Much Better

41

Much Better

    Veronica’s study was at the front of the house, downstairs, opposite the drawing-room. It faced down the driveway; Peter had thought this was a good idea, for when she was home alone working she’d be able to see immediately if anyone was coming up the drive, rather than being startled by a ring at the front door if she was absorbed in her work. He had subsequently discovered that a herd of elephants coming up the drive in a thunderstorm wouldn’t have disturbed Veronica if she was absorbed in her work. –Well, the thunderstorm might have: during a bad one towards the end of last year she’d suddenly burst into his study, tears pouring down her face, bright red and speechless with rage; when he’d got her calmed down he’d discovered that this disturbance was due not to a feminine terror of the storm, but to the fact that the electrical interference from it had switched off her computer and she’d lost eight pages of the chapter that she’d just composed on her word-processor. Peter had been writing, too: with a very old-fashioned, gold-nibbed fountain pen; he had been aware of a flicker from the lights, but only just. He’d refrained from mentioning this to Veronica, but had suggested mildly that it might not be a bad idea if she composed rather less at a time before recording it—could she do that? Sniffing into his hanky, his wife had replied contemptuously: “Not record it; file it to disk, ya mean!” Peter had shuddered, but recognized thankfully that she was recovering herself. Thunderstorms, then, might attract Veronica’s notice; people merely coming up the drive wouldn’t.

    On this particular day she was startled by three rings at the front door. The middle-aged Betty Fergusson, who helped with the housework and looked after the babies when Veronica and Peter were working, answered the first ring. Since the front door was right next to the study Veronica became gradually aware of voices; eventually she burst out into the hall, to find poor Mrs Fergusson bailed up by some sort of Bible-basher. Not pausing to inquire whether it was a Jehovah’s Witness or some other variety of low-life, she grabbed the front door out of Betty’s nerveless hand, growled: “Piss off: we’re Jews!” and slammed the door—not caring whether the Bible-basher’s foot was in the way or not.

    The second ring at the door was a carpenter whom Veronica herself had asked to call. Betty answered this, too, but then had to disturb her about it. Veronica at first replied blankly: “What carpenter?” but the carpenter, having, in the manner of Antipodean workmen, no inhibitions about walking into other people’s houses, had followed Betty, and reminded her cheerfully that she’d asked him to call round about the fireplace. He then remarked with interest that Veronica had an IBM p.c. and asked her how she liked it, to which Veronica replied grudgingly that it was all right, but she coulda got a clone for a quarter of the price, only her husband reckoned you might as well buy the best, it was a false economy not to. They then went into the drawing-room, where he looked thoughtfully at the blank wall behind which the chimney lurked, and agreed that he could rip that out all right and put the second-hand kauri fireplace in for her, but had she thought the brickwork might all need re-pointing? Veronica replied triumphantly she had, it had all been done before they moved in. Then they went and conferred in the dining-room, and since that was the same chimney, the fireplaces being back-to-back, that was all right, too. She’d so far found only the one mantelpiece, but the carpenter, who specialized in restoration work, had one in his yard that had just come in. Veronica with difficulty restrained herself from going down to look at it on the spot, and said she’d come down on Saturday morning with her husband—knowing full well that in spite of Peter’s good intentions there was no hope of his taking time off work just at the moment, what with the new academic year and the imminent official opening of their new building. Receiving with regret the information that the chimney which had originally run up from Veronica’s study to an upstairs bedroom had been ripped out some time in the house’s past history and that it would not therefore require mantelpieces, the carpenter scribbled an estimate of what the work for the two fireplaces would cost, and departed, whistling. Veronica pinned the estimate carefully to the front of her blouse (in order not to forget to show it to Peter) and, sitting down at her terminal again, became immediately absorbed.

    The third ring at the front door was only Betty’s husband, who’d come to collect her at four-thirty.

