Labour Weekend. Part 1

26

Labour Weekend. Part 1

Friday

    John Aitken leaned on the sink-bench, waiting for the coffee-pot to hiss. The prefab had emptied—it was after two on the Friday before New Zealand’s Labour Weekend—and he’d made coffee the way he liked it: very, very black. He didn’t have any plans for the weekend, and had suffered several embarrassing moments during the past week when kind persons such as Marianne had asked him what he’d be doing. He had developed a formula: “I’m going to do a lot of reading”; accompanied by an earnest look. The earnest look successfully put off those who might have asked what he intended to read.

    The staffroom was stiflingly hot. John loosened his tie. He had already taken his jacket off. He rolled up his shirt sleeves and began to whistle, with finicky precision, the recorder introduction to Schafe Können Sicher Weiden, without really knowing he was doing it. He’d just have his coffee and then he’d go home; on the way he’d go to the Puriri Public Library and get some real junk to read over the long weekend—a detective story, maybe!

    He waved his empty coffee cup about vaguely and embarked on the twiddly bit: “Diddle-ah diddle, diddle dah—”

    “That’s Bach!” exclaimed a little American voice behind him.

    “Christ!” gasped John. The cup flew up in the air, described an elegant arc, and shattered into a thousand pieces on the staff-room’s ugly vinyl floor.

    “I’m sorry!” gasped Jo-Beth. “I didn’t mean to startle you!”

    “I thought I was the only one still here,” he explained numbly.

    “Everyone else has gone, I think,” she agreed. Squatting neatly, she began to pick up the pieces of cup.

    “Uh—don’t— I’ll do that!” he gasped. He knelt clumsily on one knee, and scrabbled for bits of cup. Jo-Beth went on calmly and neatly picking up small pieces and putting them into the largest portion of the cup. John was sweating and his heart hammered furiously. His hands shook as he tried to beat her to the pieces of cup.

    Suddenly the coffee-pot hissed. John jumped sharply.

    “I’ll get—” she began, rising neatly. Simultaneously John started to clamber to his feet. Their heads knocked violently together, and the petite Jo-Beth fell over.

    The blush came right up from his toes and engulfed John utterly. He made a strangled, glugging noise.

    Jo-Beth wasn’t hurt, only slightly winded. She put a hand to her forehead and looked up at him doubtfully.

    “I’m sorry!” he gasped, suddenly finding his tongue. “Are you all right? Let me— Here!” He held out his hand to her.

    “I’m okay.” She rubbed her forehead and gave a shaky little laugh. “Gee, you’ve got a hard head!” She put her hand in his.

    Numbly John pulled her to her feet.

    “Thanks,” said Jo-Beth, attempting to pull her hand away. John, not knowing what he was doing, held onto it. “I’m okay,” she repeated.

    “What? Oh!” He released her abruptly. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?” he said weakly. She was so tiny... He felt dreadful.

    “I’m fine—honest!” It was hard to smile, because he was looking so completely embarrassed. “Hadn’t you better get that coffee-pot?” she said quickly.

    “What? Oh!” John blundered over to the bench. “Ouch!” he gasped: the plastic handle was almost red-hot. He grabbed a tea-towel, wrapped it round his hand, and hauled the pot off the electric burner.

    Jo-Beth had been thinking that if he said “What? Oh!” once more she’d scream. She couldn’t dredge up any sympathy for his hand. She watched to see that he remembered to turn the heat off.

    “Um...” said John, looking round vaguely with the coffee pot still in his tea-towel-swathed hand. Jo-Beth didn’t offer any advice or comment; he put the pot down on the steel bench. “Um... I’d better…” He looked at the cup shards they’d dropped.

    “I’ll get that,” she said briskly. “There must be a dustpan here somewhere.” She bustled over and began to investigate the cupboards under the sink. John looked down at her. American efficiency, he thought uneasily. He became aware of the light, flowery scent she wore; this didn’t ease his discomfort.

    “Why don’t you pour us both a coffee?” said Jo-Beth, with her head in a cupboard.

    “What? Oh! Oh—yes.” He fumbled in the top cupboard for more cups.

    In the darkness of the bottom cupboard Jo-Beth’s teeth clenched; her nostrils flared. She was within a hair’s breadth of losing her temper quite disastrously. She breathed heavily through her nose.

    John poured coffee, trying not to let his hand shake. “Do you take sugar?” he said hoarsely.

    “Two,” grunted Jo-Beth. She could hear him above her fumbling round with spoon and sugar-bowl. Teeth still gritted, she backed carefully out of the cupboard. John’s wrinkled grey flannels were blocking the next cupboard. Jo-Beth took a deep breath. “I think it must be in the next cupboard.”

    “What? Oh! –Sorry.” He backed away from the sink-bench. Teeth gritted, nostrils flared, Jo-Beth peered into the next cupboard.

    John looked down. She had on a green and blue narrow woollen skirt; she looked very neat... Abruptly he was visited by a sharp spasm of lust. Oh, God, no, not on top of everything else! he thought helplessly.

    The cute and very feminine bum backed out of the cupboard. “Yes; here it is,” she said.

    Scarlet to the roots of his untidy dark curls, John backed away clumsily.

    Jo-Beth stood up without looking at him and went to sweep up the pieces of cup. Still not looking at him, she walked over to the rubbish bin and dropped the pieces in. They made a rattling sound—the bin was empty. She bent and replaced the pan and brush in the cupboard. She still wanted to scream. She straightened, and looked at the bench. “Which one is mine?” she said in a tight voice.

    John had had a moment’s awful and delirious vision, as she bent to replace the dust-pan, of himself going up to her as she bent, and— God knew why, he’d never done it like that in his life. He hauled out his handkerchief and mopped the back of his neck with it.

    Jo-Beth turned and opened her mouth crossly to repeat her question. Big man in a crumpled white shirt, stretched out before her, the belt a little tight across his middle—he ought to lose some weight— Her eyes flickered and fell. She turned blindly back to the bench. Her heart pounded.

    “What?” he said behind her.

    Jo-Beth could hear him breathing. She gripped the edge of the bench and said in a very high voice: “Which one is mine? Or doesn’t it matter?”

    “What? Oh!” John swallowed noisily. “It doesn’t matter—I put two spoonfuls of sugar in both of them.”

    Silently Jo-Beth took a coffee and walked over to a hard chair. She sat down, crossing her ankles. John picked up his own coffee and went over to the couch. He sat heavily, wondering dully how it was possible to feel both utterly wrung-out and unbearably stimulated at the same time.

    Involuntarily Jo-Beth glanced at his lap. She looked quickly away. The blood pounded in her ears. This was crazy! She didn’t even like him!

    John sipped his scalding coffee gingerly. After a while he looked at her cautiously. She was staring off into the corner of the room. His eyes were irresistibly drawn to the front of her pretty blouse. He’d always heard that Japanese women were really tiny, quite flat; only she wasn’t. Very neat, but not flat. Jesus, why hadn’t somebody told her you could practically see through that damned thing... Oh, shit. The coffee was too hot and he didn’t dare to go away until he’d drunk it, she’d think he was... mad, or something. She probably thinks that anyway, he recognized gloomily.

