute—it would seem that you had made it quoite clear, moy dear Hamish, that you wished only for a physical relationship.”—Nat snorted.—”And when she foinds she is pregnant she does not tell you—not because she fears you will not marry her, moy dear Hamish, but because she fears you will.”
“What?” gasped Hamish, going scarlet.
“Ya didn’t put that too well,” Nat pointed out to Peter. “What ’e means is, that Becky thought it was her fault—some crap about not being on the Pill, or something—and she didn’t want you to feel you had to marry her.”
“Christ!” said Hamish.
Nat considerately got up and got him another Scotch. “Then old Jerry rounded up Jim Rosen—mind you, he’d had ’im waiting in the wings for a fair bit—and pushed Becky off onto him.”
“Christ,” said Hamish again.
“Made her a good husband, mind you,” sad Nat fairly.
“Da, da,” agreed Peter quickly. “And she grows to love him very much—is that not so? They were a most devoted couple.”
“Yeah; they got on all right,” growled Nat. “Well, must of, eh? Look at little Sharon!”
“Précisément,” said Peter.
“What? Oh, yes, of course; I was forgetting,” said Hamish dully. “She’s their child.”
Silence fell. Nat glared at Peter’s richly coloured Victorian carpet, Hamish glared at his own hands, and Peter, thankful the worst was over but rather at a loss as to how to continue, looked idly out of his French door, which gave him a view past the bay of the drawing-room to where Veronica, Puppy, Elspeth and Sharon were now playing chasey on the front lawn.
“Does she know—Carol?” asked Hamish at last.
“Gonna tell ’er tomorrow,” grunted Nat.
“Yes; that is whoy we feel we must break it to you, Hamish,” said Peter.
“She only found out she wasn’t Jim’s kid a few days back—by accident,” said Nat grimly.
“I see.”
“And then we feel—Nat and her grandmother and I—that we should tell her the rest of what we know,” added Peter.
“I see,” he said again.
Another silence.
“Why on earth didn’t you tell me before?” asked Hamish at last. “When her parents—I mean when the Rosens were killed in that accident—why the Hell didn’t you tell me then? Christ, maybe I could’ve— I don’t know... done something for the child!”
“But you do not understand!” cried Peter agitatedly. “We ourselves did not know then! No-one in the family knows, because Becky would never say who is the father!”
“But—I thought— Didn’t you just say she told Veronica?”
Peter licked his lips nervously and cast a pleading look at Nat.
“Yeah,” Nat agreed heavily. “Veronica’s known for about three years. But she never told anybody else—see?”
“Becky asked her not to,” said Peter quickly.
“Oh,” said Hamish faintly.
“She only told us last night,” explained Nat, giving Peter an evil look.
“Oh.”
Neither Nat nor Peter felt capable of explaining Veronica’s close-mouthedness. There was a very long silence.
“What do you want me to do?” said Hamish at last.
“Nothing,” replied Nat quickly.
Hamish looked at him doubtfully and said: “If there’s anything the child needs—”
“Doesn’t need anything!” he said huffily.
“Not at this precoise moment,” agreed Peter.
“What the Hell do ya mean?” Nat asked angrily. “Anything she’s gonna need, I’m gonna see she gets it—see?” He glared ferociously at the blameless Peter, pointing a stubby forefinger at him.
“Da, da; I know you are very happy to provoide for her, Nat; it is not that—not material things; but we agreed, did we not, that we should ask Hamish not to approach Carol until we know what her wishes are.”
“Yeah,” said Nat. He transferred the glare to Hamish. “And if we say she wants to see ya, you see her—see? An’ if we say keep out of her road, then you keep out—geddit?”
Hamish was very red. “Yes, of course; I’ll do anything you say.”
“You better, thass all!”
“Yes,” he said humbly.
“Please, Nat, said Peter anxiously, “we must troy not to blame Hamish. It is clear, after what Veronica tells us, that he is quoite blameless in the matter.”
“Blameless?” retorted Nat loudly.
Hamish was of Nat’s opinion. “No, Peter; Weintraub’s right... God!” he said, burying his face in his hands.
Nat looked uncertainly from him to Peter, who appeared quite unmoved.
“I ought to be horsewhipped, or something!” said Hamish eventually in a muffled voice. “My God, what you must think of me...”
Peter got up and put a hand on his shoulder. “Nonsense, moy dear Hamish; it is a thing that could have happened to any man; it is scarcely your fault that this foolish Becky claims she is on the Pill when she is not.”
Hamish didn’t really take this in; he could remember no details at all of the encounter with Rebekah, except that she’d been a pretty, dark, carefree little thing; and he certainly had no memory of what contraceptive precautions they’d taken. But as he’d never been careless about such things in his life he was quite sure they must have taken some. “Oh,” he said uncertainly. “It’s still ultimately my responsibility, though,” he added in a stifled voice.