    At five o’clock Veronica would normally still have been absorbed in her work. Betty had learned this, and since she also knew that the absorbed Veronica would take quite some time to register howls from the babies’ room, had brought them downstairs and put them in the study. Today she was certainly still sitting at her terminal, but instead of peering into it she was staring past it down the drive. Behind her, Sharon was corralled in her play-pen on a large rug put down for the purpose: Veronica hadn’t originally intended her study to contain babies, so it had a white carpet. It also had white walls, and white curtains with a charming sprinkling of red and yellow abstract splashes on them. The wall that had been the fireplace wall was almost completely covered by sturdy metal shelving, painted yellow by Veronica herself. Against the wall opposite the door stood an array of white filing cabinets, the severity of which was somewhat mitigated by the set of brightly coloured Babushka dolls and the large cactus in a bright yellow pot which stood upon them. Apart from these objets the contents of the room were strictly functional. It presented a striking contrast to Peter’s Victorian study, and one that certain of their acquaintance, didn’t fail to appreciate—most of them not then taking the further logical stop of asking themselves who had decorated the two studies.

    “Bum,” she muttered to herself, “where the fuck is he?”

    This was highly unfair, since Peter didn’t normally leave work until five o’clock and since she herself—unless one of the children had disturbed her—was normally totally absorbed in her own work when he did get home.

    “Vronny!” said Sharon loudly in response to this mutter. “Vron-NEE!”

    Veronica groaned, got up, picked Sharon up, walked over to her bay window with her, and peered down the drive. “Where is ’e, eh? Where’s ole Pee-Pee, eh?”

    “Pee-Pee; Pee-Pee come!” returned Sharon brightly.

    “No, he bloody isn’t,” ascertained Veronica morosely, kissing her curls in an absent manner.

    When the phone rang she belted out to answer it, still clutching Sharon, with her heart hammering absurdly hard, knowing it was stupid, of course he couldn’t have had an accident in the short distance from the campus—anyway, he was an excellent driver—

    “Oh, it’s you!” she said in relief.

    “Yes,” returned Polly. “I’m not disturbing you, am I? I meant to ring you at lunchtime, only I forgot: I was working.”

    “So was I,” replied Veronica simply. “I’ve just stopped.”

    “Oh, good. Listen: I think I’ve sorted out Hamish!”

    “Great! Has he asked Mirry to come back, then?”

    “Well,” said Polly with her little choke of laughter, “not exactly!” She told Veronica all about it.

    “Peter said he thought he was in an awfully good mood: that must be why,” said Veronica at the end of this recital.

    “Yes,” agreed Polly. “How is Peter?”

    Veronica looked nervously at the front door but it remained firmly closed. “Well,” she said, sitting down on the stairs—there was a nice little chair by the phone, an antique that Belinda Cohen had given them, but Veronica found the stairs more comfortable—“I had a bit of a go at him about Darryl and John, like we decided, and he had a lovely time telling me how I didn’t understand a thing about human relations; and then he got all thoughtful and said we might try inviting them round; so I think he’s cheering up a bit.”

    “Good.”

    “Ye-ah... Only he’s still pretty rocked about the Marianne thing; he keeps harping on it.”

    “Oh,” said Polly doubtfully. “Well, at least Maurice is safely out of the country.” There was an odd sort of silence in her ear. “Veronica? Are you still there?”

    “Yes,” croaked Veronica. “Actually, he isn’t; I mean, he is still over there, but I had a letter from him just the other day; he’s popping back quite soon, we’re thinking of doing a book together, and he wants to see me about it—and  there’s one or two other things he said he had to see to, too.”

    This time the silence emanated from Polly’s end of the phone. “Oh, dear,” she said at last.

    “Yeah,” Veronica agreed glumly.

    “Me!” said Sharon loudly.

    “No, Sharon, ya can’t have the phone.” She shifted Sharon to her other thigh, further away from the phone, and said into the receiver: “Sorry, Polly; Sharon wants to play with the phone.”

    Polly was immediately distracted from their subject and told Veronica how one of the twins, they hadn’t discovered which, had got hold of one of their phones and left the receiver off the hook, and Jake hadn’t been able to get in touch with her, he’d panicked and come flying home from work—literally, in one of the Group’s helicopters—and when he found out what it was he’d been absolutely furious, he’d said—

    “Heck,” said Veronica in awe.

    Polly laughed. “He was okay once he’d calmed down; he realized it wasn’t really my fault; and he got a man in straight away to put all the phones up on the walls where the Twinnies can’t get at them. Anyway, what about Maurice? Have you told Peter he’s coming back?”

    “No,” admitted Veronica gloomily. “I chickened out.”

    Polly refrained from asking whether this was wise, in view of Peter’s known views on having things kept from him by his wife, but Veronica could feel the thought humming right down the wire.