    Jo-Beth thought crazily to herself: I wonder what he’d do if I suddenly said: “John, if you’re not doing anything this weekend, let’s spend it in bed together?” Probably faint, or something, she recognized glumly. She sipped her coffee cautiously. It was far too hot to drink, otherwise she’d just finish it up quickly and go away. It was so—so stupid! I don’t even like him, she thought again. Unexpectedly her mind immediately retorted: No, and he doesn’t like you, either, Jo-Beth Nakamura! The heat rose up her neck. If only she’d never come to the horrible country; if only she’d guessed it’d be full of Britishers!

    The silence lengthened. Jo-Beth could hear a fly buzzing against a window pane. She didn’t like flies and had been horrified to discover that her co-workers, except for Charlie, had a rather more casual attitude towards them; oh, sure they had a can of fly-spray there in the cupboard, but— She glanced at John. The hair on his forearms was dark and curly, like the beard; it gave her a real funny feeling... What would it be like, doing it with a man with a beard? A little shiver shook her. His skin was real dark, too, when you looked at him—real olive; where had he got that from, that wasn’t English at all— Realizing she was staring, she looked quickly away again.

    “This is real good coffee,” she offered desperately.

    “Uh—yes. I used plenty. Marianne said it’s an Italian roast.”

    “That right? I guess the Italians know coffee, huh? Have you been to Italy?”

    “What? Oh—yes.”

    Jo-Beth waited for him to tell her about his trip, but he didn’t. Seeking rather wildly for an appropriate remark to fill the now really crashing silence, she said: “You Britishers are just so lucky—having Europe so near. I’ve never been to Europe.”

    John could think of no answer to this typically American remark—besides, he loathed the term “Britisher”. Not noticing that Jo-Beth hadn’t added anything crass such as “They’ve got so much culture over there” to her conversational gambit, he mumbled: “Oh. Haven’t you?”

    “No,” she said faintly. Out of the corner of her eye she watched him sip his coffee; if only he’d drink it up and go away! “I’ve always wanted to go to Rome,” she said, trying to squint at her watch without appearing to do so. “I guess you went there, did you?”

    What could you say? “Uh—yes. Once or twice,” he muttered. He wrenched fiercely at his loosened tie. “Hot, isn’t it?” he croaked.

    “Yeah; I guess summer’s just around the corner, huh?” she returned, with a desperate brightness.

    Silence fell. If I was the man— Jo-Beth thought sourly. Gee, it’s perfectly obvious he wants to; why the Hell doesn’t he say something? What’s wrong with these Britishers, anyroad?

    I know she despises me; I know she thinks I’m—I’m a clumsy lout, John thought despairingly. And I am!

    In a very high voice Jo-Beth said: “What are you doing for Labour Day, John?”

    “Nothing,” he replied heavily.

    She gave a tiny gasp. Unexpectedly her eyes filled with tears. She felt more put down than she ever had in her life before.

    Silence again. It was far too late for the “lot of reading” line. It was impossible to explain to a competent, crisp American why he was the only person in the country who hadn’t made arrangements for the long weekend. “What are you?” he croaked.

    She jumped. “Oh—sorting out my new apartment, I guess,” she said lamely. “I’m moving into it tomorrow.”

    “Oh. That’s nice,” he replied dully.

    Jo-Beth didn’t see why it was nice at all. An irrational anger suddenly possessed her. She stood up quickly. “Well—” She hurried over to the sink and began to wash her cup. To her horror, he followed her. “Give me your cup and saucer,” she said weakly. “I’ll wash—you can dry.”

    They did the dishes in a silent, agonized parody of domesticity.

    “Well—see ya round, I guess!” said Jo-Beth, sounding horribly artificial in her own ears. “Have a good weekend, huh?” She gave him a bright, meaningless smile, not meeting his eyes, and hurried out.

    “Yes,” said John weakly. “Thank you,” he added lamely. His voice seemed to echo hollowly in the empty, ugly room. He walked back to the couch and sat down heavily. Talk about the elephant and the mouse! But he couldn’t raise a smile, he felt terrible... And he still wanted her dreadfully. I know she despises me, he thought; and I’m damn sure she noticed... Oh, God. He leaned his head in his hands. Why am I so—so bloody inept? he wondered dully. Why can’t I at least make conversation like normal people do?

    The hot, stuffy staffroom supplied no answer to this conundrum. John went on sitting there with his head in his hands for some time. He heard a toilet flush. He heard the front door slam. There she goes, he thought miserably.

    The smell of coffee lingered. After quite some time John got up, slowly and heavily, and crossed to the sink-bench. He unscrewed the coffee-pot that Jo-Beth in her emotional state had overlooked, and began meticulously to rinse it. This was one of the things he’d learned from his Italian relatives.

    One of the reasons why John had been unable to return a conventional reply to Jo-Beth’s conventional questions about his knowledge of Italy was that he knew it too well. He hadn’t been on a trip there, as she’d imagined; he’d spent every school holiday there since the age of fourteen.

    John’s mother, in fact, was Italian—hence the olive skin that no-one at the Institute had seen much of, because of the beard and his winter clothes. Maria, a tall, vivacious dark-haired woman, had left John’s quiet, introverted English father and returned to the land of her birth when John was only four years old. Philip Aitken hadn’t really minded: five years of marriage to a passionate, hot-tempered, demanding woman half his age had left him with a feeling of crushed exhaustion from which he was never really to recover. He was a professor of chemistry: he re-buried himself thankfully in his work. He wouldn’t really have minded if she’d taken their son with her; since she hadn’t—out of some obscure feeling of fair play which she didn’t bother to examine, being a person with no capacity whatsoever for introspection or self-analysis—Philip did his best to bring the boy up properly.

    The year John turned fourteen Maria re-married and, to Philip’s immense relief, promptly issued a warm invitation for John to come over to Italy during his school holidays. Philip put the child on a plane without a second thought. John, a gawky, skinny, shy teenager, was abjectly terrified by the whole thing; he’d hardly seen his mother in the last ten years and had never been on a plane before. He didn’t speak a word of Italian, either. Maria didn’t notice the terror and ignored the language barrier. She swept him into a warm embrace (rather an uncomfortable one, since she was heavily pregnant), didn’t notice his horrified embarrassment, and proceeded to engulf him in the bosom of her new extended family: Gianni, the husband, was a widower with three grown-up children, two of them with children of their own. No-one noticed John’s shyness, embarrassment, or endless mistakes. They were staying by the sea in a villa that belonged to Gianni’s sister’s husband that summer, and by the end of August John was dark brown all over, had learned to swim, and knew enough Italian to be trusted to bike down to the shops alone and purchase what he’d been asked to get—which ranged from ordinary things such as a loaf of bread or a hunk of cheese to items which in his previous existence would have reduced him to a quivering wreck: cigarettes, bottles of wine, nappies for Gianni’s eldest daughter’s baby, and tampons for the stepsisters. He hadn’t even known what the last-named were—even in English.