“Yeah,” growled Nat.
Peter sighed a little. “Come, Nat; I think we leave Hamish to himself for a toime—no?”
“Right,” growled Nat, following him out.
“You tell ’im?” said Veronica, as they came up to her on the lawn.
“Da, da,” sighed Peter.
“How’d he take it?”
“Very much as I have said he would,” he replied gloomily.
“Aw; gone into a Celtic brood, eh?”
“Yes,” he admitted unhappily.
“Serve ’im right!” said Nat, scowling.
“Not his fault if Becky behaved like a right dill,” Veronica pointed out.
“Nat will not be convinced of that,” said Peter crossly.
“No, I bloody won’t!” agreed Nat.
“Well, put yourself in his place,” Veronica said to her brother-in-law. Nat scowled. “What say it happened to you and that Whatsername Goldstein?” Veronica suggested calmly. Nat jumped, and turned puce. “Well, it coulda done, eh? That’d make that eldest kid of hers—I forget his name—well, that’d make him yours, eh?”
“No, it wouldn’t,” said Nat loudly, “because I don’t go round putting girls in the pudding club!”
“Only takes one squirt,” pointed out Veronica.
“Veronica!” said Peter, turning puce.
“Well, it does. At the wrong time, of course. And it could’ve been Pat Goldstein and Nat—she wasn’t Pat Goldstein then, she was—what was her name, Nat?”
“Mendelson,” he said sulkily.
“Yeah. Well, it coulda been them, only Pat always had a lot more sense than Becky.”
Scowling, Nat lapsed into sulky silence.
“Couldn’t it?” insisted Veronica loudly.
“All right! Shuddup about it, for Chrissakes!”
“So don’t go blaming Hamish,” finished Veronica.
Puppy, who had been bouncing up and down eagerly with a stick in his mouth for some time, gave a loud huffing sigh and lay down at their feet.
“Oh, give it here,” said Nat, taking the stick from him. He hurled it down the lawn. Puppy uttered a joyous bark and raced after it. Nat walked slowly in his wake.
“Is that true?” said Peter to his wife.
“Eh?”
“Veronica! Nat and this Pat person!”
“Yeah, ’course it’s true.”
“And was this before or after he marries Helen?”
“After, of course,” said Veronica without emotion.
“I see,” said Peter feebly.
“Ya not gonna tell me I shoulda told you that before!”
“No, no,” he said meekly, taking her arm.
“Good; because if I’ve gotta tell you everything I know about Nat’s little bits on the side it’d take the rest of our lives; and I’ve got better things to do with the time!”
“So have I,” he agreed, squeezing her arm.
In the study Hamish remained for some time with his head in his hands, feeling stunned. Try as he might, he couldn’t conjure up even the faintest recollection of Rebekah’s face. He did remember short, dark curls—very soft. But what he remembered most clearly—in fact what he’d always remembered, he admitted to himself with a wave of shame—was a configuration of three charming little moles on her right buttock. He could hardly say to Veronica: “Look, did your sister have three little moles on her bum?” ...Veronica. He couldn’t say anything to Veronica, he couldn’t even look her in the face again, oh, God! How the Hell had she managed to be so calm, jabbering on about Sharon’s box as if nothing had happened, when all the time she must have known why Peter wanted to see him...
“God,” he muttered dully. Hadn’t they said Veronica had known ever since he’d got his appointment? Hamish’s ears burned. That meant... How had she ever managed to speak to him, let alone appear perfectly ordinary and friendly and—and normal towards him? All this time... And surely, whenever she’d looked at him or Carol she must have been reminded... He shuddered a little, and felt sick. Abruptly he got up and poured himself another whisky.
In any case the whole thing was ridiculous: he’d always made sure his girlfriends were on the Pill, or taken precautions himself—always. He sat down and stared blankly in front of him for some time with the half-consumed whisky cradled in his hands. The sick feeling began to come back. Hadn’t they said something about Becky Rosen not being on the Pill? But for her—for Rebekah not to have told him that would have been the height of idiocy. After all, it was so easy just to say No, I’m not on it, you take precautions. He tried for some time to convince himself of this. Unfortunately, though he didn’t know anything very specific about how girls felt about such matters, the more he thought about it, the more clearly he recalled both his own embarrassment in his extreme youth at having to go into a chemist’s and ask, and—God knew why—the crucial episode in A Kind of Loving where the hero suffers an even more extreme embarrassment, with disastrous results. It began to seem only too likely that she’d been simply too embarrassed to talk about the matter. But could any girl be that idiotic? His thoughts ran round and round in circles...