    “I know it was bloody stupid, Polly,” she said miserably, “only I just felt it might be the last straw for him.”

    Polly replied politely but rather firmly: “If I was you I’d tell him as soon as possible: say you forgot about it.”

    “Yeah,” agreed Veronica unhappily.

    “He might not be upset; it might sort of, um, galvanize him,” suggested Polly dubiously.

    “To do something about Marianne and Micky, ya mean? Ye-ah; I s’pose it might.”

    Polly had not meant precisely this, but she agreed to it. After that there was a silence.

    “Polly?” said Veronica cautiously.

    “Mm?”

    At her end of the phone Veronica went very red. Clutching Sharon rather tightly—Sharon didn’t object, she liked being squashed against Veronica’s boobs—she said: “I had an idea.”

    “Yes?” prompted Polly.

    “I dunno if it’ll work...”

    “Go on.”

    Veronica told Polly gruffly about her idea. Polly greeted it with cries of approval. Veronica revealed that she thought she’d try it on him tonight. Polly replied that it would be a good idea to let him have his tea, first. Veronica was surprised at this. Polly explained why. Veronica got rather thoughtful and said she’d never noticed that, only now she came to think of it... Polly got rather carried away and said that of course the women’s magazines were all crap, only it was a good idea to drop what you were doing when they came home, because if you didn’t, they got all huffy; and what she did, she had a little alarm clock in her desk drawer that he didn’t know about and she set it to ring just about ten minutes before he was due... Veronica admired this tactic without remarking on its duplicity and said how on earth did Polly remember to set it, though? At which Polly explained she’d got into the habit of setting it as soon as she went into her study, before she switched the computer on—refraining with a great effort from asking Veronica if she thought she could manage that. Veronica said cheerfully that was a bloody good idea, and, looking at her watch, was just about to ring off, when Polly said: “Here’s Jake; I’ll have to go—see ya!” and rang off hurriedly.

    “Me!” cried Sharon crossly as Veronica put down the receiver.

    “No,” replied Veronica firmly. “It’s not a toy, Sharon—no.”

    “Me, me!” wailed Sharon.

    Veronica got up. “S’pose the nanny’s looking after her lot,” she growled, glaring at the phone—most unjustly, for had not Betty Fergusson been looking after her own lot between the hours of nine-fifteen and four-thirty? Kissing Sharon absently, she returned to the study with her and peered restlessly down the drive once more.

    After quite a lot more peering and muttering, and a bit of pacing, Sharon eventually cried; “PEE-PEE!” and Veronica cried: “There he is!” and they rushed out to open the front door.

    Peter sustained with equanimity the front door’s being hurled open in his face by a beaming wife, Sharon’s rapturous cries, and Veronica’s wrenching his laden briefcase out of his hand and carrying it inside herself. Sharon having been transferred from Veronica’s shoulder to his, he came inside, shut the door, and said: “So! You have finished a chapter, perhaps?”

    “Eh? Nah, got fed up,” said Veronica, going scarlet.

    Peter set Sharon down gently and embraced his wife with enthusiasm.

    “I’ve been waiting for you for ages!” she said, when he’d finished.

    “But I’m not late, am I?” he said in surprise.

    “Aren’t you?” replied Veronica vaguely. “Well, it feels as if you are.”

    Peter laughed a little, and went into her study, where James was awake but placid in his carrycot. He picked him up and kissed his black fuzz.

    “Betty reckons he’s gonna have curls, like yours,” Veronica informed him as he did so.

    “Mm-m; this is quoite probable,” he agreed. “You haven’t switched your computer off,” he discovered.

    “Eh? Bum; nor I have—aw, that’s right, Polly rang up, musta distracted me.” She went to turn it off, discovered she hadn’t filed her last couple of pages, groaned, and sat down.

    “Pee-Pee!” demanded Sharon jealously. Peter settled James on one arm and picked her up in the other. He eyed Veronica dubiously but to his relief she appeared to be doing purely technical things with the computer, and soon switched it off.

    “Are you hungry?” he said.

    “Eh? Yeah, s’pose so.”

    “When did you have lunch?”

    “Dunno—Betty made something or other.”

    Peter gave up. “Well, what would you care to have for dinner, moy dearest?” he asked, leading the way into the drawing-room.

    “Aw—anything.”

