Long Hot Summer

31

Long Hot Summer

    The Weintraubs, as planned, were down at the bach in Taupo for the Christmas holidays.

    “God, it’s hot!” said Nat. He let his head flop back heavily against the high back of his easy chair, and sighed gustily.

    Helen responded sourly: “You said that.” She pulled the neck of her blouse away from her chest with an expression of distaste.

    “Dunno why the Hell old Jerry doesn’t get air conditioning put into this place,” he grumbled.

    “Go for a swim,” she muttered.

    “Yeah, come on, Dad, I’m going for a swim!” said Melanie, scrambling up.

    “Can’t be blowed,” he growled.

    “You can take Damian with you,” decided Helen. “Where is he, anyway?”

    “In his room; reading a stupid computer magazine,” said Melanie. She went out. In a minute her voice could be heard haranguing Damian. He seemed to be returning very short answers. Suddenly Melanie reappeared, very flushed.

    “He won’t take any notice of me.”

    “DAMIAN!” roared Nat. “Get in here!”

    Damian appeared, looking sulky. “What?”

    “Get your togs on; you’re going for a swim with Melanie,” said Nat.

    “I don’t wanna—“

    “You deaf, or something?” said Nat nastily. “Do as you’re told!”

    “But I don’t feel like—“

    “What the fuck’s wrong with you, boy?” roared Nat, losing his temper. “Ya haven’t been near the bloody lake for a week! You got your time of the month, or what?”

    Helen and Melanie gasped, and turned puce.

    Damian reddened, and looked sullenly at his uncle. “No,” he muttered. “It’s too hot for swimming.”

    Flushing ominously, Nat returned: “You’ll be a damn sight hotter by the time I’ve finished with ya, matey! Now get going!”

    “All right,” said Damian crossly. He went out, followed by Melanie. They heard her hiss something at him. “Big Girl yaself!” he roared. A door slammed.

    “Stupid little sods,” Nat muttered.

    Helen heaved herself up slowly. “I’m going to have a lie-down.” She went out.

    Nat sulked and sweated for quite a while. Finally, groaning a bit, he heaved himself up and went into the kitchen. It was even hotter in there: the big fridge and freezer seemed to be absolutely belching out heat. He got himself a cold beer and drank it thirstily straight from the can, in defiance of Helen’s edict. In defiance of another edict he left the can on the bench instead of putting it in the rubbish. He scratched irritably at his crotch. What about a shower? But he couldn’t work up the energy. He stared moodily out at the bach’s sun-baked back lawn. It was just about the hottest bloody summer in living memory. And the most bloody boring: what with Mel and Damian at each other’s throats most of the time, Helen either moaning about her heat rash or just plain flaked out... Not to mention Carol: no doubt she’d say she’d been helping old Robbo with his bloody boats and bait all day, but it was quite on the cards she’d spent the whole time in Robinson’s bloody grandson’s pocket—God knew what she saw in him, the kid had a face like a squashed tomato and was thick as two short planks into the bargain: never heard him say two intelligent words together—never heard him say one intelligent word, come to think of it.

    No point in going back to town, either, he thought moodily: Phoebe was off down the South Island somewhere with a girlfriend, according to her. Coincidentally that bloody bloke of hers just happened to live down in Dunedin. Sighing, he mooched down the passage.

    Helen was lying on the bed in nothing but a saggy old bra and panties. Nat looked at her without much hope. “How ya feeling, old girl? That rash any better?”

    “Yes,” said Helen in a grudging voice without opening her eyes. “That stuff you got from the chemist really works.”

    “Good. Don’t feel like a bit of you-know-what, I suppose?”

    “No. It’s too hot,” said Helen flatly.

    “Aw, come on, love—”

    “No,” said Helen tonelessly, still with her eyes closed. “Go away, Nat.”

    Nat went.

    “Christ,” said Charlie. “Haven’t they ever heard of air conditioning, round here?” He hauled off his tee-shirt and threw it in the direction of the bed. It fell on the floor.

    “I told you it’d be hot down here!” said Caro indignantly. She sat heavily on the bed and fanned herself with her hand. She snorted. “Not that anything I say is worth listening to, of course,” she added in a nasty voice.

    Charlie went over to the motel unit’s kitchenette and got himself a glass of water. “This water stinks,” he muttered. Caro ignored him. “Everything round here stinks!” he said loudly. “Is this place next to the local garbage dump, or what?”

    Caro gave an ostentatious sigh. “It’s the sulphur,” she said in a slow, clear voice. “Rotorua is a thermal area. Thermal areas produce sulphur. You have been to Rotorua before; you know it smells of sulphur.”

    Charlie flushed angrily. “There’s no call to take that tone—” he was beginning, when there was a loud yell from the adjoining bathroom, and Danny rushed in.

    “A weta!” he gasped, looking terrified.

    “A what?” groped Charlie.

    “A weta! A great big one! In the shower!”

    “Don’t be such a chicken!” said Caro crossly. “It won’t hurt you.”

    “It’s a huge one! Bigger than that one we had in the laundry!” Danny replied, still terrified.

    “A huge what? What are you talking about?” said Charlie irritably, going over to the bathroom door.

    “It’s an insect,” said Caro tiredly.

    Charlie gave a scoffing laugh. “Gee, is that all?” He went into the bathroom. Caro waited with a dry expression on her face.

    “CHRIST!” he yelled. He shot out. “Jesus H. Christ, it must be six inches long!” he said in a very high voice. “Jesus H. Christ, it’s as long as my hand!” Suddenly his colour faded and he sat down heavily on the bed. “It’s all kinda... spikes and...” He buried his face in his hands. “Worse ’n spiders,” he said in a muffled voice.

    “For God’s sake!” said Caro. She got up. Tight-lipped, she marched over to the kitchenette. She got the motel’s slotted spoon. “Go and open the bathroom window,” she said in an iron voice to Danny.

    “But—”

    “Open the window this instant, Danny Webber, or you won’t get any dinner!”

    Danny went and opened the window.

    Caro didn’t like wetas any more than Danny did. She went into the bathroom, scooped the giant insect up gingerly—it was quite torpid, and if she’d paused to think she’d have realized she never had seen one move fast—and, holding the long spoon as if she was supping with the Devil, carried the creature over to the window and flicked it away. As she stepped back Danny bravely rushed forward and slammed the window shut.

    Caro took the spoon over to the bench without looking at either Danny or Charlie. “Big, brave men!” she said to the ambient air.

    Charlie gulped. “I can’t help—” he muttered.

    “Oh, go and have your shower,” said Caro tiredly.

    Charlie went over to the bathroom door. He hesitated.

    “Mum, do you think there might be any more wetas in there?” said Danny.

    “NO! Just finish that unpacking!” cried Caro. Danny went sulkily over to the open suitcase on his narrow divan bed.

    Charlie swallowed. In a high voice he said: “Mum, do you think there might be any more wetas in here?”

    Caro looked at him. He smiled weakly. She saw he wasn’t really joking. “Jesus wept!” She marched over to the bathroom. “Get out of the way!” Charlie stood aside. Caro inspected the tiny bathroom narrowly for more wetas.

    “There are no more wetas in here,” she said coldly. “And before you ask, there are no spiders, either!”

    “Thanks,” said Charlie weakly.

    Caro ignored him. She went back and sat on the big bed with her back to him and took her shoes off.

    “Honey pie—” said Charlie weakly.

    Caro bounced up with a shoe in her hand. “Get into that bathroom, Charlie Roddenberry, before I CROWN you!” she cried.

    Charlie got.

    “Oh; it’s you,” said John, at his front door.

    “Gidday!” returned Darryl cheerfully. She pushed past him. “Shit, it’s hot in here!”

    “You noticed,” he returned sourly.

    Darryl stared round his airless, darkened flat and said: “Why don’tcha open some windows, at least?”

    “I have,” said John sourly.

    Darryl explored behind his Venetian blinds. She discovered that he had. “You oughta get yourself a fan.”

    “I have; the bloody thing’s broken!” said John, more loudly than he’d intended.

    Darryl investigated his fan. She discovered that it was broken. She asked him why he hadn’t taken it back to the shop.

    “Because the bloody shop appears to be closed for the duration of your damned summer!”

    Darryl returned peaceably: ‘I’m going to the beach; wanna come?”

    “No; it’ll be full of trippers and transistors,” he said grumpily.

    “Not Puriri Beach, ya nong!” replied Darryl scornfully. “Thought I’d try one of the little bays; come on, it’ll do ya good!”

    “I’ll get sunburnt,” he grumbled.

    “Jesus, John, whassa matter with you?” She glared at his unlovely, yellowish, hairy body, clad only in a pair of crumpled shorts, and added: “Anyway, don’t you tan? Whaddabout your Italian blood? How can ya get sunburnt, for God’s sake?”

    “Easily,” he said grumpily. “It’s the ultra-violet, or some such damned thing. And I haven’t had much sun, yet.”

    “I can see that,” she replied nastily.

    John flushed in annoyance. “I’ve had a lot of work to do,” he mumbled.

    “Yeah, I can see that, too.” She looked hard at the open paperback on his coffee table.

    John scowled, and said nothing.

     “Come on, John,” she said in a kinder voice. “It’ll do you good.”

    “All right,” he said weakly; “but I haven’t got any suntan lotion.”

    “We can buy some.”

    “Ye-es; I haven’t get any bathers, either...”

    “Any how much?”

    “Ba— Oh, don’t you say that out here? Uh—swimming trunks; I haven’t got any sw—”

    “Wear those,” she said briefly.

    “Uh—yes, I suppose...”

    “Jesus, John! What’s the matter with you?”