When it dawned on him that he wasn’t thinking at all, merely repeating this circular discussion endlessly in his brain, he got up irritably and went over to the French door which looked out past the big bay of the drawing-room to the front lawn. He couldn’t see anyone, but he could hear voices. Suddenly Puppy raced into view with a stick in his jaws, shaking it furiously. His ears flopped madly. He rushed out of sight again. A man’s voice called: “Here, boy!” Was it Peter? No, it sounded like Weintraub. –The man had appeared throughout the interview, Hamish now realized, as if he’d like to beat the living daylights out of him. And small wonder.
Moodily he returned to his chair, and began to repeat the mental arithmetic he’d done earlier. August—no, say September. One, two... Damn. Damn, damn, damn!
Nat threw the stick again and Puppy raced after it.
“Where is Sharon?” asked Peter.
Veronica sighed. “In the bloody box again—with Elspeth.”
“Ah! They play House together—da?”
“Havin’ a bloody tea party or something,” she muttered.
Peter chuckled pleasedly. “Come along, let us look; then, I think, Sharon must go in: soon it gets dark and the mosquitoes will come.”
Elspeth and Sharon had several plastic plates, a mug, several large leaves and a dainty meal of petals, macrocarpa cones and small pieces of grass laid out before them. The mug appeared to be doing duty as the teapot and the cups were purely imaginary. Elspeth sipped with terrific daintiness, forefinger and thumb pinched together, little finger slightly raised. Sharon’s plump fist copied her clumsily.
“Gawd,” said Veronica in tones of deepest gloom. “Talk about social conditioning!”
“Da, da,” said Peter enthusiastically. “Is it not charmink?”
“No, it’s Goddawful; she’s brainwashing the kid.”
“Would you care for a wee cake, Mrs Teddy?” said Elspeth in a very high, squeaky voice, sounding very Scottish.
“Thought Teddy was a male,” muttered Veronica. Peter shook with silent chuckles.
“Yes, they are delicious, aren’t they?” continued Elspeth. She offered a plate to Sharon. “Just pretend,” she said in her ordinary voice, as Sharon took a macrocarpa cone.
“Me,” she said with satisfaction.
“Don’t eat it, Sharon, just pretend,” said Elspeth anxiously. Sharon opened her fist cautiously. She dropped the little cone onto her plate.
“Good girl,” said Elspeth. Scarcely pausing for breath, she continued in the squeaky voice: “Aye, well, it’s difficult to get the guid flour these days, isn’t it, Mrs Riabouchinsky?”
Veronica choked.
“But these are quite a success, I think,” said Elspeth squeakily.
“Kala,” suggested Sharon.
Koala already had a plate (or rather a leaf) with a macrocarpa cone on it. Elspeth lifted a leaf full of petals. “Would you care for a wee bit o’ shortbread, Mrs Koala?” she suggested squeakily.
“That koala is definitely not a female,” muttered Veronica in Peter’s ear.
“Ssh!” he hissed, twinkling all over his face.
Elspeth put some petals onto Koala’s plate.
“Kala eat cake,” said Sharon.
“She said a sentence!” hissed Veronica excitedly.
“Da, da!” he agreed, clutching her arm.
Elspeth obligingly lifted the macrocarpa cone to Koala’s shiny black nose.
“Mm!” she said. She made a chewing noise. “This cake is quite scrumptious, Mrs Macdonald.”
Veronica stared.
“Aye, well; it’s nothing, really; I just dashed a batch off,” Elspeth answered herself. “More tea, Mrs Koala?” She poured, and lifted an imaginary cup to Koala’s face.
“Where does she get the dialogue from?” muttered Veronica.
“Ssh!” hissed Peter, shaking with suppressed laughter.
“More tea, Mrs Riabouchinsky?” said Elspeth squeakily to Sharon. “Hold your cup up, that’s right,” she said in her ordinary voice, positioning Sharon’s fist. She pretended to pour from the mug. “Do you take milk?”
“Milk,” said Sharon happily.
Elspeth poured from an imaginary milk jug. They sipped genteelly.
Peter sighed regretfully. “I think I must break it up,” he breathed.
“’Bout time,” replied Veronica grumpily.
Peter knelt in front of the box.
“Tea,” Sharon said to him, beaming.
“Good afternoon, Mrs Riabouchinsky; good afternoon, Mrs Macdonald,” he said. “I hope you will excuse me interrupting you loike this, Mrs Macdonald.”
“Not at all; would you care for a cup of tea, Dr Riabouchinsky?”
“That would be very noice, thank you,” he replied.
Veronica sighed heavily.
Nat came up and said with interest: “He playing tea parties, too?”
“Yeah,” she said gloomily, as Peter sipped genteelly.