    “Veronica, is somethink the matter?” He sat down on a sofa.

    Veronica went scarlet and burst out: “I just remembered I forgot to tell ya something!”

    “What?” he said placidly.

    “Old Maurie!” gulped Veronica.

    “Da?” He kissed Sharon’s curls.

    “Pee-Pee Labbit!” she demanded.

    “Da, da, in a minute. What about Maurice, Veronica?”

    Veronica sat down heavily in her big chair. “Had a letter from him a couple of days back: he’s popping back.”

    “I see,” he replied, tactfully refraining from enquiring exactly how many days back the letter had arrived.

    “He wants me to do a book with him: you know, that idea he had back—when was it?”

    “November,” he murmured.

    “Was it? Yeah, well, anyway, he’s got all fired up about it; wants to talk about it.”

    “And you are not pleased?”

    “It’s not that; it’s... Peter,” she said hoarsely, “what if he gets back together with Marianne?”

    Naturally this had immediately occurred to Peter. He pursed his lips and replied judiciously: “Do you think she would? Susan was definite that they had broken it off.”

    “He’s very attractive,” replied Veronica gloomily.

    “So is Micky,” he murmured.

    “Yeah, but is he sleeping with her?”

    Peter refrained from retorting that even if he were, this might not prevent Marianne from returning to Maurice Black’s embrace. “Shall we have a drink?”

    “What? Oh!” Remembering Polly’s advice with a start, Veronica turned puce, bounced up, and said in a strangled voice: “I’ll get ’em; what’d ya like?”

    When he was sipping his dry martini, reflecting that Veronica made an excellent martini, he must encourage her to do it more often, and Veronica was sipping hers and reflecting that that was a bloody good martini, if she did say so herself, and how could she persuade Peter to let her always make them, his were ghastly, he said placidly: “Have you heard anything from Susan this week, moy dearest?”

    “Nope.”

    “Nor have I; but the last I heard, Micky would not seem to have—eugh—”

    “Got into Marianne’s sheets: no,” agreed his wife glumly.

    Peter’s curly mouth twitched, but he said only: “No. –This is an excellent martini, Veronica; I think you should always make them, in future, if you would not moind?”

    Veronica turned puce again and growled: “No; that’s okay; I don’t mind.” She took a gulp of hers, and added: “I s’pose he would let on to Susan, would he?”

    “I think he would not be able to stop himself. From what she tells us earlier, it sounds as if he gives her a blow-boy-blow account of the whole affair—no?”

    “Yeah—not affaire.”

    “What? Oh, I mean business, moy angel, not affaire.”

    “Pee-Pee LABBIT!” roared Sharon.

    “Ya better read it to her, Peter.”

    “Okay; and then we give her her dinner, n’est-ce pas? And give James his, too—he is such a good boy; t’es très sage, n’est-ce pas, mon petit chou?” he added to his son, who appeared perfectly content to lie on the couch wedged between his father and a large felt toy crocodile as big as he was himself.

    So Peter read Peter Rabbit to the addicted Sharon—not attempting Somerset accents, or anything of that sort, but Sharon didn’t mind—and then they went into the kitchen and fed the babies, and Peter got Veronica to admit that what she’d really fancy was that duck thing he did and, blenching a bit at the thought of having to do duck à l’orange with the aid of his microwave, got a duck out of the freezer and put it in to defrost. Then they put James to bed, because he got somnolent after dinner, and had a bit of a play with Sharon, because she was now at the stage—which, unbeknownst to either of them, perhaps fortunately, was going to last for at least the next fifteen years—of being extremely bright and energetic after dinner.

    Then Peter went into the kitchen and Veronica bathed Sharon, getting herself and the bit of paper that was still pinned to her chest rather wet in the process, and put her to bed. “Peter!” she said into the intercom that connected with the kitchen. Peter came upstairs, embraced Sharon tenderly, and played “This Little Piggy”—to which she’d also become addicted; and then they said goodnight and went out. Of course Sharon immediately stood up in her cot and rattled the bars strongly for a while; they could hear her quite plainly, first in the upstairs passage at first-hand and then over the intercom in the kitchen, but as it was a stout cot neither of them worried about it.