    It had taken him years to reconcile the “Nino” he was in Italy with the John he was in his more normal, or English existence; and unfortunately the marriage with Felicity almost wrecked the fragile reconciliation he had attained. The good-natured and happy fellow his Italian relatives knew had crept back behind the shell of the bumbling, clumsy, earnest English John—and, incidentally, behind the beard. He hadn’t even been back to Italy since his first daughter was born; thanks to Felicity, he hadn’t been able to afford to.

    John therefore made excellent coffee, when he exerted himself, which he hadn’t bothered to do for years; he could also cook an excellent Italian meal. He adored Italian food, but hadn’t exerted himself to go out to restaurants, either, for some years. And of course, as Charlie Roddenberry had discovered earlier in the year, there were no Italian restaurants in Puriri. There were several in the city, and one at least was quite good; but John hadn’t exerted himself to find them.

    Jo-Beth also adored Italian food, and cooked it quite often—though not as well as John. She had found the Italian restaurants, and she, Fred and Missy had tried three of them. As John might have noticed if it hadn’t been for the cup-dropping episode, Jo-Beth was also very fond of Bach—quite as much as he was. She had had her stereo shipped out; he had unwisely sold his, only to discover that he’d have to pay three times the price out here to get something half as good. His records were still on the high seas; Jo-Beth’s had arrived two weeks ago. All in all, in spite of their very different temperaments, the elephant and the mouse had quite a lot more in common than just that flash of mutual desire in a hot, stuffy staffroom on a warm October afternoon.

    Sighing heavily, John finished drying the coffee-pot, dutifully closed the one open window, and turned the Zip water-heater off at the wall. Then he went out, locking the door after him with Peter’s master key, not realising that Jo-Beth’s dainty little watch was on the windowsill over the sink-bench. He felt so drained that he went straight home, skipping the public library.

Saturday

    64 Pukeko Drive was an almost new block of three flats; the front one, with the largest garden, was occupied by Mr and Mrs Hipgrave. Mr Hipgrave had recently retired from his job in the Accounting Department of the Puriri County Council. It hadn’t been a very senior job: there had been four people above him, all very much more highly paid than he was, and all quite a lot younger than him. As Accounting handled most of the day-to-day financial transactions of all the many and varied departments of the Council, he had, however, had a lot of people under him. Everybody had been very glad to see Mr Hipgrave go: he’d made everyone’s life Hell for the last three years before his retirement by his persistent and determined attempts to sabotage the new Fully Integrated Computer System—not out of malice, but to prove that the older, manual system had been far more efficient. Which of course it had; but it had been much less fun, and a lot more work; and it had never had glorious downtimes where no-one could possibly do any work and had to spend the time gossiping with their pals over coffee and fags in the staff cafeteria, or nipping out to the shops or the TAB. Mr Hipgrave’s hobbies were bowls and building intricate models, mainly bridges, out of matchsticks.

    Mrs Hipgrave was three days older than Mr Hipgrave. She had brought up three children, all of whom were now married, with children of their own. Mrs Hipgrave’s hobbies were knitting and gardening. She had recently been persuaded by a neighbour, who was a widow, to join the Puriri West Scrabble Club. This was a breakaway club, founded by renegades from the Puriri Scrabble Club, who had objected to the Puriri club’s moving its monthly Pairs Tournament Night from 6.30 on a Tuesday to 7.30 on a Thursday: you got home too late and besides, it made you miss Coronation Street. Mrs Hipgrave wasn’t sure whether she liked it, yet.

    The Hipgraves owned the whole block of flats; they had been talked into selling their old house on its huge section at the shops end of Seddon Street by their eldest son, Geoff, when that end of the street was re-zoned Commercial. Mr Hipgrave had been quite frightened—though he hadn’t admitted it to Geoff or Mrs Hipgrave, of course—by the amount they’d got for the old place, and he’d been very glad to take Geoff’s advice and put it into the safety of property.

    Geoff was something in the Carrano Group—Mrs Hipgrave frankly admitted she didn’t know what he did; Mr Hipgrave would inform people that Geoff was “an Executive” but he didn’t understand what he did, either—and Geoff, to his father’s absolute and certain knowledge, had made investments on the Stock Exchange. When that big crash came Mr and Mrs Hipgrave watched in fear and trembling to see if Geoff and Wendy would have to sell the boat, or Wendy’s car, or the bach up at Carter’s Bay, or even—perish the thought—take the two girls away from St Ursula’s. They were very surprized when Geoff and Wendy didn’t take any of these drastic steps, and continued their somewhat lavish lifestyle (which their parents secretly rather disapproved of) in their big house in the Grammar Zone.

    Mr Hipgrave was awfully glad when they found suitable tenants for the other two flats and the rent started to come into his bank account.

    The tenant of the middle flat was John Aitken. Unlike the flats to either side of him, his had only one bedroom and a very small garden. John didn’t mind: no-one was going to come and stay with him, and all he knew about gardening could be summed up in his stepfather Gianni’s maxim: Put it in; if it grows, it grows; if it doesn’t—too bad! (Italian shrug.) The Hipgraves were pleased that John was so quiet and unobtrusive. As far as John was concerned, the only drawback to the flat was Mrs Hipgrave’s helpfulness. She was always popping over on some excuse or other, sometimes with a home-grown cabbage or a bunch of silverbeet, sometimes with something left over from their own tea (Mr Hipgrave hated leftovers, she confided), or sometimes—having discovered with something like horror that he had no television—with an invitation to pop over and watch a really nice English programme with them. Mrs Hipgrave’s idea of a nice English programme was the sort of inane comedy that involved two middle-aged gentlemen locked in a relationship that was dubious, to say the least, whilst ostensibly competing for the favours of a succession of unlikely females, so John declined these invitations as often as he decently could. His excuse was that he had too much work to do. Mrs Hipgrave concluded that they must be real slave-drivers up at the varsity, she’d never realized that the varsity lecturers had to work so hard, poor things!

    It didn’t dawn on John that Mrs Hipgrave spent the major portion of her evenings alone, as Mr Hipgrave of course spent the major portion of his in his spacious garage, building his matchstick models—except for every second Wednesday, which was bowls Committee night.