“Lindy and Pauline used to have one of those little plastic tea-sets,” he remembered.
“Don’t you start!”
Peter said regretfully: “That was delicious, Mrs Macdonald; but now I fear I must drag Mrs Riabouchinsky away.”
“Aye, well; come again, Mrs Riabouchinsky,” said Elspeth squeakily.
Nat muttered to Veronica: “Why not Mrs Rosen?”
“Gawd knows.”
Peter picked up Sharon and scrambled to his feet with her.
“Bye-bye, Mrs Riabouchinsky,” squeaked Elspeth, waving.
“Boye-boye, Mrs Macdonald,” replied Peter, also squeakily, waving Sharon’s plump fist. “Say boye-boye,” he said to Sharon in his ordinary voice.
“Tea!” cried Sharon anxiously.
“No; no more tea; we’re going inside now,” said Elspeth, scrambling out of the box.
“Ezpa!”
“Yeah, I’m coming,” Elspeth reassured her. “Shall I bring Koala and Teddy, Uncle Peter?”
“Yes, thank you, moy dear; otherwoise they may get damp out here.”
Elspeth retrieved the toys (who appeared to have resumed their more everyday male personae) and Veronica retrieved the rug. “Grab that cushion, Nat, wouldja?” she said.
Nat retrieved the cushion. “Oughta get her a dolly,” he said. Veronica sighed.
“Aye; and a wee tea-set,” said Elspeth.
“A wee tea-set?” asked Peter with interest.
Elspeth told him all about the Twinnies’ blue plastic tea-set.
“Do you know where one would buoy such a tea-set, Elspeth?”
“Well, I should think they’d have them at Toy World in Puriri; but I could ask Aunty Vi.”
“Aunty Voi?”
“She’s our great-aunty, really. She gave the Twinnies their tea-set.”
“Only one?” he asked with interest.
“You only need one,” said Elspeth in surprise. “It’s got four cups.”
“Oh—of course.”
“Self-evident,” said Veronica.
“That place in Newmarket’d probably have ’em; I could look there,” offered Nat.
“Is it a good toyshop?” asked Elspeth with interest.
“Yeah; really good; ’s where I got Sharon that doll’s pram of hers.”
“It’s a super pram,” recognized Elspeth.
“Yeah; all she needs now is a dolly to put in it,” he said, giving Veronica a nasty look.
“She does give Teddy and Koala rides in it,” said Elspeth dubiously. “Only a dolly would be nice.” She looked up at the large man and said: “It wouldn’t have to be a big, expensive dolly.”
“No,” agreed Nat. “One of those nice baby dolls, eh?”
“Yes, the right size for the pram.”
“Yeah. –Could get her one of those wetting dolls,” he said thoughtfully.
“She’s a bit small for them,” said Elspeth. “I don’t think she’d know what to do with it.”
“What is a wettink doll?” asked Peter with interest.
“Oh, Christ,” muttered Veronica.
“Don’t you know, Uncle Peter?”
“No,” he said, leading the way inside.
“Well,” said Elspeth rather blankly, “it’s a doll that wets.”
“Pisses its naps,” explained Nat kindly. “Ya give it a bottle at one end, and the water comes out the other end.”
“Through a hole,” agreed Elspeth.
They looked expectantly at him.
“Oh,” he said weakly, as they went into the drawing-room.
“Grotesque,” said Veronica, sitting down. “Siddown, Nat. –Completely asexual, of course,” she added to her husband.
“Oh. Nevertheless, it moight help with her potty training.”
“Yeah, I s’pose so,” conceded Veronica grudgingly.
“Come and kiss Vronny good-noight,” he said, carrying Sharon over to her. Veronica kissed Sharon and Sharon kissed Veronica.
“She’s getting to be quite a good kisser, now,” approved Elspeth.
“Da, she is,” Peter agreed. “Now kiss Uncle Nat.” Nat kissed Sharon and Sharon kissed Nat.
“Can I come and help put her to bed, Uncle Peter?” asked Elspeth eagerly.
“Yes, of course, moy dear.”
They all went out together, Peter and Elspeth bidding the company “Night-night” in squeaky voices, and Sharon waving her fist but not saying anything.
“Who is that little kid, anyway?” asked Nat.
“Hamish’s daughter, of course; thought you’d met her before.”
“Oh,” he said weakly. “Yeah, think I did—at that poncy restaurant in Puriri.”
“Where is he?” asked Veronica abruptly.
Nat shrugged. “Left ’im in Peter’s study.”
“Oh.” She yawned widely, but got up. “I’ll go and winkle him out.”
“I wouldn’t,” said Nat uneasily.
“No, you’d thump him,” she replied unemotionally, going out.