    While the duck was cooking they returned to the drawing-room and had another round of martinis and Peter investigated the strange decoration on his wife’s chest, and agreed that he would very much like to go down the carpenter’s yard on Saturday—so used to the Kiwi vernacular that he never even thought of pointing out that “down to the carpenter’s yard” was considered standard English usage—and kissed her tenderly.

    “What was that for?”

    “Merely love,” he replied composedly.

    “Oh,” said Veronica, turning puce and glaring at her feet.

   “There is somethink else on your moind, I think?” he murmured.

    “What? No!”

    Peter raised his eyebrows at her.

    Veronica got up hurriedly, muttered: “Think I might change—bit damp,” and shot out.

    Although they did sometimes change for dinner when they were alone, she didn’t normally do so unless they had previously agreed it was to be a fancy dinner, so Peter’s suspicions were confirmed when she reappeared after a considerable interval draped in a long turquoise robe made from a length of Indian sari silk; it was knotted on one shoulder in a casual way which neither bore any relation at all to the startling price she’d paid for it, nor deceived Peter for one instant, especially since the last time she’d worn it had been on a visit to L’Oie Qui Rit with the von Trottes and Bruno’s cousin, who was incidentally the West German ambassador.

    “That is very glamorous, moy dear,” he murmured, with a tinge of malice.

    “It’s very comfortable,” replied Veronica defensively. He said no more.

    During dinner he chatted comfortably on unexceptionable topics and was relieved to see the look of strain disappear from round the big blue eyes. However, when he’d got her settled on a sofa with a coffee and a Benedictine, he sat himself down beside her and said firmly: “Veronica, if you do not tell me what is on your moind immediately, I put you over moy knee. –And woipe that dirty grin off your mug!”

    Veronica laughed quite a lot, and informed him he’d got it wrong, you didn’t say wipe it off your mug, it was always face, and she didn’t know why, and mug was slang for face, only not in that—uh—thingy.

    “Context. I will remember that; so what is it that is on your moind?”

    Veronica took a gulp of Benedictine. “It’s not on my mind, exactly, Peter, only—”

    “Da?”

    Peter saw with some surprise and not a little concern that the long, strong hands, having abandoned their liqueur glass and coffee cup, were twisting together painfully on his wife’s silk-clad knee. He laid one of his own hands gently on them and said: “What is it, moy dear?”

    She licked her lips nervously. “Well—I had this idea.” She eyed him cautiously. “You might not like it.”

    “No?” He was struck by an awful thought. “It is not—not to have any more babies, is it, Veronica?”

    “No: nothing like that.”

    “Good,” he said shakily. “For to—to tell you the truth, I do not know that I could go through all that again.”

    “No; me and Bruce thought so, too,” she agreed.

    It was Peter’s turn to turn puce. “Veronica,” he said in a strangled voice: “have you discussed this with Bruce Smith?”

    “Yeah—well, he is my gynaecologist,” said Veronica uneasily.

    “When—or is that too much to ask?” he said faintly.

    “Ages ago—few weeks after James was born. He was worried about you.”

    “I see.”

    “So was I; and Bruce was afraid I might wanna have more kids; so he asked me. Anyway, like I told Bruce: we’ve got Sharon: two’s enough.”

    Peter held her hand rather tightly. “If you would wish for another, moy dear—”

    “Hell, no,” said Veronica hurriedly. “Two of ’em can kick up more than enough racket, when they get going; anyway, I’ve got too much work to do.”

    “Da,” he agreed dubiously.

    “Anyway,” she said, taking a deep breath, “you know my book?”

    “This one you are wroiting now?”

    “Yeah, ’course.” She stopped.

    “What about it?”

    “Well, it’s at the stage,” said Veronica, not looking at him, “where it really needs someone to do a bit of editing—ya know?”

    “Ye-es; ah! You wish me to advise you on who would be the best person?”

    “NO, ya birk!”

    “What?” he said in surprise, staring at her.

    “I want you to do it!” Veronica exclaimed in exasperation. Her heart thudded madly and she stared at him helplessly.

    Peter flushed darkly. “Veronica—” he said hoarsely.

    “I know you’re awfully busy at work, just now, only I thought—once things have calmed down a bit; if you’ve got the time?”

    “I would be most honoured,” he said shakily. “If you are sure?”

    “Yes; it’s getting a bit unwieldy,” she said earnestly. “And I remembered how good you were with that thing I was working on back in Sydney—you know, that article on PNG.”