    John looked into her exasperated brown face. He smiled weakly. “Accidie,” he replied sheepishly.

    “Eh?” She marched over to the front door. John grabbed his keys and followed her.

    “Where’s your money?”

    “What? Oh!” He went back for his wallet.

    “What didja say ya had? Axey-what?” She marched out to his little front gate. John followed meekly, explaining what accidie was.

    Darryl got into her old purple Volkswagen with a snort of laughter. “You can say that again!

    “Mm,” he agreed, getting in beside her.

    “Do your seatbelt up,” she said.

    “What? Oh!” He did his seatbelt up.

    At the end of Pohutukawa Bay Road she parked the Volkswagen next to a high fence and got out. “Come on!”

    John got out slowly, clutching the towel and the suntan lotion she’d made him buy in Puriri and adjusting the sunglasses she’d made him buy. He looked round him nervously. “Darryl, are you sure... I mean, this looks like private property to me.”

    “Yeah, it is,” returned Darryl indifferently. “Belongs to that Jake Carrano, ya musta hearda him. But there’s a track: you can get down to the beach; come on!”

    “Just a minute,” said John vaguely. He stared dreamily at Polly’s gates.

    “Jo-ohn!”

    “No, wait; come here, Darryl.”

    Darryl came and stood beside him. “What?” she said impatiently.

    “Look,” said John. His finger traced arcs in the air.

    “What? I can’t see anything!” she said crossly, peering down the drive.

    “No: look,” said John. He put a hand heavily on the top of Darryl’s cloud of shoulder-length black curls and forced her head down. He held his other forefinger up in front of her eyes. “The gates; look at the lines of the gates.” One hand forced her head to follow his finger as he traced the lines of Polly’s modern wrought-iron gates.

    Darryl stared sulkily. “Whaddaya mean? I don’t... Oh,” she said uncertainly.

    “Mm,” said John. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

    “Ye-ah... I suppose they are, really... Not like gates at all, eh?”—John didn’t reply.—“It kinda makes ya feel all funny inside.”

    John gave a deep sigh. “Yes.” He let go of her head.

    Darryl went on staring at the gates. “Musta cost a fortune,” she said uncertainly.

    “Probably,” he replied indifferently.

    They stared at the gates for some time. Finally John gave another sigh, and said: “Well, how about this swim?”

    “Mm,” said Darryl, tearing herself away. “Come on, then.” She began to lead the way along a very narrow, ill-defined track that followed the fence.

    “Are you sure this is all right?” he said uneasily.

    “Yeah, the steps come up outside Carrano’s fence; come ON!” John came on.

    The steps came up outside the fence, yes, but there was a gate in the fence immediately opposite them. “Oh,” he said.

    “What’s the matter now?” demanded Darryl.

    Three years back there had only been a very steep track down the cliff. In the wake of marriage, pregnancy, and babies, Jake had provided a solid concrete flight of steps, with a very solid set of wooden handrails, painted white with brown uprights. And, of course, the gate. A cluster of sun umbrellas now ornamented the little sandy crescent of beach, and in the sparkling bay a raft was anchored. There were no bathing sheds, no human beings in sight, and it didn’t look in the least like a public beach.

    “It does look like private property.”

    “Balls,” said Darryl. She began to descend the steps.

    Looking round uneasily for an enraged proprietor, John followed meekly. “There aren’t any changing sheds,” he pointed out at the foot of the steps.

    “So?” said Darryl. “You’re gonna wear ya shorts, aren’tcha?”

    “Yes; but what about you?” he said weakly. An unwelcome memory of Maria throwing all her clothes off on just such a beach—in front of not only him, his little sisters and Gianni but also Gianni’s daughter’s husband—was vivid in his mind.

    Darryl groaned. She removed her battered black tee-shirt. Underneath it she wore a deep orange and extremely skimpy bikini top. She removed her battered denim shorts. Underneath them she wore a deep orange and extremely brief bikini bottom. “Satisfied?” she demanded.

    “Yes,” said John weakly, goggling at her.

    “Now what’s up?” she said crossly, as his stare did not abate.

    “You look wonderful,” said John weakly.

    “Crap!” retorted Darryl hoarsely, failing to conceal her immense gratification at this sexist remark.

    John recollected himself. A dull flush rose up under the beard. He turned hurriedly for the sea.

    “Hang on!” said Darryl, hurrying after him.

    “What?” he said, as her strong hand grabbed his arm.

    “Suntan lotion, ya nit,” said Darryl, apparently herself again. She produced the plastic flask and slathered his back and shoulders with lotion. John tried, without complete success, to persuade himself that he was entirely indifferent to this operation. He wasn’t quite sure whether to be glad or sorry when she stopped. He ran down the beach and plunged thankfully into the water. He swam vigorously and competently out towards the raft.

    Darryl watched this performance in surprise and some resentment, rubbing a little lotion onto her own strong, bronze, rounded shoulders. She was a pretty good swimmer herself, but— She’d had absolutely no idea that old John... Why hadn’t he ever told her he could swim like that? she wondered crossly. She walked slowly down the beach with a resentful frown on her handsome face.

    “Oh, look, aren’t they pretty?” cried Missy. “What are they, Fred?”

    Fred peered earnestly into Missy’s bird book.

    Jo-Beth wasn’t really interested in birds. She knew darn well Fred wasn’t, either, he was only humouring Missy. A wave of furious impatience with her mild-mannered brother swept her, so that her whole body felt flushed and angry. Beneath this impatience, unadmitted, was a bitter jealousy of Missy’s and Fred’s happiness with each other. She scowled horribly and glared out to sea, furiously winking away tears behind her sunglasses.

    “Stilts, I guess,” said Fred slowly, looking dubiously at the birds in the water.

    “Let me see?” said Missy. She peered over his shoulder at the book.

    “Mm-m,” she said doubtfully. “They don’t look quite the same.”

    “I can see that,” he returned, starting to sound grumpy. A mean gladness percolated through Jo-Beth’s misery.

    Missy turned a page. “Oh, this is what they are!” she cried. “Pied stilts!”

    “Yeah,” agreed Fred thankfully. He shoved the bird-spotters’ pocket almanac in the back pocket of his shorts.

    “Come on,” said Missy. “Let’s see if we can get a bit nearer.” She began to walk cautiously towards the flock of pied stilts paddling in the shallows of the obscure little cove halfway up Carter’s Inlet. Fred trudged unenthusiastically in her wake.

    Jo-Beth sat down on a little patch of silver sand. “Ow!” She got up quickly. The sand had burned her thighs. She spread her towel and sat down on it. She stared resentfully out at the tranquil inlet. The sun sparkled off tiny wavelets; now and then a bird called from the low, dull-green foliage that clothed the opposite bank of the inlet above the dull-green mangroves in the shallows. The steady zinging of cicadas came from the rough field at her back. Apart from that there was no noise at all. It was very hot. Jo-Beth had had absolutely no idea that it could be this hot in New Zealand in January. She felt resentfully that the books should’ve warned her. She decided sourly that the only good thing about this dump was that at least it wasn’t carpeted with tourists, transistor radios, water-skiers and speedboats, like the Goddawful Kingfisher Bay, where they were staying.

    Kingfisher Bay was one of the most successful of Carrano Development’s recent ventures, and had brought a lot of much-needed employment to a very run-down little northern district. Only the most rabid environmentalists had raised any complaint about it: the bird sanctuary which had been brought up in the context was too far up the inlet to be affected, no wastes were being emptied into the inlet, and no-one except possibly an unfortunate gentleman from the university who specialized in the ecology of muddy swamplands on the edge of acres of impenetrable mangroves was missing what used to be there. The area now on the maps as Kingfisher Bay consisted of The Royal Kingfisher Hotel (at whose prices Fred Nakamura had nearly fainted), the Kingfisher Motel (at whose prices—for a motel?—they had all balked), the small Pink Manuka Motel (where they were staying, only because Hannah Nakamura had insisted on paying half the costs), the White Manuka Motel (even more expensive because it had a better view of the inlet), some horridly neat crescents of very up-market white-painted holiday homes backed by more neat streets edged with building sites for, presumably, more of the same, and the large Kingfisher Bay Marina, scooped out of the mangroves by Carrano Development’s bulldozers. Unfortunately there was nowhere to eat except at the hotel: the choice was the horrifyingly expensive Te Waikare O Te Kararuha Room or the scarcely less dear though less up-market Hongi Heke Room. The former was the main dining-room: Jo-Beth had searched unavailingly in her pocket Maori dictionary for a translation: “waikare”, she decided, possibly meant something like “sparkling water”; “o” and “te” had so many definitions she couldn’t decide which was right, and the other word wasn’t there. –Not surprisingly: it was the interior decorator’s own transliteration of “Carter” and he was very proud of it. As Hongi Heke was a person’s name it wasn’t in the dictionary, either.

    The Hongi Heke Room served the most overpriced pizzas the Nakamuras had ever encountered. So they’d decided on takeout: this entailed driving several miles down to Carter’s Bay, nearer to the coast—and back. Everyone had taken a turn by now, and Fred had had two; nobody’s temper was much improved by it. Besides, the Pink Manuka Motel wasn’t air-conditioned—Can you believe? In this heat?—and little Harry was very fractious, and nobody was getting much sleep.

    Jo-Beth stared gloomily out at the water for some time. She decided that this was the most boring—and the hottest—vacation she’d ever had. It was even worse than that time when she was fourteen and Mom had got a bee in her bonnet about her spending too much time in her room, reading, and had sent her to summer camp. It had been full (as Jo-Beth had known it would be) of moronic girls who spent all their time putting on make-up that the camp counsellors tried to make them take off again, and giggling about boys. The horses had been okay, though... She looked at the sea, and sighed.