Nat muttered to himself: “You betcha sweet arse I would,”—automatically watching that portion of her generous anatomy retreat. Ask him, she didn’t have a stitch on under that blue thing—bloody wonder Peter let her get round like that—what with bloody Macdonald coming, too... Probably didn’t have that much choice in the matter, though, come to think of it. He snorted, and picked up a magazine from the occasional table next to him. It was all in French with hardly any pictures. He snorted again, put it back, and picked up another one. It was in English, with lots of pictures, but seemed to be only recipes. He tried another one: a dull-looking thing—what the Hell? Oh—some kind of Australian political thing—there was Veronica’s name on it—what was that all about? ...Shit. He put it back and began to look at the pictures of food in the cookery magazine.
“You all right?” said Veronica abruptly, opening the study door.
“Yes,” Hamish replied automatically. He stood up, flushing.
“Siddown, for God’s sake,” said Veronica. She perched a hip on Peter’s desk and looked at him narrowly.
“I had another whisky—I hope that’s all right,” he muttered idiotically.
“You can drink the bloody place dry, far’s I’m concerned.”
“Thank you,” he muttered.
There was a silence. Hamish stared fixedly at the glowing blue and crimson flowery carpet. He could feel her eyes on him.
“’S not the end of the world, you know,” she said abruptly.
“No.” he agreed faintly.
“I wanted to tell you myself—after all, Becky was my sister—but they wouldn’t let me.”
“Oh. –I don’t know what to say, Veronica,” he said, looking her in the face and going very red. “An apology would be...” His voice trailed off. “Impertinent, I feel,” he finished stiffly.
“No need to apologize,” said Veronica in mild surprise. “Not your fault if Becky behaved like an idiot over contraception.”
“I shouldn’t— I should have— It was my responsibility!” he stuttered.
“No, it wasn’t: it was her body,” Veronica pointed out calmly. “And if ya wanna know, she went on being stupid about it: had Rosemary practically straight after Carol, ya know: only eleven months between ’em.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“Possibly she wanted to,” he said faintly.
“No, she didn’t. Bawled her eyes out; said she couldn’t cope with another; said she couldn’t even cope with Carol.”
“Oh.”
“And then she went and had Damian in pretty short order, too. Old Jim went out and got absolutely stonkered when she told ’im that little piece of good news.”
“Oh; did he?”
“Yeah. –Well, work it out for yourself: three kids under three in the bloody house! ’S bad enough round here at times with only James and Sharon.”
“E-er... yes,” he said faintly.
“Only then the doc put the hard word on the pair of ’em, so they didn’t have any more for a bit.”
“Aye,” he said feebly.
“So quit blaming yourself; Becky never did have an ounce of common.”
“God,” he muttered.
Silence fell.
“Veronica,” he burst out desperately: “I swear to you, I’ve never been careless about contraception in my life!”
“You don’t have to tell me that!” she replied with cheerful scorn. Hamish gaped at her. “Sticks out all over you,” she elaborated. “You’re the careful type.”
“Aye, well... I don’t understand how it could have happened,” he said miserably. “To tell you the truth, I don’t remember the details... I mean, it was a Hell of a long time back…”
“What did that couple of nits tell you?” demanded Veronica.
Hamish passed his hand distractedly over his curls. “I don’t—I can’t quite— Something about Rebekah not being on the Pill. It wasn’t very clear.”
“I see,” she said grimly. “Trust them!” Hamish stared. “Listen,” she said energetically: “this is what really happened, see: you asked her if she was on the Pill, right? Before ya went to bed, of course; and she came over all shy, or something, and thought you’d think she wasn’t sophisticated, or something, if she admitted she wasn’t; so she said she was. Don’t ask me why,” she added quickly. “She was like that.”
“I see,” he said slowly.
“Well, it’s more than I do,” said Veronica frankly.
“So that’s how it happened.”
“Well, not quite.” Hamish looked at her with an expression of startled guilt; she said calmly: “She musta been at the end of her cycle, because she didn’t get pregnant, then; and she went to the doc and got fixed up. But the Pill doesn’t necessarily work in the first month. Everybody knows that; I mean, it even tells you on the box, for God’s sake!”
“The box?” he echoed faintly, unable to think of anything but Sharon in hers.
“The package, ya nit!”
“Oh; oh, aye...”
“See?”
“Aye... Aye, I suppose I do see.”
“Hard to believe anybody could be that dumb,” said Veronica dispassionately; “only lotsa women are, of course. –Not counting the ones that’ve just gone broody and are kidding themselves on purpose, of course.”
“E-er... no,” agreed Hamish faintly.
“Never think it could happen to them, ya see.”
“No,” he murmured.
“That was Becky all over,” Becky’s sister explained kindly. “So stop blaming yourself, eh? You’d’ve had to be a mind-reader to second-guess her.”