    “Ah! Da, of course... You think I really help you on that?”

    “Yeah; when I sent it in,” said Veronica, flushing, “Joe—you know Joe, eh? –Yeah. Well, he rang me up and said who had I got to help me with it, it was the first thing of mine he’d never had to use the old blue pencil on.”

    Looking very pleased, Peter replied: “Well, of course, I have much experience in editing... Did he really?”

    “Yeah,” said Veronica, now grinning broadly. “He said someone had restrained me natural impulses towards didacticism and an élitist assumption that the rest of the world knew what the fuck I was on about—or words to that effect!”

    “Ah: that explanatory paragraph I suggest you insert at the beginning!” he remembered.

    “And the rest,” agreed Veronica.

    “So… you would really wish for moy assistance?”

    “Yeah—but only if you’ve got the time.”

    “I make the toime!”

    “No,” cried Veronica in anguish, “that’s not what I meant!”

     There was a tingling silence in the room.

    Peter was looking rather grim. “Exactly what did you mean?”

    “I do want you to help me, Peter; only the last thing I want is for you to—to half kill yourself over it.” She looked at him pleadingly.

    “I see,” he said slowly.

    “If you could wait until this bloody official opening’s over, at least—”

    “Da... Although at the moment, of course, I do not have very much marking—”

    “No!” said Veronica loudly. “Later! Okay?”

    “Okay; after the opening, then,” he conceded.

    “Yes,” she agreed with relief. She drank off the remains of her Benedictine, and sighed loudly.

    Peter had his suspicions about all of this, but he realized that at least Veronica’s desire to have him edit her work was a genuine one, and so he repressed an urge to probe further into the matter.

    “Only there is one thing... “ she said.

    “Yes?” he said tensely, immediately alert.

    Veronica said sheepishly: “It’s the bloody introduction: it stinks. I know some people reckon you should always write them last, only—well, I always feel I have to do it first, then the whole thing’s kinda clearer in my head: ya know?”

    “Go and get it,” he said with a tiny smile.

    They spent the rest of the evening tearing Veronica’s introductory chapter to shreds and rebuilding it together—with the aid of the gold-nibbed fountain-pen, not the word-processor.

    Veronica rang Polly up the very next day, in fact the minute Peter’s yellow Merc had disappeared between the pines and the kowhais along the drive, and said ecstatically: “It worked!”

    Polly was a bit stumped. It couldn’t have been the alarm clock, she’d only told Veronica about that yesterday; did she mean the bit about waiting till after tea, or—

    “Asking Peter to edit my book!” said Veronica loudly and impatiently.

    “Oh, good. So he was he pleased, was he?”

    “Pleased? He was over the moon—wanted to start in right away! ’Course I wouldn’t let him,” she added, over Polly’s noises of congratulation, “because letting him wear himself out like he did when James was born was hardly the object of the exercise!” She laughed cheerfully. Polly made more pleased and encouraging noises; Veronica added: “Mind you, we did do a bit last night, but only on the introduction—he’s bloody good, Polly, I toleja he was!” Polly made an agreeing noise. Veronica continued happily: “He’s gonna get started on the rest of it after all this bloody kerfuffle at work over the opening’s over; you know what? I reckon it’ll make a new man of him, you shoulda seen him, Polly: he was all kinda pink and pleased, and really interested; I reckon it was just the right thing to counteract the bloody Maurice Black do, after all!”

    Peter had come back: he’d forgotten his fountain-pen, which he didn’t normally use in the drawing-room. Since the house was old and the front door didn’t fit particularly well, and Veronica’s voice was rarely lowered, he heard all but the first sentence of her end of the conversation as he stood on the doorstep feeling for his keys in his pants pocket. He wasn’t entirely surprised; but he was very, very pleased. He went quietly away again, abandoning the pen for the day, a little smile on his lips. So—she had taken the trouble to think about him, and worry about him, and spend some of her valuable time on him, instead of on the verdammt book!

    The Riabouchinskys’ garden was filled with a jabbering crowd of very assorted persons. Finding her husband alone in his kitchen, Veronica shut the door firmly. She leaned against it, panting a little. “Whaddaya think?”

    Peter was tossing salad. He gave it one more careful toss, and turned from the bench to face her. “Frankly, moy dearest, I do not think it’s workink.”