    “Where’s Hannah?” said Missy, looking round her uneasily.

    “Dunno,” returned Fred without interest. He looked unenthusiastically at the tranquil turquoise shallows of the inlet, and wondered vaguely why there were no speedboats up here. He could just fancy himself at the wheel of one of those...

    “I hope she doesn’t take Harry too far,” said Missy worriedly.

    “They’ll be okay,” returned Fred indifferently. He looked over at the crouched form of his sister under her big sunhat. “Shall we go back?” he said, not sounding very keen.

    Missy glanced uncertainly at Jo-Beth in the distance. She gave a tiny sigh. “No, let’s just sit down by ourselves for a bit, huh?”

    Silently Fred took her hand. They walked slowly off the damp sandbank and up the beach to above high-water mark. Missy spread her towel. They sat down side-by-side and held hands again.

    “I wish we hadn’t brought her,” said Fred glumly.

    Missy jumped. He so rarely expressed his feelings at all; and certainly not that sort of feeling, he was the most considerate man she knew. “I guess she’s just feeling a bit out of it; I mean, we’ve got each other, and what with Harry taking to Hannah, like he has...”

    Fred grunted.

    “She hasn’t got anybody; try not to let her get you down, honey.”

    Fred grunted again; but he squeezed her hand, and his pleasant mouth looked less sulky.

    Quite some way further along the inlet, Hannah Nakamura decided crossly that she’d come too far. Little Harry had been okay all the way up the track through the low, untidy-looking forest, but now he was starting to grizzle. Well, he wasn’t quite two, after all; she sighed, and shifted his hot, firm body from her right shoulder to her left. She looked a trifle hopelessly at yet another little cove; she’d have bet her bottom dollar that this one wasn’t on Fred’s map, either! This cove seemed to be fenced off with some rusty barbed wire, but up by the road there was a gate, and beyond that, a house—but to Hannah’s Californian eye it didn’t look the sort of house anybody lived in. It was a very small, single-storeyed, steel-roofed, unpainted affair. It didn’t even have a yard or a path: it just seemed to be sitting there in the middle of its field. There was probably no point at all in going down to the house to ask for a drink, because it had undoubtedly been deserted for years...

    A slim, blond figure in denim shorts emerged from the house.

    “Thank God!” said Hannah fervently. “Come on, Harry,” she said to her grandson, “we’ll go ask the nice man for a drink of water.” At the moment she couldn’t have cared less if he was a nice man or not; she couldn’t have cared if he was a rapist: she was so desperately hot, thirsty and cross that she’d have quite welcomed the opportunity of dealing with a rapist, he’d have had very short shrift indeed. She opened the heavy metal gate and walked determinedly across the lumpy, sun-baked grass towards the house.

    The slim blond figure in denim shorts and nothing else was Rod Jablonski—and this was not a coincidence. The “house” was the Carranos’ bach, and Jake had been only too willing to let Rod use it once he’d got out of him what he wanted it for: if he was up Carter’s Inlet chasing the little Nisei girl he wouldn’t be down in Pohutukawa Bay goggling at his, Jake’s, wife’s boobs, would ’e?

    The young man was now bent over doing something to an upturned boat at the side of the house.

    “Pardon me,” said Hannah firmly: “could I trouble you for a glass of water?”

    Rod gasped, and swung round, face flushing. But it wasn’t Jo-Beth; he’d been misled by the accent: it was a much older Japanese lady, who didn’t look anything like Jo-Beth. Confusingly, she was carrying a very cute Japanese baby that appeared to be a dead ringer for that cute little nephew of Jo-Beth’s. Rod goggled.

    Hannah decided he must be slow. Slowly and clearly she repeated: “I said, Could I trouble you for a glass of water, please, young man?”

    It must just be a coincidence: there were a lot of both Japanese and American tourists at the Royal Kingfisher in summer. Dazedly Rod replied: “Uh—yeah, of course; come on in.” He led her round to the verandah, which faced onto the inlet.

    Hannah stared incredulously. The stoop gave directly onto a large living-room—at least, she supposed that was what it was, though it also contained a king-size bed as well as a couple of low divans under the front windows. The floor was a highly polished flood of golden wood, adorned with large rugs, mostly dark crimson, which she could have sworn were real Persian. The walls were white-painted hessian and against this background a few scattered paintings glowed like jewels. Hannah didn’t know much about modern art but she liked it, and these were... She lingered. Harry gave a whimper, and she hastened after the young man. There was an antique sideboard, too, on which stood a beautiful piece of modern glass, she noticed as she hurried out to the kitchen. If anything, the kitchen was even more of a shock: it featured a lot of knotty pine and, though very small, was as bright, pretty and modern as her own.

    The retarded young man offered her a choice of beer, orange juice, or Coke; Hannah accepted orange juice for both herself and her grandson.

    “You camping up here?” said Rod cautiously. Jake’s place was next to the Reserve: you weren’t supposed to camp up here, though you could further down.

    “No; I’m staying with my family at Kingfisher Bay,” replied Hannah politely. “Do you know it?”

    “Ye-ah,” he returned slowly. Could he ask her if she was related to Jo-Beth? The more he looked at that kid, the more he felt sure... Only what if she wasn’t? She’d think he thought all Japanese looked alike; it’d sound so rude, she’d be offended...

    “I don’t suppose,” said Hannah briskly, “there’s anything like a general store round here, is there?”

    “No,” said Rod. “Uh—what were you wanting to buy?”

    Hannah decided that the poor young man was retarded; it was a pity, because he was really very good-looking. He hadn’t even asked her to sit down; yes, he must definitely be slow.

    “Food,” she replied firmly, sitting down at the little table.

    “Aw... You’d have to go down to Carter’s Bay for that,” he said in a vague voice, staring at little Harry, who was investigating a cupboard.

    “Harry, don’t do that, honey,” Hannah said quickly. “Come to Grandma; come on, honey.”

    Rod gulped. Jo-Beth’s nephew was called Harry, he was almost sure. Taking a deep breath and in a voice that was even huskier than usual, he said: “Look, I’m sorry if this sounds rude, but... Look, you’re not by any chance related to Jo-Beth Nakamura, are you?”

    Hannah’s jaw dropped. “I’m her mother,” she said numbly.

    A flood of colour spread up the beautiful young man’s neck. “I thought I recognized the kid! I’m a friend of hers,” he said quickly, holding out his hand. “Rod Jablonski. I don’t suppose she’s mentioned me,” he added humbly.

    Jo-Beth hadn’t: she hadn’t mentioned any super-good-looking young men; she hadn’t mentioned any young men at all. This was typical of Jo-Beth, and Hannah wasn’t surprised by it; but Missy should certainly have mentioned it! she thought, bosom swelling with righteous indignation, so that she looked more like a busy little pigeon than ever.

    Missy would certainly have mentioned Rod if she’d thought he was at all significant in Jo-Beth’s life; but after that promising time helping with the ponies at the Carrano twins’ birthday party Jo-Beth, so far as her sister-in-law knew, had seen very little of Rod. Jo-Beth hadn’t mentioned their two dinner dates; she’d felt oddly shy about it; when she’d asked herself why this was so all she’d been able to come up with was the lame answer that they hadn’t led to anything: he hadn’t even tried to kiss her! Missy had cunningly asked her to dinner “with a friend” twice; the first time Jo-Beth had brought Val from the library; the second time she’d brought a very odd large Maori girl with a tremendous appetite, who’d done Fred out of the last taco.

    “It’s nice to meet you, Rod,” Hannah said firmly, ignoring the question of whether or not her annoying offspring had mentioned him. “I’m Hannah Nakamura. And this is Harry,” she added, indicating her grandson, who was now clinging to her skirt.

    “Yeah, we’ve met,” said Rod, grinning. He squatted and said gently to Harry: “How are ya, Harry? You won’t remember, but it was me that gave you a ride on the horsey at the party.”

    “Horsey!” said Harry pleasedly. Quite probably his not-yet two-year-old mind only recognized the word, and had no recollection whatsoever of the event, but Rod was very pleased, and saying: “Yeah, that’s right: horsey!” he picked him up.

    Hannah watched with immense approval, wondering more than ever why on earth Missy hadn’t breathed a word about this perfectly splendid young man who obviously loved children!

    Rod kissed Harry’s plump cheek, he couldn’t help himself, it was just like a firm, ripe yellow plum with a red blush on it, and said, smiling down at Hannah: “Friends of mine have got twins about his age; that’s where we met, isn’t it, Harry? Where you had the ride on the horsey, eh?”

    Missy had written Hannah not only about that event, which had been a great landmark in the social calendar for both Harry and herself, but also in great detail about the Play Group that Polly and the twins also attended. She’d said a lot about nice Polly Carrano, and her wonderful house, and her rich husband. Hannah looked with approval at the pleasant young man who had such desirable friends.

    “Sure, Missy wrote me about that!” she agreed. Suppressing her curiosity about the house—was it his?—and about Rod—what did he do, and how old was he, anyroad?—she gave a regretful smile and said: “Well, we’d better be going...”

    Rod had got over his shock and had no intention of letting her out of his sight until she’d led him into Jo-Beth’s presence. When he found out where she’d left the rest of the family he grinned. “Take ya there in the runabout,” he said.

    Thus it was that Jo-Beth, gloomily scowling at the sea, and further along the little beach Missy and Fred, now lying on their stomachs with their eyes shut, had their attention caught by the sound of an outboard motor.

    They sat up and watched as the little boat steered in towards their beach—towards Jo-Beth, to be precise.

    “Fred,” said Missy on a weak note, “that isn’t—that isn’t Hannah, is it?”