“Thank you very much, Veronica,” he said gratefully.
Veronica sniffed. “I thought they wouldn’ta given you the complete picture,” she said with satisfaction, sliding off the desk. “I’m a bit peckish; you wanna come an’ have a cup of tea, or something?”
“Uh—yes.” Hamish stood up shakily. “A cup of tea would be nice.”
He hesitated. Veronica, muttering: “Stinks like a ruddy public bar in here,” was flinging windows wide.
“E-er... Is your brother-in-law still here?”
“Yeah—why? You scared of him, or what?” she said impatiently.
“No; of course not, but I don’t think he likes me—not surprisingly.”
“So what?”
“Perhaps I’d better not inflict myself on him any further,” he murmured.
“Crap. He can always go into another room if he doesn’t fancy your company; or push off home.”
Hamish felt a certain despair at her inability—or refusal—to recognize the social awkwardness there would be in her two guests’ taking tea together at this juncture; he found himself wondering where on earth Peter found the patience to put up with her.
Veronica gathered up glasses. “What did this have in it?” she said suspiciously.
“E-er... vodka, I think,” he replied uneasily.
She fixed him with a basilisk eye. “Were the both of them on the vodka?” she demanded.
“Uh—yes.” The eye was still upon him and he found himself adding: “They downed a couple of those in front of me—and I think they’d already started before I got here.”
“Right! No more grog for that pair tonight!” She took his arm in an iron grip just above the elbow and propelled him to the door. “And what’s more, Nat can kip here.”
“E-er—aye; that might not be a bad idea,” he admitted feebly, wondering if he’d have a bruise on that arm tomorrow.
“You can come and help me make the tea,” said Veronica firmly. “Peter always reckons I put too much tea in the pot.”
“Very well,” said Hamish limply, as the steely grip on his arm didn’t slacken.
When they came into the drawing-room with a tray of tea, a dark fruit-cake and a great pile of doorstep-like beef and horseradish sandwiches, Peter was sitting in a large armchair and Nat was sitting on a sofa and Puppy was at his feet, with his chin resting on his right ankle. Elspeth was beside Nat, very close. His heavy arm was around her slender form and he was reading aloud from a very small book. Hamish looked at this scene in dazed silence.
“Whatcha reading?” asked Veronica with interest.
Nat looked at her sheepishly. “Peter Rabbit.”
“Yes; Uncle Nat’s a really good reader; go on, Uncle Nat!” urged Elspeth.
Hamish sat down abruptly on the nearest sofa.
Sheepishly at first, but soon losing himself in the narrative, Nat continued with Peter Rabbit. Peter got up quietly and removed the cake from Hamish’s grasp, setting it down on the coffee table. Veronica, having deposited her tray on the coffee table and installed herself in a large armchair opposite Peter’s, sat back and listened to Nat’s virtuoso performance with every evidence of enjoyment.
Elspeth sighed happily when it was over. “That was good!”—Nat grinned.—“He did all the voices,” she said to her father.
“Aye,” he returned faintly. “You could perfectly well have read that for yourself,” he added weakly. “You’re far too old for it, anyway.”
Elspeth merely withered him with a look.
Peter began to pour the tea. “Whoy do you do Mrs Rabbit with the funny voice, Nat?” he asked with interest.
“Eh?” said Nat, eyeing the cake. “Oh—me Zummerset accent!” he said, grinning. “I dunno, really; just see her like that.”
“She’s a country rabbit, Uncle Peter,” explained Elspeth.
“You oughta hear ’im do Eeyore and Piglet,” said Veronica, getting up and offering the sandwiches. Nat gave an embarrassed but pleased laugh.
“Who?” asked Peter.
“You know: the Pooh books; Melanie was nuts on ’em,” explained Nat. He took a sandwich. “Ta; any plates?” he said to Veronica.
“What? Oh, bum,” she replied.
Peter got up and went over to a sideboard. “What are Pooh books? I thought ‘poo’ was a naughty word in English,” he said, getting out some very pretty little plates. Hamish watched nervously as his offspring took one in a vice-like grip.
“Not that sort of poo, Uncle Peter!” she said scornfully. “Pooh Bear, of course!”
“He doesn’t know anything about English children’s books,” explained Veronica tolerantly. “Ta,” she said, as Peter gave her a plate.
“Because he’s a Russian?” asked Elspeth interestedly, staring hard at Peter.
“Yes,” he agreed tranquilly, sipping his tea.
“Don’t you have children’s books in Russia?”
“We have some; but they are very different; at least when I was a very little boy they were very different.”
“What were they like?” asked Elspeth thickly through a bite of sandwich. As both Nat and Veronica were looking at Peter with expectant interest, Hamish didn’t dare to tell her to shut up, though he was afraid that she might be arousing painful memories in the poor man.