    The Hipgraves were terribly relieved to have found a nice tenant at last for the back flat. They’d had such bad luck with it that they’d been thinking of selling it; only they didn’t really want anyone so close—you never knew, did you? Their first tenant had been a very nice young man, quiet and steady, with a good job as Head Salesman at Forrest Furnishings—not the one up here, the big new branch (twelve years old) down in Brown’s Bay. But he’d let them down very badly: he’d got mixed up with that Jack Banks—well, everyone knew about him, of course, and then there’d been that awful scandal a couple of years back when his father had been killed like that—it was poor Marjory Banks you had to feel sorry for, of course, first the shock of her husband’s death, and then that son of hers: such a disappointment it must be to a mother; of course these days nobody thought anything of it, but… They’d never have thought it of Terry, never; he’d thrown up his good job and gone off with that Jack Banks to do digs! At this point John had echoed blankly “Digs?”—thinking vaguely it must be something to do with pop music. Vigorously nodding her carefully waved, improbably peach-coloured curls at him over the white-painted, concrete-block garden wall, Mrs Hipgrave had said: “Yes; digs; you know, horrible old bones and things.”—“Oh!” said John in enlightenment. Mrs Hipgrave made a distasteful moue. “In the Islands, what’s more!”—“What islands?”—“You know,” returned Mrs Hipgrave in astonishment: “the Pacific Islands!” She gave him a conspiratorial look and added: “Dirty old Polynesian bones—who’d be interested in them, for goodness’ sake?” She gave a silly laugh, still with the conspiratorial look on her face. John had gathered drily that Mrs Hipgrave was not free of the typical prejudices of her peers.

    The disappointment of Terry had been followed by a most unsuccessful experiment which Mrs Hipgrave had not wanted to talk about. She immediately told John all about it: it had been Geoff’s idea, but of course not his fault, how could he know the sort of homes that some of those people must have come from? The flat had been let to the Carrano Group as temporary accommodation for young executives on transfer, and the sitting-room wallpaper and carpet had had to be replaced. The stove had been in an unspeakable state and Mrs Hipgrave could not begin to tell John about the things that had been left in the bathroom! John had waited, but it must have really been bad, because she didn’t begin. Since the company had paid for all the cleaning and redecorating, John couldn’t see what the Hipgraves had had to complain about. However, there had also been the noise, and the goings-on, and nice Mrs Hinchcliffe, she was a widow—you know, she’d had the flat before you—well, she left, because she couldn’t stand it any more. But the new tenant, Mrs Hipgrave assured John earnestly, was a very nice girl, they’d put the flat in Mr Taylor’s hands—you know, at Pritchard & Taylor— But at this point John coughed, and excused himself.

    Mrs Hipgrave never did manage to corner him during the week that followed this conversation and finish her news; so on the Saturday of Labour Weekend John got rather a shock.

    At what seemed an absolutely ungodly hour to one who’d been reading until one a.m., but was actually around ten o’clock, there was a frightful roaring, rattling sound of a truck on the drive that the three flats shared, followed by a lot of shouting in hoarse male voices, and considerable banging and crashing. The flats were quite well designed, with bedrooms giving onto the gardens, so it was a while before the noise irritated John to the point where he had to get up. He went and had a pee, and then peered very cautiously out of his sitting-room window at what was going on next-door. Mrs Hipgrave was out there, unashamedly watching. There was a battered vehicle.—An old Bedford, famous in the annals of New Zealand flat-shifting.—There were three hulking louts, from whom most of the noise was proceeding. They looked vaguely familiar.—They should have: two of them were Pam Anderson’s middle and youngest sons, whom he’d met at dinner at the Andersons’ not three weeks earlier. The third was a friend of the middle Anderson boy and the proud owner of the Bedford.—After some to-ing and fro-ing, with loud and unhelpful instructions from Mrs Hipgrave, a fifth figure appeared: Jo-Beth Nakamura.

    Shaken, John retreated to his kitchen, and made a pot of very strong coffee.

    He felt so overcome that he lurked indoors for the rest of the day, Hellishly bored, because that was his last unread library book from last week that he’d finished at one o’clock this morning and the Concert Programme was, as usual on a Saturday afternoon, broadcasting sports. He fiddled irritably with the dial.

    “AND next-comes-Poppa’sBoy-on-the-outside-followed-by-VindaLou, then-came-MyLuck-with-ToodgersAmy and, trailing-by-four-lengths-is—”

    Shuddering, John turned it off without waiting to hear what was trailing Toujours Aimé by four lengths. And not realising that he’d just been privileged to hear one of the very few genuine New Zealand art forms: even the Aussies had never managed to attain that unbroken, incredibly rapid, high-pitched nasal flow.

Sunday

    “Give her a ring, Dad,” suggested Susan Shapiro. She took a banana from his fruit bowl.

    “Yeah, go on, Dad,” said Allyson Shapiro. She took the remains of a bunch of black hothouse grapes out of his fruit bowl.

    Micky sighed. “There’s no point in it,” he said to Susan.

    “Never know ya luck,” she replied through the banana, avoiding his eye.

    “These grapes don’t taste of anything!” said Allyson accusingly. She ate another one.

    “Don’t eat them, then,” said Micky, reasonably but vaguely. He stared at his trendy pale yellow phone.

    Allyson went on eating grapes and reading his National Business Review with her denim knees in the air and her sneakered feet on the edge of his trendy grey leather easy chair. Susan finished her banana and stared vaguely out of the huge picture window at his trendy view of the harbour.

    “How’s your mother?” said Micky, without interest.

    “Aw right,” said Allyson; and: “Bloody,” said Susan simultaneously.

    “What do you mean, ‘Bloody’?” Micky demanded crossly.

    “Well, ya know she was supposed to go down to Queenstown this weekend with that new bloke of hers?” said Susan.

    “The one that looks like a Yorkshire terrier,” said Allyson helpfully, not looking up. She shoved three grapes into her mouth.

    “Ye-es,” said Micky uncertainly.

    “Well, it fell through,” said Susan. “Mum’s in a totally foul mood. I rang her this morning and she said she couldn’t talk, she was shampooing the carpets.”

    “God,” said Micky, with complete understanding.

    “Yeah—’s why I came over here,” agreed Allyson. She ate the last grape. “Gee, this thing’s crap,” she reported.

    “You know that,” said Micky tiredly. “Why do you bother to read it?”

    Allyson looked up and grinned. “Wanna see them get all their market predictions wrong, o’ course!”

    “Oh,” said Micky.

    Allyson chortled. “Listen to this! ‘Confidently expected to provide an excellent return in the near future’!” she quoted scornfully. “Everyone knows that stock’s only moving because Jake Carrano’s been nibbling at that company!”

    “Oh,” said Micky without interest.

    “C’n I read this, Dad?” said Susan.

    “Yes,” said Micky without looking round to see what it was.

    Susan sat down with his expensive edition of the Decamerone with the dirty engravings. She ignored the engravings. She began to read the Italian, frowning a little and moving her lips.

    Allyson looked at the stock market listings. “Huh!” she said.

    “What?” said Micky tiredly.

    “Carrano Development still hasn’t moved, are they all blind, or what?”

    “Why don’t you sell out, then?”

    “Sell out? Da-ad! You’re not listening!” She explained laboriously, and in great detail, firstly the soundness of Carrano Development and secondly just what would happen to Carrano Development’s shares if they took over Denham Engineering.

    “I don’t see why they’re interested in a light engineering firm, anyway,” said Micky feebly at the end of it.

    Allyson gave him a pitying look. “Asset stripping,” she said.

    “Oh,” said Micky humbly.