    “Can’t be. Yes, it is, though!”

    “What on earth is she doing in a boat?” said Missy, scrambling to her feet.

    “Don’t ask,” said Fred in a doom-laden voice, scrambling to his feet.

    “Mom-mee!” screamed Harry, waving an uncertain fist. “Boat, boat!”

    “Hi, darling!” cried Missy, beginning to run. Gloomily Fred followed. Would the boat guy expect to be paid? Undoubtedly, he thought gloomily. Did his mother have any New Zealand dollars left? –No. Did he have any money, after buying Missy that ugly carving at that goddamned curio shop in that hotel this morning? About two cents. That meant Jo-Beth would have to pay. She’d already paid for gas today, and it hadn’t even been her turn. Oh, Hell.

    “Jo-Beth!” yelled Rod. “HEY, JO-BETH!”

    Jo-Beth stared incredulously. She got unsteadily to her feet. “Rod?” she muttered. She took a few steps down the beach.

    Expertly Rod ran the little runabout aground in the shallows. He leapt out, ignoring his passengers. “JO-BETH!” he yelled.

    “Rod!” cried Jo-Beth, beginning to run. “Rod! Hi!” She scorched down the beach towards him. Panting and laughing, they met on the damp sand below the high-water mark.

    Whatever they said then would have sounded like an anticlimax, and in fact they only said things like: “Hi! What are you doing here?” But Hannah didn’t mind, she’d seen the looks on their faces.

    When Brian Chapman had pushed off Harry Field went out to the home paddock and stood under the big old macrocarpa, trying to look to any watching eye (his wife’s, for example) as if he was just standing there. “He’s gone,” he said.

    There was a scrambling noise in the tree. “Good,” said Mirry, dropping down beside him. “Mum encourages him! There isn’t any point in it; I can’t stand him! I’ve told her millions of times! She won’t listen!”

    “She won’t listen to me, either,” her father pointed out mildly. “Ya know what she is when she gets a bee in her bonnet.”

    “It’s ridiculous!” She marched off towards the horse paddock.

    “Where are you going now?” he called.

    “For a ride, if ya must know!” she yelled in a very rude voice.

    “Mirry! It’s teatime!”

    “Fuck bloody teatime,” muttered Mirry. Not looking round, she called loudly: “I’m not hungry! It’s too hot to eat!” She hurried off towards the paddock.

    “Too hot to take the poor bloody horses out, too,” muttered Harry to himself.

    “Well?” demanded Kay angrily, the minute he got inside. “Did you find her?”

    “She’s gone for a bit of a ride,” he mumbled.

    “What? Did you tell her tea was ready?”

    “Yeah; said she wasn’t hungry; said it was too hot to eat,” he mumbled.

    “What? Rubbish!” said Kay angrily. Harry didn’t reply. She looked uncertainly at the laden kitchen table. “She’s not eating enough to keep a sparrow alive,” she grumbled.

    “I know,” Harry agreed glumly. Unwisely he added: “It is hot, though—”

    “Rubbish! Go and wash your hands; we might as well have ours.”

    Harry went meekly off to the bathroom. He came back and sat down meekly, and meekly allowed Kay to pile his plate with roast chicken, mashed potato, beans and carrots. He picked up his knife and fork. He sighed, and put them down again. “Look, Kay, I really can’t eat,” he said weakly. “It really is too hot.”

    Kay’s high colour faded. “I did it in the microwave,” she said.

    “Yeah, I know; it’s not that it’s too hot in here; it’s hot everywhere... I’m sorry, dear,” he ended weakly.

    She got up abruptly. “You’d better have a lie-down. I’ll put this in the fridge; it’ll keep. I’m not very hungry, either.”

    Harry just sat there.

    “Come on; better get off to bed,” she said in a rough voice that failed to disguise her anxiety. Harry was seventy now, a lot older than her, and he’d noticeably slowed down, lately. She’d persuaded him to go the doctor, who'd said there was nothing wrong but he should be taking it easier, these days—but how much did he know? He was barely half a dozen years out of Medical School.

    Harry hauled himself slowly to his feet.

    “I’ll bring you a nice cold drink in bed,” she said.

    “Ta,” he replied wearily, walking slowly out of the kitchen. Kay sat down on an old Windsor chair and passed a shaking hand over her lips.

    When she’d got Harry comfortably settled with the blinds closed, the fan on, and a jug of chilled lemonade at his elbow, she went out into the passage. The phone had a long cord that they’d had put on specially. She took it into the living-room, and sat heavily on the sofa with it.

    “Kay!” said her twin. “I was just going to ring you; I had a feeling— Is everything okay?”

    Kay poured it all into Maureen’s sympathetic ear: Harry really wasn’t himself, he felt the heat so much—and yes, she’d taken his temperature, and his pulse, and he was all right, really... Then she told her how impossible Mirry was being. As usual in conversations with Maureen Mitchell, very little got solved. Also as usual, Kay felt a lot better afterwards; the more so since she’d given Maureen some excellent advice about how to get rid of that rust that was ravaging her silverbeet and beetroot.

    When Mirry came in she was able to say with a fair degree of composure: “There’s some cold chicken and veges in the fridge, if you’re hungry.”

    “Ta,” said Mirry. “Where’s Dad?” she added vaguely.

    “In bed.” A sob escaped her.

    “Mum!” cried Mirry in horror. “Is he sick?”

    “No,” said Kay shakily: “he’s just tired; he feels the heat so much...” A tear ran down her large cheek. She dashed it angrily away. “He’s getting on,” she said in a shaking voice.

    Mirry sat down on the nearest chair. “That’s what Hamish said,” she said weakly.

    Kay gave a snort, but it was only a pale imitation of her normal snort. “I’m surprised he noticed. Didn’t think he could see past the end of his nose.”

    “No,” agreed Mirry: “he doesn’t usually notice much.” She looked up. Their eyes met in an age-old glance of female solidarity.

    Kay smiled reluctantly. “Go in and see if he’s asleep yet.”

    When Mirry came back she reported that he was asleep; she’d left the fan on, was that okay?”

    “Yes,” said Kay abstractedly. She looked up suddenly. “You haven’t helped much.”

    Mirry went red. “I—”

    “He worries about you,” said Kay wearily.

    “I know,” replied Mirry hoarsely. “I’m sorry, Mum!”

    Kay sighed. There was an uncomfortable silence.

    “It’s not my fault,” said Mirry sulkily at last.

    Not pretending to misunderstand her, Kay returned grimly: “You didn’t have to go and sleep with a married man.”

    Mirry’s face flamed. “I can’t help being in love! No-one can!”

    “That’s not what I said,” said Kay tiredly.

    Mirry went very red again, and swallowed noisily.

    Not looking at her, Kay said: “Do you want any of that chicken, or not?”

    “I might have a bit,” said Mirry in a small voice. She went into the kitchen and stared blindly into the fridge for some time. It finally dawned on her that not only was there the better portion of a partly carved chicken in the fridge, there were also two laden dinner plates. She went back into the living-room.

    “Mum,” she said in a very small voice, “didn’t you have any tea?”

    “I wasn’t very hungry,” said Kay, avoiding her eye.

    “I’ll make us some salad,” said Mirry abruptly. She made a salad with the cold beans and carrots and a tomato from the vegetable crisper, and served it up with some finely sliced chicken. She got quite a shock when her mother ate it up without protesting that there was too much oil in the dressing.

    Kay felt better after she’d eaten: she suggested ice cream, forgetting that Mirry had so far refused to eat any on the grounds that it was too sweet and full of refined sugar. They ate Tip-Top vanilla ice cream in silence.

    “I think I’ll leave the fan on all night,” said Kay thoughtfully.

    “Good idea; that’ll cool the bedroom down.”

    “Mm.”

    “Mum,” said Mirry in a small voice. “I’m sorry I’ve been so... awful.”

    “That’s all right, dear,” said Kay wearily. “This is your home, you know.”

    Mirry’s lower lip trembled. She got up and rushed out.

    Kay sighed. Slowly she got up and cleared the pudding plates away.

    It was so hot even the tuis in the kowhai trees had shut up; or perhaps they’d gone south in search of cooler weather for the summer—Peter didn’t know and didn’t care. The backs of his knees were itchy again. Veronica was no help, all she’d say was he ought to wear shorts. Peter wore shorts religiously during the day, and even in the evenings if they were home alone, but he drew the line at wearing them when they had guests to dinner, or if they drove in to the city. Veronica hadn’t even tried to understand his feelings over this last; she kept saying town was full of jokers in shorts, what the Hell was he on about? Peter felt very hardly done by. He sighed, and tried to shift himself into a more comfortable position in the hammock slung between two large trees on the cliff-ward side of their wide, hot lawn. The lawn, of course, would not have been nearly so hot if she hadn’t insisted on having that big tree cut down...

    Veronica emerged from the house leading Sharon by the hand. Veronica wore a very brief turquoise bikini. Her skin was a delightful honey-brown shade. She looked magnificent. Sharon wore a small, yellow and pink striped one-piece bathing-suit. Her skin was as brown as Veronica’s. She looked like a fat wasp.

    Peter eyed them both with equal jaundice.

    “We’re going down the beach,” announced Veronica unnecessarily. “You wanna come?”

    “No,” said Peter in a disagreeable voice. “Where is James?”

    “Asleep; and don’t disturb him!” She turned away. “Come on, Sharon.”

    “Cah-lal,” said Sharon, who was clutching a plastic bucket.

    “Yeah,” agreed Veronica, who was clutching a bag containing two towels, some suntan lotion, two oranges, and a plastic spade. “Nice sand cah-lal.” She towed Sharon off in the direction of the gate in their fence that gave access to the track down to their tiny beach.