Peter replied calmly: “They are mostly folktales—do you know what they are?”
“Yes; like the Brothers Grimm.”
“Da; very loike those; tales of foolish boys—there is a word in English, but I forget it—you know, boys who are—eugh—simple?”
“Simpletons,” said Elspeth. Her father goggled at her.
“Da, da!” said Peter, very pleased. “Tales of simpletons; often tales of many brothers—you know?” Elspeth nodded enthusiastically. “And—eugh—magic; sometoimes princes and princesses: you know the sort of thing?”
Elspeth evidently did. “Aye. In Scotland we have selkies, too.”
“What is that?” he asked interestedly.
Elspeth told him all about selkies; Hamish listened in a dumbfounded way; Veronica and Nat, munching steadily, listened apparently with as much fascination as Peter himself.
“That is most interestink, Elspeth,” he said when she’d finished.
Elspeth beamed. “There’s a book about selkies in our school library. I could get it out for you, if you like, Uncle Peter.”
“Thank you, moy dear, I would loike that very much.”
Still beaming, Elspeth took a large bite of sandwich. She gasped round it, and turned scarlet.
“Here—spit it out—quick!” said Nat, shoving her plate under her chin. Eyes tearing, she looked at him desperately. “Yeah, it’s all right; go on,” he said.
Elspeth politely ejected her mouthful onto the plate, and gasped for breath. “Hot!” she said—like Tigger in not dissimilar circumstances, Hamish couldn’t help reflecting: he himself had grown up with the Christopher Robin books.
Nat poured half Elspeth’s tea into her saucer and sloshed milk into the cup. “Get this down ya—quick!”
Elspeth drank very milky tea, shuddering and gasping.
“You ruddy idiot, Veronica!” said Nat irritably to his sister-in-law. “Why the Hell didja let the poor kid take a horseradish one?”
“They’ve all got horseradish in them,” said Veronica blankly.
“Christ!” said Nat. He got up. “Come on, Poppet,” he said, holding out his hand to Elspeth. “Let’s go in the kitchen and make you a decent sandwich, eh? Without that hot muck.” He glared at Veronica.
“I’m sorry, Elspeth,” she said, going red.
“That’s all right, Aunty Veronica,” said Elspeth bravely, taking Nat’s hand.
“I should have warned you— I’m sorry, lovey, I forgot it’d be too hot for you,” said Hamish in a nervous voice.
“It’s hotter than mustard,” Elspeth explained as they retreated kitchenwards. “Can Puppy come?” she asked Nat.
“Eh? Aw, yeah, might as well; he could have a bit of beef, eh?”
“Come on, boy!” said Elspeth. Tail flailing, Puppy followed them eagerly.
“She likes mustard, only she never has the really hot stuff,” Hamish said weakly to Veronica. “I should have thought.”
“Poor little kid. Never mind, Nat’ll look after her,” she replied, taking another sandwich.
Hamish stared at her distractedly.
Peter gave in at this point and chuckled richly.
“S not funny!” Veronica pointed out with some indignation.
“Au contraire, ma chère Véronique; I think our poor Hamish feels loike Alice in Wonderland—no?” He twinkled at Hamish.
“Thought you didn’t know anything about English children’s books?” said Veronica suspiciously.
“Alice is not a children’s book, moy dear, any more than Gulliver. –Let me pour you some more tea, Hamish.”
“The Mad Hatter’s tea party; aye, you’re right,” said Hamish abruptly. He held out his cup.
“What are you on about?” asked Veronica blankly.
“This!” said Hamish, waving his free hand. “The—the tea; your brother-in-law; Elspeth!”
“Nat likes little girls; he’s had three of his own, ya know,” replied Veronica, picking up a huge knife and attacking the cake. The rich, fruity, alcoholic smell that had already begun to permeate the room was immediately multiplied about ten-fold.
“Yes; I didn’t mean... “ he said weakly.
Peter chuckled again. “Loife goes on, moy dear Hamish! And Nat is a very simple person, with a strong grasp of the essentials of life; very loike a choild, in some ways, which is perhaps whoy he gets on so well with them.”
“Aye, but—”
“This doesn’t mean he does not still wish to thump you, of course; but that will wear off, you know. And in the meantoime, there are more important things to think about: food and drink and a little girl to be amused—no?”
“Likes little girls,” repeated Veronica. She began to put huge wedges of cake onto everybody’s plates. “Been bloody good to Carol; good thing, too: Carol can’t stand Mum, she’d’ve gone out of her tree if she’d hadda live with them.” She gave Hamish back his refurbished plate. “Wanted to take Sharon, too—Nat, I mean,” she added, as Hamish merely stared blankly. She took a huge bite of cake and chewed vigorously. “Would’ve, too,” she added thickly, swallowing, “only Mum thought it’d be a bit much for Helen.”