    Allyson’s eye ran down the listings again. “Huh!” she said. “Bottom’s dropped out of GreenCo; said it would.”

    “GreenCo?” said Micky without much interest. He picked up the Listener. “Didn’t you have shares in that?”

    “Sold out just before the crash,” returned Allyson in a vague voice, her eyes on an article about thoroughbred studs.

    “Oh,” said Micky limply. Allyson had sold out of everything she thought was risky just before the crash. He reckoned she was the only person in the country to have made money out of the crash rather than lost it. There had been a cabal of teenage investors at St Ursie’s: they all must have eavesdropped on their dads’ answering machines, or something—well, God knew where they’d got their information from, but it had invariably been correct. Allyson was no longer at St Ursie’s, of course... He looked at her cautiously. “Darling—” he said.

    Unused to this mode of address, Allyson didn’t withdraw her mop of light brown curls (the same colour as Micky’s used to be) from the pages of the National Business Review.

    “Allyson!” he said sharply.

    “What?” replied Allyson grudgingly.

    “Don’t you think you ought to drop that stupid secretarial course? What about going to varsity next year?” –There was a certain plaintive note in his voice.

    As he expected, Allyson replied firmly: “Nope.”

    “You could do a B.Com., you’d sail through it,” said Micky without much hope.

    “No; those Business Studies jokers are all nongs,” said Allyson.

    Susan laughed suddenly over her book; they both jumped.

    “But you’re wasting your time with that bloody typing and so on,” pursued Micky.

    “I know that, Dad; I’m only doing it to keep out of Mum’s way. Anyway, it’s good for my keyboard skills,” said Allyson.

    “No; but darling,” said Micky agitatedly, “you need some sort of paper qualification in today’s world, you know!”

    Allyson closed the paper. She dropped it on the floor. “Why?” she asked mildly. “I made $40,246.65 in this last financial year. –Before tax, that is,” she added conscientiously.

    “WHAT?” cried Micky.

    Allyson stretched her legs. She looked at his flushed face in mild surprize. “Forty thousand—” she began.

    “I heard you,” said Micky hoarsely. He ran his hand over his face. “Forty thousand dollars!” he said. “My God, do you know how many years it took me to work my way up in the firm to earning anything like— My God!”

    “Yeah, but that was in the old days, Dad: money was worth more, then,” said Susan kindly, suddenly joining in the conversation. “You had things to spend it on, too; old Midas here never spends a red cent: she just re-invests the lot.”

    “Does your mother know how much you made?” said Micky weakly to his younger daughter.

    Allyson shrugged. “Shouldn’t think so. She’s never asked me about it, anyway.”

    No, well, Pat never had been interested in anything about money except spending it.

    “I’m hungry!” said Allyson crossly.

    “Oh; yes, all right, we’ll have lunch soon.” He looked at Susan. She was reading again. Feeling his glance on her, she looked up. “What do you fancy for lunch, Sue-Sue?”

    “Anything, I don’t mind,” said Susan.

    “Spaghetti?”

    “Not Harding’s Spaghetti, it’s muck.” Susan looked down at her book again.

    Micky never bought tinned spaghetti. “No,” he agreed mildly.

    Susan looked up suddenly. “Why don’t you give Marianne a ring and see if she wants to come to lunch? We could take the boat out, this aftern—”

    “NO!” said Micky violently. He went out to the kitchen.

    “What the Hell’s up with him?” demanded Allyson. “He had a row with Marianne, or what?”

    “No!” said Susan. “And don’t you dare say a word to him about it!”

    Allyson goggled at her. Susan’s nostrils flared. Her soft pink mouth firmed. She stared her sister down.

    “All right,” said Allyson weakly. “I wasn’t going to, anyway!” she added with a spurt of defiance.

    Susan didn’t react in kind. She gave her a hard look and returned to her book.

    Allyson fidgeted. “Shall I give Dad a hand?” she said at last.

    “Yes; good idea,” replied Susan in a firm voice that was remarkably like her Aunt Helen’s.

    Silently Allyson retreated to the kitchen.

    Susan stared out across the harbour. Nothing on earth would have induced her to tell her sister so, but she knew exactly why Micky was so upset over Marianne: he’d told her all about meeting Marianne’s aged lover. In fact, he’d cried. It had been awful; she’d never seen Dad cry before. She frowned. Nothing she’d said had been any good; she was afraid Dad was going into a deep depression. “Bloody women,” she muttered under her breath.

    In the kitchen Allyson appointed herself in charge of the cheese. She looked at what she’d grated. “Is this enough?”

    “Mm—bit more.”

    Allyson grated Parmesan. “It’s hard work,” she said.

    “Mm,” said Micky. He peered into the pasta pot. “Could you get me down a tin of tomatoes from the top cupboard?”

    Allyson got the tomatoes. “I’ll open them, shall I?” –She loved using his electric tin-opener.

    “Righto,” said Micky, giving the pasta a cautious stir.

    Allyson opened the tin. “Where do you want them?”

    “Just leave them, sweetheart; I’ll put them in the sauce in a minute.”

    When he was stirring the sauce Allyson came up very close.  “Dad—” she said.

    “Mm?”

    Allyson backed away. She fidgeted.

    “What is it?” said Micky.

    She came up very close again. Micky stirred the sauce and didn’t look at her. He heard her take a deep breath.

    “Dad—do you think Grandpa’d have me in the firm?”

    Micky turned and goggled at her. Her round, unformed features had gone an ugly red. “Is that what you want to do?”

    Allyson nodded hard. Her eyes filled with tears. “I know he probably won’t want me, he’s only interested in rotten Damian; but—”

    “Darling, of course he’ll want you! He’ll be absolutely thrilled!” Micky abandoned the sauce and put his arm round her. “You’re the only one of his descendants who’s ever shown any interest in the business; he’ll be over the moon!”

    Allyson said into his chest: “Ye-ah; but he doesn’t like girls; I mean he doesn’t take girls seriously.”

    Micky chuckled. “He’ll take you seriously, sweetheart, once he knows what you made from your investments by your own unaided efforts!”

    “Um… maybe,” she admitted.

    He gave her a bit of a hug and released her. “Shall we go over to Grandpa’s this afternoon?”

    Allyson hesitated. “Carol’ll be there. She wouldn’t go down to Taupo with Aunty Helen and Uncle Nat, she said it was boring.”

    “You haven’t had a row with her, have you?”

    “Not exactly,” said Allyson, avoiding his eye.

    “Allyson—”

    Allyson looked up and said rapidly: “She reckons I told on her to Old Featherbrain, but I didn’t, Dad! I mean, I did tell her, only—only I thought it was my duty, after what Grandma said. Y’know?”

    Micky forbore to tell her not to say “y’know?” and not to refer to her former headmistress as “Old Featherbrain”. “How do you mean?” he said cautiously.

    “Well, I was in town—I’d just come out of my typing class, it was lunchtime—and I thought I’d go down to that place in High Street that has those great pitta bread sandwiches, y’know?” She took a deep breath. “And I saw Carol coming out of the Art Gallery in her St Ursie’s uniform.”