    Peter scowled, and sat up abruptly. The hammock wobbled wildly. “Castle!” he gasped, clutching at it with both hands. Veronica and Sharon ignored him. “CASTLE!” he yelled furiously. “You encourage her to speak slopp-i-ly! Sand CASTLE!” The hammock wobbled wildly again.

    Veronica and Sharon went through the gate and disappeared down the cliff.

    Peter sank back into the hammock. “Sand castle,” he muttered sulkily to himself. Pouting, he closed his eyes. The backs of his knees itched horribly.

    Having restrained herself over the whole of Christmas and New Year’s and for a whole week after that, Marianne’s mum decided she couldn’t take another minute of it. “Is anything the matter, dear?” she said.

    The Davises were down in Upper Hutt, staying with Aunty Julie and Uncle Tom. At the moment, sitting in the sunporch with all its windows open. Aunty Julie, who was actually Marianne’s great-aunt, was out in the garden inspecting her tomatoes. Marianne got up abruptly and went over to the windows. She stared blindly at Aunty Julie in her big sunhat, candy-striped blouse and old blue cotton slacks nipping odd leaves and shoots off her forest of tomato plants. “No,” she said in a stifled voice.

    Marianne’s dad, who was reading The Dominion, not because he could stand it but because it was the only paper Aunty Julie and Uncle Tom took, rustled The Dominion but didn’t say anything.

    Sighing, Marianne’s mum got on with her knitting; her dad read the paper with an occasional snort; Marianne stared blindly at Aunty Julie.

    Mr Davies lowered his paper and said casually to his wife: “Did I tell you I bumped into Nick just before we came down?”

    Marianne walked quietly out of the room.

    “Now look what you’ve done!” said Mrs Davies crossly.

    They had, of course, no idea what was up with their daughter.

    Maurice had finally worked up the courage to tell Marianne about his Canadian fellowship just before Christmas. “Sweetie,” he’d said uneasily, “you do see it’s something I can’t turn down?”

    “Yes,” she said faintly.

    Hurriedly Maurice picked up the bottle of Black Label from the bedside table. “Here; give us your glass.”

    Numbly Marianne allowed him to refill her glass.

    “Come on, get it down you,” he said.

    Marianne sipped whisky.

    “We’ve had a pretty good run, really,” he said with an attempt at a casual laugh. “Never expected it to last this long, really; thought you’d get tired of an old joker like me long before this!” Marianne’s eyes filled with tears.  “Don’t be like that, Little Sweetie,” he said uneasily.

    Marianne gulped. She took a tiny sip of whisky. “I thought you— I thought we...”

    “Yeah,” he said uncomfortably. “Couldn’t last, though, could it? I mean, we’ve been bloody lucky to have this much. I am bloody nearly forty years older than you, ya know!” He gave an unconvincing and unamused bark of laughter.

    “Don’t,” whispered Marianne.

    There was another, longer silence.

    “It’s a terrific opportunity,” he explained uncomfortably. “And an honour; can’t turn down something like that—”

    “You don’t have to explain,” she said tiredly. “It’s your work; I understand.”

    “Yes,” he said lamely. He poured himself a stiff belt and gulped it down. Marianne was staring bleakly in front of her, the sweet mouth a little compressed. Maurice began to wish she’d bawl, though earlier he’d been dreading tears. He cleared his throat. “Look, realistically, sweetie, it couldn’t last, could it? I mean, how many good years’ve I got left, for God’s sake?” He gave another of those unconvincing laughs. “Hell,” he said vaguely, “I’m bloody nearly seventy, ya know.”

    “DON’T!” said Marianne loudly.

    Maurice was silent. It was all a Helluva lot worse than he’d expected, and for two pins he could burst into tears himself.

    “When do you have to leave?” she said tiredly.

    “Uh—well—straight after New Year’s, really,” he muttered.

    “This is goodbye, then.”

    “Yes,” said Maurice hoarsely.

    “You’d better go, then,” said Marianne in a hard voice that he’d never heard before.

    Silently Maurice got out of bed and dressed. “Marianne, sweetie—”

    “Just GO!” said Marianne loudly.

    Maurice went.

    Now Marianne went quietly into the tiny bedroom that Aunty Julie kept junk in, and packed her case. She went back to the sunporch, carrying the case.

    “I’ve decided to go home,” she said quietly.

    “Marianne!” cried her mother. Her father didn’t say anything, just put down his paper.

    “I’ve got a lot to do round the flat; and I have to be back at work next week.”

    “Not gonna try and make it today, are ya?” grunted her father.

    “No; I’ll stay the night at Taihape.”

    He grunted, and got up. “I’ll take your case out to the car.”

    “Di-ick!” protested his wife.

    “Leave it out, Lil,” he returned. “Grown woman, isn’t she? S’pose she knows her own mind.”

    “But what’ll Aunty Julie say?” wailed Lilian Davies.

    “‘Good-bye’, I expect,” said Marianne with a flicker of dry humour. “I’ll go and tell her now.” She went out into the garden.

    “For Heaven’s sake, Dick!” said Lilian crossly. “Why didn’t you stop her?”

    “Old enough to know her own mind,” he replied sourly. He picked up his daughter’s smart red suitcase.

    “Maybe she hasn’t got over Nick, after all?” she said tremulously.

    “Huh! Some other joker, ask me,” he replied bitterly. He went out.

    “Oh,” said Marianne’s mum limply in the empty sunporch

    By noon, in spite of the heat in the Institute’s prefab, the helpful John Blewitt had almost finished labelling the shelves with his combination colour-coded and numerical scheme which would allow them to get the books into boxes, over to the new Nathaniel Cohen Memorial Library, and onto the new shelves in the correct order. Caro couldn’t help reflecting that if John dropped dead before this operation was over no-one else would have a snowflake’s hope in Hell of figuring out how the scheme worked: it was like all amateur efforts at classification—and not a few professional ones: hopelessly over-elaborate. Never mind, at least it was one job off her shoulders!

    She herself had accomplished very little this morning. She’d tried to contact their computer suppliers: by half-past ten she’d decided that they must still be on holiday: it wasn’t possible to get canned music and the answering machine for a solid hour and a half if there was someone in the office! The suppliers of the library’s new office furniture might or might not have been at work: she’d managed to phone them once, and had got canned music. True, they had promised the stuff would be delivered this week. But in New Zealand a promise made before Christmas was tantamount to saying it had never happened at all.

    At noon her phone rang. “Hullo, Caro,” said a sheepish voice. “It’s Cheryl here.”

    Since the library’s typist wasn’t due back till next week, Caro replied with considerable surprise: “Hi, Cheryl, how’re you?”

    “Well, that’s just it,” said Cheryl sheepishly. “You know Sean and me were going white-water rafting over Christmas...?” Cheryl had broken a leg, two ribs and a wrist. Caro expressed sympathy. She rang off. “Fuck!” she said.

    A tall, slim American form appeared in her doorway. “Hi, honey; ready for lunch?” it said in a horribly cheerful voice.

    Caro heaved a heavy sigh. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.” She became aware that something seemed to be missing. “Where’s Danny—in the car?”

    Charlie grinned. “Nope; gone to Pete O’Reilly’s for lunch.”

    Caro’s eye brightened. She didn’t ask if Mrs O’Reilly had actually invited Danny. “Good.”

    “Thought we might go to that Blue Heron place—have lunch in their courtyard.”

    “That sounds great!” Caro got up. She hesitated visibly.

    “What, honey pie?”

    “There’s only me and Julia and John here,” she said reluctantly. “I think we’d better invite them: they’ve both been working like Trojans all morning.”

    Charlie agreed amiably to this. Caro had secretly wanted him to veto the idea. Even though that would have been entirely M.C.P. of him, she felt really cheesed off that he hadn’t.

    John had brought his sandwiches and wanted to be on deck when his student helpers arrived to pack the books, but Julia accepted eagerly. Her round, cheerful face went all pink and pleased and Caro felt almost reconciled to the whole idea.

    Julia looked uncertainly down at her faded pink tee-shirt and baggy denim shorts. “Do I look all right, though?” she said doubtfully. “Aren’t I a bit too casual?”

    Before Caro could reply that she looked okay and that she herself was only going to wear the gear she had on, Charlie, beaming, replied: “Hell, no, Julia honey: you look great!”

    Caro looked at him quickly. Julia, she was quite aware, had rather the same sort of figure as her own. He was grinning like an idiot. Caro began to feel rather less reconciled to the whole idea. However, when Julia, all smiles, had taken herself off to the bog, informing them breathlessly as she went that she’d never been to The Blue Heron Restaurant before, Charlie gave a little laugh, and said: “She’s just a kid, isn’t she? I’m glad you thought of asking her, honey; it’ll be a treat for her, huh?”

    Caro was now more aware of Charlie’s depths than she had been a few months back. She looked at him suspiciously. He was smiling guilelessly. She still wasn’t sure he hadn’t said it on purpose to placate her, but gave him the benefit of the doubt.

    So Julia had crayfish salad followed by pavlova and strawberries at Charlie’s expense, and informed him artlessly that it was the nicest lunch she’d ever had. Charlie smiled and replied nicely: “I’m real glad you enjoyed it; you’ll have to come over for dinner some time.” He could feel Caro’s eyes on him. “With your boyfriend, of course,” he continued smoothly.

    Julia replied fervently: “We’d love to!”

    Caro leaned forward, smiling, and fixed the date. Charlie decided that tonight he’d certainly broach the subject of her and Danny moving into his apartment. And—looking at the two flushed, round faces, rather damp as to the temples and foreheads, and rather dewy as to the upper lips, in spite of the vine-draped pergola under which they were sitting—he’d definitely investigate the cost of air conditioning in this God-forsaken, humid Hell-hole!