“Be quoiet, Veronica,” said Peter. “You are makink poor Hamish feel more than ever that he has strayed through the looking-glass.”
Veronica had taken another bite of cake. She masticated strongly, and swallowed. “Wrong book!” she said triumphantly. “Down the rabbit hole’s what you mean.”
Hamish began weakly to laugh.
Veronica chewed cake, apparently unmoved; out of the corner of her eye, however, she observed him with considerable satisfaction. In spite of her strong grasp of the essentials of life she was not, as Hamish might have recollected had he been in a frame of mind to do so, an entirely simple person.
“Oh,” said Carol in a very small voice when Nat and Belinda told her who her father was.
“I know it all sounds a bit unlikely...” said Nat uneasily.
“No,” she said tiredly. “Everyone says I look just like him.”
Nat swallowed loudly.
“Even Melanie,” she reminded him. “You remember—that time you took us to that lovely restaurant, up at Puriri.”
“Yeah,” he agreed hoarsely.
“Anyway,” said Carol, “if any further proof was needed, there’s the moles!” She gave a little angry laugh.
“Moles, dear?” asked Belinda anxiously.
“Here,” said Carol, touching the base of her slender throat.
Belinda looked from her to Nat confusedly.
“Little Elspeth Macdonald—they were at the restaurant, Grandma,” explained Carol—“she was in the Ladies’, and she noticed my mole—just here—and she showed me hers: it’s in exactly the same place.”
“Yeah,” remembered Nat. “Same genes,” he muttered.
“Besides,” said Carol bitterly: “he’s got one, too!”
“Eh?” said Nat.
“Yes,” she said, flushing brightly. “At the Institute’s barbecue—I was with Aunty Veronica, under a tree; and he was there, too: he’d taken his shirt off because Elspeth had squirted mustard all over it; and I saw it quite clearly. I remember thinking that that was where she got her mole from, at any rate!” She laughed angrily. “I never dreamed that was where I got mine from, too!”
“No; well; there y’are,” mumbled Nat.
Belinda gave a little sigh, and got up. “Well, I think perhaps we all deserve a sherry; would you like one, Carol, dear?”
Carol reddened. “Actually, if you don’t mind, Grandma, I think I’d rather go straight home. –Could we?” she added, looking pleadingly at Nat.
“Yeah, ’course!” he said, heaving himself out of his armchair. “Come on, then.”
Sixty seconds later Belinda Cohen was alone in her pretty sitting-room, feeling a trifle stunned. She poured herself an extra-large Bristol Cream and sat down with it rather limply. Well, she thought doubtfully, at least there hadn’t been a storm of tears... In some ways, Carol was rather like Veronica, wasn’t she?
“All right?” asked Nat cautiously, negotiating traffic—churchgoers on their way home to large Sunday lunches.
“Yes,” replied Carol in a muffled voice. “I hope Grandma didn’t think I was rude... Only I was feeling absolutely smothered!”
“Yeah, she is a bit like that... Very feminine type, Belinda. That house always makes me feel smothered, too.”
Carol sighed heavily. “Yes,” she murmured gratefully.
“Frills and—uh—thingamajigs.”
“Furbelows.”
“Yeah.”
“Aunty Helen’s not like that,” said Carol with some satisfaction.
“Thank God!” said Nat fervently before he could stop himself. Carol smiled a little.
In the garage he muttered: “Okay, Poppet?”
“Yes,” she said in the thread of a voice, fumbling with her seatbelt.
“Lemme, sweetheart.” Nat undid it for her. He cupped her chin. “Sure you’re okay? Don’t wanna cry or anything?”
Carol’s lips trembled. “No. –Oh, Uncle Nat!” she sobbed, collapsing against his chest.
“That’s right,” he murmured, with great satisfaction. “You have a good cry, sweetheart—that’s right.”
When the sobs finally stopped he gave her his handkerchief and she blew her nose.
“Does he know?” she said dully.
“Yeah,” he replied in grim tones: “me and Peter told ’im yesterday.”
“Oh,” she said in a very small voice.
Nat sighed. “He’s all right, really,” he admitted. “Not his fault, I s’pose—when ya come to think about it.” He paused. “Well, not entirely,” he said in a hard voice.
“No,” whispered Carol.
Nat kissed her forehead. “Don’t you worry about it, Carol; you don’t have to—to see him, or anything, if you don’t want to.”
“No,” she said slowly. “I’ll think about it.”
Next chapter:
https://themembersoftheinstitute.blogspot.com/2023/01/curiouser-and-curiouser.html
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