    “Oh, dear,” said Micky.

    “Yeah. Well, I thought maybe she was doing a project, or something; Old Featherbrain does let the seniors off sometimes during the day... Only she’s not taking Art History, or anything. So I said: ‘What are you doing here?’—quite mildly, y’know? And she said ‘What business is that of yours, Fat Face?’”

    “Fat Face!” said the partisan Micky indignantly. “You haven’t got a fat face!”

    “No, well, anyway,” said Allyson, appearing unmoved by the insult, “that made me really suspicious, y’know? So I said: ‘Does Miss Fothergill know you’re here?’ and she said ‘Get lost, Shapiro, you aren’t a prefect any more, you can’t tell me what to do.’” She looked at her father expectantly.

    “Oh, dear,” said Micky, pulling a face.

    “Yeah. So then I told her she’d be in real hot water if she was wagging it, and she went back into the Art Gallery.”

    “Oh,” said Micky. “What did you do?”

    “Well, I didn’t want to make a scene in the Art Gallery, y’know?” said Allyson earnestly.

    “Might’ve brightened it up a bit,” said Micky before he could stop himself.

    Allyson had never voluntarily darkened its doors in her life. She looked a little uncertain. “Yeah,” she said. “Well, anyway, then I wondered what I better do. I mean,” she said earnestly, “if it hadn’t of been for all those other times I might’ve let it go—y’know? But... well, after what Grandma said, and everything.”

    “What did Belinda say?” asked Micky, unable to suppress his curiosity.

    “Aw, well, you know,” said Allyson, going very red and fidgeting. “About how, um, emotionally disturbed Carol is, and all that... And how if any of us thought she was doing something she wasn’t s’posed to, or if we saw her anywhere at a funny time, or something, we oughta tell a gr— an adult, her or Aunty Helen or Uncle Nat or someone, and it wouldn’t be telling tales in the circumstances.”

    “Who did she say all this to?” asked Micky, fascinated.

    “All of us. Me and Susan, and Mel and Damian.”

    “All at once?” asked Micky, imagining the scene with great pleasure.

    “Yeah; what’s that got to do with it?” replied Allyson crossly.

    “Nothing,” he said quickly. “So what did you do, sweetheart?”

    “Well, I thought I’d better phone Grandma, so I did; only she was out, that nong Jimmy answered the phone. So I was gonna phone Aunty Helen, only what if she was out? She goes out a lot, doesn’t she—I mean, all those clubs and things—y’know? And shopping, of course. So I thought I’d better not try her in case she was out and the phone swallowed up my money.” She looked at Micky expectantly.

    “Ye-es; but wasn’t it worth a try? She could well have been in,” he murmured.

    “No, because I only had enough money for one more call; and a sandwich, of course,” explained Allyson. “So I thought I’d better ring Miss Fothergill at school—I knew she’d be there, and anyway if she wasn’t the secretary would’ve taken a message.” She paused for breath.

    “So you rang her?”

    “Yes, and she was there, and she said I’d done quite the right thing, and Carol was supposed to be having Library Period all morning, she shouldn’t have been in town at all!”

    “Did she come in and fetch her?” asked Micky with interest.

    “No; I thought she might do that, too,” admitted Allyson. “I said: ‘Do you want me to stick around and keep an eye on her, Miss Fothergill?’ and she said no, we wouldn’t do anything precipitate, but she’d speak to Carol when she got back to school.”

    “I see,” said Micky, thinking it over. “Yes, that was sensible.”

    “Yes, I thought so, too. Anyway, she must’ve spoken to Carol all right, because next time I saw her she said I was a sneak and she was never gonna speak to me again, and if I ever did anything like it again she’d—she’d put sugar in the petrol tank of my motor-scooter!” Her voice shook with indignation and horror.

    “Sugar...” echoed Micky weakly. “I don’t suppose she meant it, darling.”

    “Yes, she did, too!” cried Allyson. “She’s got an awful temper, Dad! Don’t you remember that time Damian accidentally spilt ink or something on her favourite jumper and she poured green paint all over his hair?”

    “Oh, yes,” said Micky weakly, trying not to laugh.

    “It was oil-based paint; Aunty Becky had to shave his hair off, in the end,” Allyson reminded him.

    “I remember!” gasped Micky, breaking down and howling with laughter.

    “He looked terrible,” said Allyson. “He wouldn’t go to school for ages.”

    Micky went on laughing. After a moment Allyson gave a weak laugh, too.

    “Well, anyway,” he said at last, more or less pulling himself together and hastily taking his sauce off the heat, “you did quite the right thing.”

    “Yeah,” Allyson agreed. “Only Carol wouldn’t see it that way.”

    “No.” Micky remembered what the conversation had been about in the first place. “I think we could manage to avoid Carol if we go over to the Cohens’.” He stirred his sauce. “This is done; can you pass me the plates?”

    Allyson passed plates and Micky put spaghetti and sauce on them.

    “Well, what do you think?” he said. “Shall we brave the dreaded Carol?”

    “All right,” she agreed.

    Over lunch she said carelessly to Susan: “We’re going over to Grandma and Grandpa’s, after; you wanna come?”

    “Nah; I might watch Chariots of Fire.”

    “Is that on again?

    “Apparently. Unless they cancel it in favour of sports,” replied Susan drily.

    Micky waited, but Allyson didn’t say she’d rather watch the film after all. He glanced at her cautiously. Ouch! Her round, pink, still childish face wore an expression that was a dead ringer for old Nathaniel Cohen’s, that time way back when he and Pat had just got engaged and the old boy—must’ve been ninety if a day—had just informed the family that he was putting umpteen mill’ into some scheme dreamed up by Jake Carrano. Only Jerry had ever heard of the man, and he nearly exploded at his father’s decision.

    Oh, well, Micky reflected drily, Carrano was now a multi-millionaire, so presumably if he, Michael Shapiro, went broke in his old age, his younger daughter would be more than able to support him!

    Mrs Hipgrave had kindly had Jo-Beth to tea on the Saturday, but she considerately left her “to settle in” instead of asking her again on Sunday; besides, it was chops, and there weren’t enough to go round. But on opening the Listener after tea she saw that there was a really nice English comedy on at seven-thirty. She trotted over and tapped on John’s door.

    John had gone to sleep over a student’s thesis notes and didn’t hear. Undeterred, Mrs Hipgrave trotted on down to Jo-Beth’s.

    Jo-Beth had just had a shower and was in a navy-blue cotton kimono with a pattern of white cherry blossoms on it. It made her look so very Japanese that Mrs Hipgrave was momentarily reduced to silence. “Oh,” she said finally. “Were you going to bed, dear? I’m sorry.”

    When the truthful Jo-Beth replied that she wasn’t going to bed, she’d just taken a shower, Mrs Hipgrave invited her—with rather more urgency than she might have used if she hadn’t had a shock—to come round and watch TV with her. Jo-Beth’s deprecating glance down at herself was dismissed with a cheery assurance that she needn’t worry about that, it was only them. Since in suburban California kimonos were quite acceptable leisure wear, Jo-Beth meekly accompanied her, not realizing that in suburban Puriri they weren’t.