    Nat’s holiday had gone from bad to worse and in fact he’d given up on it entirely and come back home. At least the bloody office was air-conditioned; he’d get a bit of work done while all the smart young wheelers and dealers that their entire middle management seemed to consist of these days were still off on their as-yet-unpaid-for boats or at their heavily mortgaged baches, fighting with their wives, snarling at their kids, and trying to figure out how to fiddle the whole holiday as business expenses on their next tax return. The office was, indeed, cool; middle management was, indeed, conspicuous by its absence; and Nat’s ageing secretary was on deck, as frigidly competent as ever.

    Then he got a phone call.

    “WHAT?” he bellowed.

    Phoebe held the receiver well away from her ear, and grimaced at it. “I’m really sorry, Nat; I know I said I’d be back this week, but—”

    “Tomorrow!” he said in a loud, hurt, indignant voice.

    Phoebe sighed. “Yes, I know; but it’ll only be for another week; and Sheila’s never been to Stewart Island; when the Weavers said we could use their place it just seemed too good an opportunity to pass up.”

    “So you said,” he replied sourly.

    Phoebe hesitated; but Sheila had gone out on a quest (probably vain) for some sort of cold beverage that wouldn’t be stuffed with sugar, or carcinogenic, or both. “The thing is, it’s Sheila’s last chance for a real holiday before she has to go into hospital for her hip replacement; did I tell you about that?”

    Nat grunted. “Yeah. Well, when will ya be home?”

    Phoebe told him.

    “Sunday week?” he cried. “That isn’t another week; that’s—” He calculated furiously—“ten bloody days!”

    “Yes, I know; I’m sorry—look, I’ve gotta go; ’bye for now!”

    “Ta-ta,” said Nat sourly to the humming silence in his receiver. “Bugger,” he muttered.

    He was so damned pissed off that when Helen brought Damian and the girls home unexpectedly the following Saturday he was actually pleased to see them all. Her excuses for returning home more than a week before she’d said she would were, in descending order of viability, (a) that it was too hot down at the bach, (b) that Melanie’s school wardrobe needed overhauling (school didn’t start for another three weeks) and (c) that Carol needed to get herself organized for varsity (the university term didn’t start until the beginning of March and even Enrolment Week wasn’t until February). Melanie was sulking because she’d put herself down for a waterskiing tournament which she was now going to miss; Carol was sulking at having been summarily removed from the orbit of the Robinsons’ grandson; and Damian was sulking for reasons which weren’t apparent. Nat’s mood had improved so much that he barely even noticed all this.

    At nine o’clock he switched the TV off. “You kids can get off to bed.”

    “Aw, Da-ad!” wailed Melanie.

    “Go on, get going; you’ve all had a long drive today—and you’ve been yawning your head off for the last hour, Miss.”

    Helen got up. “Yes; an early night would be a good idea.”

    Ten minutes later Nat had the chain on the front door and all the downstairs lights off. “Right!” he said, marching into the bedroom and closing the door firmly behind him.

    Helen was rummaging in a case. “Right, what?” she said vaguely, not looking up.

    “This!” he replied, coming quickly up behind her as she bent over the open case. He hauled her cotton skirt up.

    “OW!” he yelled, as Helen’s flailing fist caught him a buffet on his upper-arm. “What the Hell was that in aid of? I thought that was what ya came back home for!”

    “I came home to sleep in the relative peace and comfort of my own bed,” Helen replied grimly. “You can sleep in one of the spare rooms.”

    “But—”

    “Get going,” she said in an iron voice.

    Nat went.

    The long hot summer wore on.

    Caro and Charlie had a row because Caro said Charlie was trying to take her over. She refused categorically to move herself and her son into Charlie’s flat. Charlie went away and sulked for several days. Then Caro and Danny had a row over Danny’s desire to attend the stock cars either by himself or with his mate Pete O’Reilly. Caro won that one. Only then Charlie—apparently off his own bat—suggested he take Danny to the stock-cars...

    Darryl and her father, the eminent judge, had a row over her refusal to come back home and live like a human being. Then Darryl and John had a row—ostensibly over John’s having lost the guarantee for his brand-new broken fan, but in reality because two days earlier he had turned down her casual suggestion that he share the house with her, there was plenty of room, since Rod had decided against sharing it after all and she hadn’t got anyone else in yet. They had this row at John’s flat, and Mrs Hipgrave, who was doing something that needed to be done at that precise moment to the strip of ground that ran along the wall separating John’s domain from hers, heard all of it. Then Mr and Mrs Hipgrave almost had a row (only Mr Hipgrave always avoided rows by going off to his garage) on the subject of whether John really preferred Jo-Beth or That Awful Girl.

    Jo-Beth and Rod didn’t have a row, because they didn’t know each other well enough yet to have rows, but they had an acrimonious argument over whether or not Rod should pay for them both at the city repertory company’s summer holiday production of South Pacific. Jo-Beth won, but felt guilty and miserable about it. Rod felt guilty at having let her pay for herself. Neither of them enjoyed the performance much, though this might have been partly due to the theatre’s lack of air conditioning and the quality of the singing. The row, of course, had had nothing whatsoever to do with theatre tickets per se. It had, however, had something to do with Jo-Beth’s sudden panic at the idea of being taken over by a Man when she didn’t know whether she was ready for that or, indeed, whether she even approved of it; and quite a lot more to do with the fact that, .although he had now kissed her, that was all he’d done.

    Up on The Hill at Puriri Basil and Gary had an utterly frightful row, destined to go down in the annals of their rows, over whether Gary’s eyes had or had not strayed towards that pretty young man from the pot-plant hire firm, that other pretty young man who brought them fresh fish, and the new desk assistant at Puriri Public Library (also a pretty young man). Somehow Basil’s parsimony and growing paunch, and Gary’s extravagance and revolting habit of leaving his hair-combings on the basin got all mixed up in this...

    Peter and Veronica had a row because he’d put on trousers for a visit to his elderly friend, Mrs Perkins, in her flat in his old block in the city. Veronica maintained this was ridiculous. Peter maintained that Mrs Perkins would expect a certain standard of dress. When he started complaining that night about the rash on the backs of his knees Veronica moved herself and her pillow to a spare room.

    Sylvie Macdonald had an awful row with a harmless land agent who’d tried to show her a brick bungalow in Pohutukawa Bay, but poor Margaret Prior, who was gallantly accompanying her on the house-hunting which she’d finally talked her into, silently comforted herself with the thought that at least she was looking. Margaret and her Derek hadn’t quite had a row but almost, because Derek was very fed up with Sylvie infesting, his word, their house.

    Even Missy and Fred almost had a row, because Fred said he’d better stay in Puriri and do some work, Hannah and Missy’d be okay on their own going round the South Island, wouldn’t they? Fortunately Hannah was on hand to sort that one out. Fred tried to say Okay, but he’d have to be back for Enrolment Week. His mother fixed him with a glittering eye and said: “Why, Fred?” They all went on the trip.

    Hamish didn’t have anyone to fight with, so he didn’t have a row. He drank far too much black coffee, worked on his new book far too late into the small hours, slept badly, and didn’t take enough exercise. He felt so rotten that he might just as well have been having rows with someone all the holidays. It didn’t help that back at work Marianne seemed quiet and withdrawn, and Noelene, the typist, was sulking so visibly that even he couldn’t help but notice it.

    Marianne hadn’t had a row with Noelene but she had had to speak to her very severely over some typing for Dr Roddenberry’s First Year courses that was just not good enough, and Marianne could not imagine what Dr Roddenberry would say if he came back to work to find that on his desk. Marianne was so miserable and Noelene was so sulky that—perhaps fortunately—it didn’t immediately strike them that their boss was in a vile mood.

    By the end of January most of the Institute’s library staff, except poor Cheryl, of course, and all of the secretarial staff were back at work, and Marianne had taken on a temporary assistant to do the mountains of photocopying of course material for the new academic year that Noelene wasn’t coping with. She hadn’t blamed Noelene for this, in fact she’d explained that there was far too much of it for her to cope with alone, but Noelene felt obscurely guilty nonetheless and was still sulking.

    It was at around this period that Donald Freeman and Larry McGrath had their row, at the tops of their voices, over the interior decoration of the new building’s foyer. On site. In front of a group of grinning workmen. –Larry was furiously convinced the blokes thought him and Don were a couple of gays.

    Larry had more or less won the argument. Donald went sulkily back to town. Larry went to see Dr Macdonald.

    “What?” said Hamish wearily, after Larry had explained it all to him. He ran his hand distractedly through his curls.

    Larry was very red. He was convinced Dr Macdonald must think he was a gay, only gays got all het up about colour schemes. “If you could just come and look, Dr Macdonald,” he suggested hoarsely.

    “Can’t you sort it out between yourselves?” said Hamish weakly. “I really am rather busy at the moment.” Indeed, his desk was piled with papers and one corner of his stifling little office was occupied by a typing trolley laden with towers of photocopying.

    Redder than ever, Larry persisted: “It won’t take a minute; I’d just like your okay.”

    Resignedly Hamish got up. “We’d better take Marianne. She’ll have a much better idea about this sort of thing.”

    There were samples of carpet, swathes of curtaining, and grinning idle workmen everywhere in the new foyer. Larry glared at the men, but they ignored him.

    “See,” he said, “this was what we originally planned for the carpeting over here and on the stairs”—he displayed a piece of royal blue wool carpet—“and this is what we chose for the curtains”—a swathe in shades of cinnamon and fawn, with touches of royal blue and two shades of turquoise. Hamish had given his official approval to both of these choices. He had no recollection of having done so. He nodded vaguely.

    “Yes, it’s a lovely fabric,” said Marianne.

    Larry looked at her gratefully. “Yes; it tones well with the big wall-hanging that’s going to go over here.”

    Hamish sighed.

    “Yes, well,” said Larry hurriedly, “we chose this shade of paint to go on that wall over there”—he produced a colour chart—“only now they’ve done the sample it looks awful!” He pointed to a piece of wall between two tall, narrow windows.

    “This?” said Marianne, going over to it. “Is it dry?”

    “Yeah,” said a painter, suddenly joining in. “We done it yesterday—see?” He ran his hand over it.

    “Mm,” said Marianne. “It has come out greener than on the chart.”

    “Not my fault, lady,” said the painter huffily. “I just put on what I’m told.” He looked sourly at Larry.

    “No, I know,” agreed Marianne. “Those charts are often inaccurate, aren’t they?” She smiled at him.

    “Yeah,” he agreed gratefully.

    “So we’ve done some more samples,” said Larry, leading them over to another strip of wall. “They’re not quite dry.”

    “Dry enough,” said the painter.

    “This is the one to go for, I think, “ said Larry, “only Don thought this one—”

    “Oh, no!” cried Marianne. “It’s much too dark!”

    Larry agreed enthusiastically. Hamish repressed another sigh.

    “You better make up your minds soon,” said the painter drily, “because my blokes have been standing round here doing nothing all morning. ’Course, we don’t mind getting paid for doing nothing all day—”

    “Yeah,” chimed in another workman, “and we were gonna make a start on putting down the parquet this arvo. ’Course, we still could, if ya want paint drips all over the—”

    “Start in the middle—round the pool,” said Larry crossly.

    The man shrugged. “You’re the boss.” He ambled off. “Oy, JOE!” he bellowed to a mate. “The bloke says start in the middle—where’s Dave gone?”

    “I’d definitely say this one,” said Marianne. “Don’t you agree, Hamish?”

    Since the half-dozen narrow stretches of wall to be painted would be largely hidden by curtains anyway, Hamish couldn’t see that it mattered which shade of wishy-washy turquoise was chosen. Hurriedly he agreed with her. This seemed to be what the interior decorator wanted, for he released them. They walked slowly back across the campus in the heat.

    “Oh, by the way, I had a note from Dr Woods,” said Marianne.

    Dr Woods was one of their new lecturers: she wasn’t due to take up her post for another week. “Oh?” said Hamish without visible interest.

    “Just asking about accommodation,” said Marianne. “She’s sold her flat in Wellington.”

    “Oh,” said Hamish. He added with the vestige of a smile: “Did you book her in at The Blue Heron?”

    “No,” replied Marianne seriously, “it’s their busy season, Mrs Pettigrew couldn’t take her at such short notice. She’s going to stay with me for a bit, while she looks for a flat.”

    Hamish was surprised. He wouldn’t have thought that Judith Woods, who was a stolid, serious-minded young woman, would have a thing in common with Marianne. “I see. I suppose you haven’t heard from Hilary McLeod?” he added gloomily.

    Marianne hadn’t heard from their other new lecturer—no.

    He scowled. “I hope to God she does turn up.”

    Marianne replied in surprise: “There isn’t any reason to suppose she won’t, is there? You said she was one of the best students you’d ever had in Edinburgh.”

    “One of the brightest; aye. One of the most pig-headed, too.”

    “Well, she wrote and accepted the post; and she wrote you that long letter about our curriculum.”

    “Aye... I wouldn’t put it past her to turn up ten minutes before she’s due to give her first lecture; and to teach exactly what she likes, regardless of the curriculum.” Hamish had been having second thoughts about young Dr McLeod.

    “°I’m sure she won’t do that,” said Marianne comfortably. “It’ll be nice to have some new people around the place, won’t it?”

    “Aye,” said Hamish moodily. “By the way, is that Third Year Reading List of mine ready yet?”

    Marianne’s mouth tightened. “Noelene’s just finishing it,” she said in a hard voice.

    “Oh. Good.”

    Marianne didn’t reply.

   About a week later Judith Woods said cautiously as the two of them headed for the carpark after work: “Hamish doesn’t seem to be in a very good mood.”

    “No,” said Marianne. She liked Dr Woods but she was beginning to regret having offered to put her up while she looked for a flat; although she hadn’t phrased it so to herself, all she really wanted was to be alone with her misery.

    “Is he always that bad-tempered? He seemed so pleasant when he interviewed me last year.”

    “No,” said Marianne, getting out her car keys.

    Judith’s mild, plain face looked puzzled, and a little hurt.

    Inwardly Marianne sighed. “He’s having a few problems in his private life; his marriage broke up a while back, and I think the girl he was living with— Well, I don’t think it’s working out very well.”

    “I see.” She followed Marianne towards the little silver Honda City. “I didn’t mean to be nosy,” she murmured.

    “No,” agreed Marianne, unlocking the driver’s door. She got in and released the lock on Judith’s door. “You won’t mention it at work, will you?”

    “No,” said Judith, getting into the car. “Of course not.”

    “Hamish wouldn’t like it,” explained Marianne, doing up her seatbelt. “He’s... he’s a very private person, if you know what I mean.”

    “Mm,” agreed Judith, doing up her seatbelt. Out of the corner of her eye she looked at pretty Marianne with considerable interest. Although her work occupied most of her own time, and what was left over was mainly devoted to tennis, golf, and reading historical biographies, and although she had never been particularly interested in sex herself, she was neither insensitive nor totally self-preoccupied, and it hadn’t escaped her notice that Marianne, who certainly looked as if she ought to have shoals of boyfriends, was both apparently unattached and extremely unhappy. Did she have a crush on her boss, then? Though not herself at all interested in red-haired Scotsmen, Judith could recognize the effect Hamish might have on more impressionable females. It looked, then, as if there might be quite an interesting year ahead; what with this and Charlie Whatsisname, the American, apparently having a thing with the Institute’s Librarian; and the added interest of the Deputy Director and the Senior Research Fellow being fairly recently married to each other! Judith wasn’t a gossip, so Marianne needn’t have worried on that score; she was, however—like Peter Riabouchinsky—a student of human nature; and she settled back in her seat with a tiny anticipatory smile hovering on her lips.

    “It’s for you; it’s him,” Kay Field said sourly, going out onto the front verandah where her daughter was slicing runner beans.

    Mirry bounced up and dashed into the passage to the phone, closing the front door behind her. Kay heard her close the living-room door, too. Its windows were open, but Kay wouldn’t have deliberately listened—or at least, she was virtuously convinced she wouldn’t have. Feeling rather hurt, she sat down heavily in the canvas chair that Mirry had vacated and—though she didn’t approve of doing kitchen work on the verandah, it was sloppy: made the place look like a Maori house or something, next thing you knew it’d be old sofas on the verandah—picked up Mirry’s knife and mechanically began slicing beans.

    In the darkened passage Mirry said squeakily into the phone: “Hullo?”

    “Hullo; it’s me,” said Hamish gloomily.

    Mirry didn’t register the gloom. Her heart beat very fast and her throat closed up out of sheer emotion.

    “Are you there?” Hamish demanded crossly.

    “Yes,” squeaked Mirry.

    “How are you? Are you all right? Kay said you still aren’t eating properly.”

    “It’s the heat,” said Mirry in a small voice.

    “Darling, you must eat,” said Hamish, momentarily forgetting what he had to say to her. “You’ll get ill; you must look after yourself properly.”

    Mirry’s eyes filled with tears at the endearment. Her legs felt weak. Supporting herself against the wall with one hand while the other grasped the receiver very tightly, she lowered herself cautiously to the floor.

    “Mirry, are you there?” demanded Hamish crossly.

    “Yes,” said Mirry breathlessly.

    “Why the Hell didn’t you answer me, then?”

    Mirry was silent.

    “Mirry, what the Hell’s up?”

    Finally a husky little voice said: “You haven’t phoned me for ages.”

    Hamish swallowed. “No, I know.”

    A tear ran down Mirry’s cheek. She was incapable of further speech.

    Hamish said hoarsely: “I’ve been so busy—preparing for next term.” She didn’t answer. “If you want to know,” he said loudly, “it’s too damned painful!”

    Her heard her swallow. “It’s painful for me when you don’t ring me,” she said in a tiny voice.

    There was a long silence. “You could always ring me,” he said weakly at last.

    “Not if you don’t want me to,” said Mirry.

    “Darling—I do want you to, only I... It’s Hell whether you do or you don’t!”

    “I know.”

    She sounded as if she might be crying. “Sweetheart, are you crying? Don’t cry—please.”

    “I’m not,” lied Mirry. Tears slid down her cheeks and she wiped them away furtively with her free hand.

    Hamish could hear her sniffing. He could think of nothing to say to comfort her; and he was guiltily aware that what he must say could only upset her further. Finally he croaked: “Have you heard from Elspeth?”

    Mirry swallowed. “Yes,” she said more loudly than she had intended. “She rings me every couple of days; anyway, I saw her during Enrolment Week.”

    There was a nasty silence. Elspeth hadn’t neglected to harangue her father on the subject of Mirry’s failure to return home to Kowhai Bay that week. “Aye,” he said uncomfortably. He cleared his throat. “Anyway—what I rang about—I’ve been talking to Margaret.”—He was uneasily aware that she thought Margaret Prior was on Sylvie’s side.—“She's got Sylvie looking for houses: I suppose that’s a good sign.”

    “Yes,” she agreed dully.