    Mrs Hipgrave ushered her into her sitting-room where the TV was already on but Mr Hipgrave, of course, was absent, working on his matchstick models in his garage. She looked at her watch and said: “I’ll just try John again; he mustn’t miss this, it’s just the sort of programme he likes;” and shot out. She returned with John Aitken in her wake.

    “Hullo, Jo-Beth,” he mumbled. “How are you settling in?”

    Jo-Beth got up numbly. The full glory of the kimono was revealed to John. He blinked.

    “Doesn’t she look sweet?” said Mrs Hipgrave quickly.

    “Hi, John,” said Jo-Beth weakly. “I didn’t realize that was your apartment, next-door.”

    “She means flat,” explained Mrs Hipgrave.

    “Uh—yes,” agreed John.

    “Well, sit down, John, dear!” urged Mrs Hipgrave. “Ooh, quick—it’s starting!” She sat down in her easy chair and picked up her knitting.

    John looked helplessly at the vacant armchair opposite hers, which was Mr Hipgrave’s. He looked doubtfully at the sofa, which had Jo-Beth on it. There was another chair, a hard little occasional chair with an intricately carved back, but John knew Mrs Hipgrave didn’t like you to sit on that. He sat down carefully on the sofa, as far away from the delicate little kimono-ed figure as he could possibly get.

    They both enjoyed the comedy. After a little Jo-Beth said dazedly: “These people can really act!”

    “Mm. That’s Judi Dench, she’s a wonderful actress,” pointed out John, his eyes glued to the actress’s large, very pale blonde, not young form. Jo-Beth felt a spurt of irritation.

    “He’s really her husband, you know!” said Mrs Hipgrave brightly. Her fingers worked busily but her eyes were on the screen.

    “Really? He’s real nice, isn’t he?” returned Jo-Beth, dark almond eyes on the screen, rosebud mouth just slightly open.

    John looked resentfully at the actor’s slight, short, not very young form and very ordinary face and said nothing.

    “Mike’s” coaster stuck to his beer mug for the umpteenth time and they all roared with laughter.

    Mr Hipgrave came in in time for Mastermind. “Is that thing over? –Good.” He sat down in his chair.

    “You should’ve watched it, Mr Hipgrave!” cried Jo-Beth, all lit up. “It was just delightful!”

    Mr Hipgrave looked at her tolerantly.

    “He can’t stand it,” explained Mrs Hipgrave.

    Mr Hipgrave gave a slight sniff. He didn’t dare to say all those Poms got on his nerves in front of John, though he’d have said it down the Bowling Club.

    John hadn’t been privileged to see the New Zealand version of Mastermind before, and he got a horrid shock. Jo-Beth had never before seen a “British” quiz programme, and she was quite overcome.

    “Gee, those questions were real hard,” she said, after the first contestant had made an embarrassingly low score on his special subject, which was some sort of science fiction thing.

    “Mm,” replied John, not looking at her.

    “Dunno how some of them get on it in the first place,” said Mr Hipgrave grumpily.

    The next contestant’s special subject was Gilbert and Sullivan. “Hah!” said Mr Hipgrave. He sat forward eagerly. The contestant scored six. Mr Hipgrave scored fifteen. Even Mrs Hipgrave scored eight. John, although he was quite silent, scored twenty-three: Philip Aitken had what the adult John considered an unwholesome passion for Gilbert and Sullivan and he’d been brought up on it. Jo-Beth had once seen a high-school production of The Mikado and had found it terribly embarrassing. She sat very still.

    The next contestant was a woman. Mr Hipgrave sniffed. Mrs Hipgrave said defensively: “That fat lady last week was very good.” Mr Hipgrave grunted.

    The woman contestant’s subject was the novels of Jane Austen. John sat forward expectantly. On the first question, Jo-Beth, who had quietly determined to say nothing, suddenly found herself exclaiming, simultaneously with John: “Miss Bates!”

    The contestant scored fourteen. She was a good contestant because instead of pausing to think she “passed” on anything she couldn’t answer immediately. She got two wrong and passed on nine. The presenter laboriously read out the answers to the questions she had passed on, mispronouncing three of them and getting one question wrong and having to repeat it.

    “Oh,” said Jo-Beth crossly. “It was Mrs Bennet!”

    John grinned. “I said it was.”

    “That means you got them all right,” said Jo-Beth in a wondering voice.

    “You ought to go on it, John,” said Mr Hipgrave approvingly, apparently taking it as quite normal that his two guests had just had a shouting match on his sofa.

    Mrs Hipgrave nodded vigorously. “You’re miles better than any of those!” She knitted a bit. “You, too, dear!” she said encouragingly to Jo-Beth.

    Jo-Beth laughed. John grinned.

    The final contestant was a hulking farmer from somewhere near Balclutha. Everyone expected his subject to be rugby, or something agricultural. It was Dante’s Divine Comedy.

    “Oh, Hell,” muttered John.

    The presenter mispronounced all of the Italian words in the first three questions (including “Dante”, which he persisted in pronouncing “Donty”). The farmer got all three questions right, but he mispronounced all the answers.

    John stood up abruptly. “’Scuse me,” he mumbled. He went out to the toilet.

    He was ages, but nobody noticed, because they were all absolutely fascinated by the farmer, who was getting all of the questions right. Mr and Mrs Hipgrave, being of an older generation, had just heard of Dante—though they certainly couldn’t answer any of the questions. Jo-Beth answered three and felt very pleased with herself.

    John came back in time to hear the farmer pass on his last question. “O-oh,” said Mr and Mrs Hipgrave and Jo-Beth, deeply disappointed.

    The quiz master beamed at the farmer and told him his score.

    The farmer blushed.

    “Twenty-ONE?” cried the Hipgraves, John and Jo-Beth incredulously.

    “You got one wrong—no, you didn’t, you passed on one; I’ll just run through— I’ll just repeat it for you,” said the presenter weakly. “Uh...” He read the question.

    “Laocoön,” said John involuntarily.

    “And the answer was: Lay-coon!” said the presenter on a triumphant note.

    “Layo-Cohen; of course,” agreed the farmer, grinning sheepishly.

    “You knew it all the time, didn’t you?” said the quiz master. His eyelashes fluttered. The farmer laughed shyly, and got up.

    The general knowledge questions came next. After the first contestant had raised his score to seven, Jo-Beth said: “I get it! First he asks them about their special subject, and then he asks them the general knowledge questions; that makes it fair, doesn’t it?”

    The others looked at her tolerantly.

    “Don’t you have Mastermind in America?” said Mrs Hipgrave kindly.

    “No; we don’t have anything half so good,” said Jo-Beth.

    The Hipgraves and John looked smug.