    “And her father’s working on her to—to make her see reason about—about everything.”

    “Good,” said Mirry faintly.

    “Only, until he does,” said Hamish rather rapidly, going very red at his end of the phone, “I really think it would be better if we don’t live together.”

    “What?” said Mirry faintly.

    “I know it’s hard, darling; but there’s no sense in provoking her: and she must come to her senses soon, after all; she’ll recognize it’s inevitable.”

    “But there’s no point!” cried Mirry loudly. “I won’t even be your student this year! And she saw me living in your house when I was!”

    “Aye, I know, but—”

    “You don’t want me!”

    “I do want you, darling; only I just—I think it’d be more sensible to—to wait and see for a bit; at least wait until John Mackay’s tried what he can do.”

    “I still don’t see there’s any point in it.”

    “There’s a Hell of a lot of point in not provoking Sylvie if we can manage it; you’ve had a taste of it, do you want to go through another scene like that?”

    “No, but—”

    “And I certainly don’t want her losing her rag and marching off to the university authorities,” said Hamish grimly. “I don’t see how Wiley could possibly ignore it, a second time round.”

    “No,” agreed Mirry sulkily.

    “It won’t be for very long, darling; but at least give John a chance to talk some sense into her.”

    “How long?” said Mirry in a very small voice.

    “I— Well...” Mirry was silent. Hamish finished weakly: “Shall we leave it until the end of March, at least?”

    “That’s six weeks!”

    “Aye, but John hasn’t really had time yet to settle in, and—and...”

    Mirry said nothing.

    “It isn’t much longer than we originally said,” said Hamish anxiously.

    Mirry still said nothing.

    “Of course, at that stage I had no idea that it’d take John this long to sell his house in Edinburgh; I was hoping he’d be out here for Christmas. I thought he might’ve talked Sylvie round by this time.”

    Still she didn’t speak; Hamish said miserably: “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

    Finally she said in a tiny voice: “Where shall I live?”

    “What?” he said blankly.

    “Where shall I live?”

    He bit his lip. “I suppose you could go back to Basil and Gary.”

    “Yes.”

    Hamish said awkwardly: “It really won’t be for very long.”

    “No,” said Mirry, fighting back tears. “I have to go now.” She hung up.

    Hamish found he didn’t have the guts to ring her straight back.

    Susan ate fish and chips voraciously, sitting on the edge of the old Devonport wharf. She swung her legs back and forth. Micky ate chips with considerably less interest.

    “’S nishe here,” said Susan with her mouth full. “Not too hot.”

    “Mm.”

    “Do you want that piece of fish?”

    “Oh, go on,” he said, passing her his handful of newspaper.

    Susan ate his fish. She looked at his chips. “Don’t you want the rest of these?”

    Micky sighed. “No; too much grease. They start to feel leaden in your stomach, at my age.”

    Susan didn’t know what he was talking about. She tipped the rest of his chips onto the remains of her chips and began to eat again, meanwhile reading the newspaper his chips had been wrapped in.

    “Not many of them do that now,” said Micky idly, staring out at the harbour.

    “Eh?” replied his daughter vaguely.

    “Use old newspaper as insulation round the chips.”

    “Yeah.” Susan went on reading a warm and slightly greasy page of the Herald. Micky went on staring across the harbour to the city.

    After a while she squirmed round and threw a few tired-looking chips to the seagulls. They squawked and squabbled.

    “Is Pat back yet?” asked Micky without much interest.

    “Nope.” Susan went on reading the Herald.

    “So Allyson’s still at your grandparents’?”

    “Mm.” Suddenly she looked up, and chuckled. “She hates it; Grandma’s making her go to bed at half-past nine, because she reckons she gets so tired at work!”

    “And does she?” Micky asked anxiously.

    “I s’pose so; ya know what Grandma’s like: talk about the iron hand in the velvet glove!”

    Micky jumped. He had often thought precisely that about Belinda Cohen. “No; not that,” he said weakly. “I meant, does Allyson get very tired at work?”

    “I dunno, Dad,” replied Susan with cheerful indifference. “Why don’tcha ask her, if you’re that interested?”

    “I don’t suppose she’d tell me,” he said mournfully.

    “No,” agreed Susan absently. She ate the last chip and sighed regretfully. “I’m full.”

    “So am I,” agreed Micky. He put his hand on his belt.

    “Those jeans are too tight,” said his daughter, not bothering to look at him. She opened out the greasy Herald, turned its outer pages together, and began to read an inner page.

    “You could be right,” said Micky, undoing his belt. He rubbed his stomach cautiously. “I wish I hadn’t eaten all those chips.”

    “Undo them,” said Susan.

    “What?” said Micky weakly.

    “Undo ya jeans; no-one’s looking.”

    Micky undid the fastener at his waist. He sighed.

    Without looking at him, Susan said: “Undo the zip, Dad.

    “Not on the wharf,” said Micky weakly. He stretched cautiously. “Ugh,” he said. He glanced around the deserted wharf. He edged his zip down. His belly expanded gratefully. “Ooh, that’s better,” he admitted.

    “You oughta get a new pair; those old things are really out of fashion, anyway.”

    “They’re not flared,” pointed out Micky sulkily.

    “Not quite,” agreed Susan.

    “Maybe I will,” said Micky.

    “Mm; stonewashed.”

    “No,” said Micky.

    “Real Levi’s, then; with buttons,” she said firmly.

    How much would they set him back? Oh, well. “Come on, let’s go.”

    “No, it’s nice here,” said Susan. “Can we stay a bit longer?”

    “All right,” he agreed mildly.

    A peaceful silence fell,

    “You might think about doing a bit of clerking for us,” suggested Micky cautiously; there were lots of pleasant young people in the firm and almost anything’d be better than those idiot student mates of hers.

    “Mm; I asked him about that.”

    “Who?” said Micky blankly.

    “The guy that signed my Course Card—the one that said he knew you.”

    “Oh; and what did he say?”

    “Well, he said that as I’d already wasted two years, I’d better do my LL.B. full-time if I could manage it,”—Micky grunted—“but it would be a good idea to get some experience in the holidays.”

    “Good,” said Micky. He put his arm round her sturdy form, leaned his cheek on her head, and stared at the tranquil harbour. “It is peaceful.”

    “Yeah.”

    They sat there dreamily for a while as the sun gradually sank behind the Harbour Bridge. A ferry began to chug towards them.

    Susan started reading her chip paper again. The ferry chugged closer. Micky watched it absently.

    Beside him the solid blonde figure stiffened. “Dad,” she said tensely, “have you seen this?”

    “No,” he said without interest—probably only be about some damned pop star.

    “Sir Maurice Black,” said Susan hoarsely. “Isn’t he—? You know.”

    “Not dead, is he?” said Micky, without real hope.

    “No; but—”

    “Then I’m not interested,” he said sourly, withdrawing his arm from her warm young back and hunching himself up crossly.

    “Yes, you are! Listen!” Relentlessly she began to read: “‘Canadian Honour for Eminent Historian. Sir Maurice Black, New Zealand’s foremost historian, author of Pioneer—’”

    “Skip that,” said Micky sourly. “Get to the point, if there is one.”

    “‘—leaves for Montreal this week to take up his appointment as—’ Blow, something French. Hang on: ‘—one of Canada’s most prestigious fellowships. Sir Maurice will be away for a year, pursuing his research into New Zealand-Canadian relationships in the nineteenth century. Before he left he spoke to—’”

    “Gimme that!” cried Micky, snatching it from her. “How old is this thing, anyhow? This January!” he discovered hoarsely.

    “Yeah! He’ll be away for a whole year!”

    They beamed at each other. Then Micky’s face fell. “P’raps she’s gone with him.”

    “No, she can’t’ve, Dad: look, it says here his wife’s going with him—see?”

    Micky looked. So it did. His heart raced.

    “Let’s go home and ring her up right now!” cried Susan.

    Micky’s face flamed. “No; I— It’s a bit soon.”

    “No, it isn’t; this thing’s over a month old.”

    “You don’t understand, darling; if Marianne really cared for the man...”

    Susan looked at him mutinously. “A month’s a long time.”

    “No, Sue-Sue; really, I don’t feel I can... It’d be so crude.”

    “Dad, if you don’t stake a claim someone else’ll beat you to it!”

    Micky looked at her dubiously.

    “I’ll ring her! I’ll ask her to come out on the boat! –That wouldn’t be crude, would it?”

    “No; only—only don’t let on you’ve seen this,” said Micky, in a voice that shook.

    “Huh!” said Susan. “Whaddaya think I am?” She scrambled up. “Come on; we’ll go home and ring her straight away!” She held out her hands to him.

    Micky let her haul the Aged Parent competently to his feet.

    The ferry had chugged right up to the wharf, with a certain amount of backing and filling, and was now disgorging its passengers. Susan clapped a hand over her mouth. She shook with chuckles. “Your—flies!” she gasped.

    Micky looked down at his fly. “Oh, Christ,” he said. “Don’t point!” he hissed at her. Taking a deep breath, he zipped his jeans. “God,” he said, buckling his belt. “These damned things are too tight.”

    “Yeah.” Susan hurried on.

    “Slow down,” he said weakly. “I can’t hurry with all those damned greasies inside me.”

    Chuckling, his daughter slowed her pace to a crawl, and put a supporting arm around his waist. “Is this slow enough? I can carry you, if you like.”

    “No-o-o; I ca-an ma-an-age,” said Micky in a very old, cracked voice.

    They staggered about the wharf laughing helplessly, getting in the way of the disembarked passengers hurrying to catch their bus.

Next chapter:

https://themembersoftheinstitute.blogspot.com/2023/01/under-volcano.html