    The farmer won, just as Mr Hipgrave had predicted, though the woman contestant looked like giving him a run for his money. But she couldn’t answer the question on dahlias, which Mrs Hipgrave got triumphantly right, and she got the one on American presidents wrong (Jo-Beth got it right, of course), and she passed on the one about the Thatcher administration that John knew, and on the ones on the Melbourne Cup, New Zealand prime ministers and a dam in India, all of which Mr Hipgrave got right, as well as six others that none of them could answer. The farmer’s general knowledge wouldn’t even have had to be fair for him to win, after that, but it was actually almost as good as Jo-Beth’s, and better than John’s.

    Everybody felt very happy, warm, and stimulated at the end of the programme. Mr Hipgrave got up and retrieved next week’s Listener from the shelf under the TV. He read out next week’s subjects. One of them was French wines. John tried not to think how the quiz master would mispronounce the French words, and attempted to peer round Mr Hipgrave at Porterhouse Blue.

    “Turn that thing off, dear,” ordered Mrs Hipgrave.

    Mr Hipgrave obeyed.

    “We don’t watch that,” Mrs Hipgrave told her guests brightly.

    John had seen it in England. He thought of Mrs Hipgrave’s reference to the things left by the former tenants in the end flat’s bathroom. An awful ball of laughter formed in his chest. He got up quickly. “’Scuse—” he mumbled. He shot out to the toilet.

    Mrs Hipgrave watched him go in some surprize. “Oh, dear,” she murmured.

    Mr Hipgrave fidgeted. He edged towards the door. “Well, I think I’ll just—” He edged out.

    Mrs Hipgrave leaned forward confidentially. “I do hope he hasn’t got something wrong with his bladder.”

    Jo-Beth’s mouth opened slightly.

    “He doesn’t look after himself properly, you know.” She shook her peach head. “These bachelors!”

    “Oh!” said Jo-Beth, realizing she was talking about her tenant, not her husband. “No,” she agreed. “I guess—uh…”

    Still leaning forward, Mrs Hipgrave told her rapidly and quietly about John’s broken marriage to That Dreadful Woman, and his two little girls. John would have been very surprized to hear this: he had no idea that in the month he’d been in the flat she’d managed to winkle so much information out of him.

    The toilet flushed and his heavy step was heard in the passage. Mrs Hipgrave nodded portentously at Jo-Beth and pursed her lips—whether in reference to John’s broken marriage or his bladder Jo-Beth wasn’t sure.

    Mrs Hipgrave then proceeded to ask Jo-Beth whether she’d ever been “home”—by which, apparently, she meant Japan. Rather taken aback, her guest admitted the family had been to Japan, yes, they had relatives there, still… Happily Mrs Hipgrave encouraged her; Jo-Beth found herself telling them all about the simple, traditional life at her elderly great-uncle’s house in the country…

    “What about supper?” said Mr Hipgrave hopefully, coming in from the garage and the matchstick models.

    “Good gracious, is that the time?” cried Mrs Hipgrave, glancing at her watch and bustling to her feet. “You can come and give me a hand,” she said firmly to her husband. He followed her meekly. “Shut that door!” she ordered. The sitting-room door closed behind them.

    “I’ve left my watch at work,” said Jo-Beth said lamely. “What is the time, John?”

    “What? Oh.” He told her the time.

    “Oh, Hell, I talked too much,” she said unhappily.

    “No, you didn’t; it was fascinating.”

    She sighed. “Yes, I did.” She glanced at him timidly. “It’s the American disease,” she ventured.

    John gave a startled laugh. Jo-Beth smiled shyly. John’s colour rose. He smiled back.

    After a moment she said in a shaken voice: “I don’t suppose you’ve got a master key to the prefab, have you?”

    “What? No. –Oh, yes!” he remembered. “I’ve got Peter’s.”

    “Oh, great! Could I borrow it? I left my watch on the windowsill in the staffroom—above the bench.”

    “Oh,” said John. “I’ll get it for you tomorrow,” he offered abruptly.

    “No, I can get it; if you could just loan me the key—

    “I insist,” said John firmly. He swallowed “I was supposed to—to check the staffroom,” he said lamely.

    Maybe he’d been told not to lend the key to anyone but was too polite to say so? Jo-Beth accepted his offer reluctantly, but with the sort of verbose, over-polite thanks that made John once more uneasily aware of her Americanness.

    The Hipgraves went neatly and efficiently to bed as soon as their guests had departed.

    From her soft single mattress Mrs Hipgrave said into the dark: “Wouldn’t it be nice if John and that sweet little girl could get together?”

    Mr Hipgrave liked a hard mattress. He wriggled himself into a more comfortable position, flat on his back on it, and grunted unencouragingly.

    “I think he likes her,” said Mrs Hipgrave optimistically.

     Mr Hipgrave grunted.

    “Don’t you think he likes her?”

    Thus driven into speech, Mr Hipgrave replied drily: “Hard to tell what he likes, with that face fungus of his.”

    “Eddie! Really!” said Mrs Hipgrave crossly.

    Mr Hipgrave didn’t reply.

    “Well, I think he likes her!” said Mrs Hipgrave defiantly. There was no reaction and she added defensively: “She’s very sweet.”

    No answer.

    “Eddie! I said—”

    “Yeah, very sweet,” said Mr Hipgrave wearily.

    “Of course, she’s very... Well, I mean, she’s very pretty, isn’t she? So many of those Oriental girls are, aren’t they? Only, well, she’s very... Very Japanese,” finished Mrs Hipgrave doubtfully.

    Down at the Cohens’ bach at Taupo, Peter and Nat finally got a quiet word together on Sunday night, when Nat produced a couple of cigars after dinner, thus provoking Helen to banish the pair of them to the verandah.

    “Hé bien?” said Peter.

    Nat pretended to wave away a mosquito. There were no mosquitoes, as it was only Labour Weekend. “Eh?”

    “You have told me,” said Peter laboriously, “that Carol seems a little better, now that she is boardink at St Ursie’s, and that Miss Fothergill thinks she is settling down—da?”

    “Yeah,” conceded Nat. He drew in smoke and slowly expelled it, trying to make a smoke ring. Then he cast a hunted look over his shoulder, grasped Peter’s arm in an iron hand just above the elbow, and said: “Come on down the garden a bit.” He propelled him further down the garden. “We-ell,” he said slowly, “shall we leave it for a bit? See how it goes, eh?”

    Peter sagged in relief. He’d never been convinced of the wisdom of revealing to the emotionally unstable Carol that Hamish Macdonald was her father.

    “Da; I think that is best. And perhaps... well, perhaps later, if we think that it is the toime she must be told, we talk it over with your noice Miss Fothergill, no?”

    “Yeah; only of course this is Carol’s last term at St Ursie’s. If she passes her bloody exams,” he added. “Still, Miss Fothergill wouldn’t mind, I don’t think. She’s a pretty decent type.

    “She sounds it, yes.”

    Nat heaved a sigh of relief. He drew on his cigar and blew a perfect smoke ring.

Next part of Chapter 26:

https://themembersoftheinstitute.blogspot.com/2023/01/labour-weekend-part-2.html