    “No,” she agreed, her face falling. “’S what I thought.”

    He made a rueful grimace. “Perhaps maybe the garden party was not a very good oidea.”

    Flushing brightly, Veronica said quickly: “It was! It was a great idea!”

    She observed with horror her plump foreign husband’s reaction to this loyal protestation: he gave a very, very, foreign shrug, and said: “Bof!”

    “Peter—”

    “I’m sorry; I know you do not loike me to say that; I forget moyself.”

    Veronica swallowed. “That’s all right,” she muttered.

    “What are they all doink now?” he asked dully.

    Veronica sighed. “Marianne’s still talking to Pauline about sewing: they’ve got off bloody patterns, they’re onto bloody sewing-machines, now.”

    “Oh.”

    “Erik’s looking a bit fed up.”

    “I am not surproized; boy moy calculations”—he glanced at his watch—“those two have been engaged on exclusively female subjects for the last—eugh—fifty-three minutes.”

    “Yeah,” said Veronica morosely.

    “And Darryl?” he said, as she volunteered no further information.

    “Her and Micky and Susan,” said Veronica bitterly, “are still talking about bloody boats!”

    “I had no oidea that Darryl was interested in sailing,” he said sadly.

    “Nor,” said Veronica loudly and bitterly: “did I!”

    A silence fell. Peter poked at the salad.

    “John’s come out of your study,” offered Veronica.

    Peter looked slightly more cheerful. “Well, that’s an improvement.”

    “No, it isn’t,” she said sourly: “him and the Revill kid and that pal of his from the M.A. class, Whatsisname, they’re all talking about work!”

    “Oh. And Jo-Beth?”

    “Her and Carol are still gabbing about modern art; I never even knew Carol knew anything about art !”

    “Nor did I,” he said gloomily. He did calculations. “Erik and Rod are talkink together, I suppose?”

    “No,” said Veronica crossly, “they’re not; they were, but now Rod’s playing with Sharon and the little Nakamura kid!”

    “Oh,” he said cautiously. “Well, that is not so bad; how has Jo-Beth reacted to that?”

    “She hasn’t.”

    “Not at all?” asked Peter incredulously. “She has not even noticed?”

    “Well, she’s given ’im a kind of dirty look, if ya call that noticing.”

    “Oh, dear. I do not think she is into babies, just yet.

    “You can say that again!”

    “Whereas,” he said sadly, poking at the salad again: “it appears that Rod is.”

    “Yeah; don’tcha remember how he carried on with all the little kids at that Goddawful birthday party of the twins’?”

    “Da,” he agreed dully. “He was splendid with them, I remember thinkink at the toime what a good father…” His voice trailed away dispiritedly. Veronica looked at him anxiously. “Apparently all I succeed in doing with moy party,” he said sourly, “is to droive a wedge between Rod and Jo-Beth, who were getting on perfectly well before I interfered!”

    Help! thought Veronica.

    “And of course it has to be Rod who plays with the babies, not Erik, when it is Erik we invoite for the very purpose of letting him envy our beautiful children!” he said crossly.

    “Yeah,” muttered Veronica, watching him warily.

    After a moment he said: “I suppose that Fred and Missy are still talking to your parents?”

    “Yeah.” She paused. “Politely.”

    Peter bit his lip. He met her eye. His curly mouth twitched. Veronica grinned. Suddenly Peter burst out laughing.

    Veronica laughed, too, more from relief than anything. “I shouldn’t have asked them!” she gasped.

    “No, but then you did not, really—Jerry asks himself!” he gasped.

    “Yeah—loves a party!” she choked. “This’ll larn ’im!” She leaned heavily on him. He put his arm round her waist and they laughed for some time.

    “Oh, dear,” said Veronica, wiping her eyes. “I really thought you’d cracked it, there, Peter, too: I mean: casual do, in the garden, no dressing up...”

    “I should not have invoited Rod and Jo-Beth at all,” he decided. “It was a mistake; the setting is far too—too domestic.”

    “Ye-ah... Still, we could hardly invite Fred and Missy and not ask Jo-Beth.”

    “That was a mistake, too; there is no-one else, really, of both their age and eugh—their situation.”

    “No,” agreed Veronica. “They don’t seem to have hit it off with Erik and Pauline at all.”

    “No; Fred is too young, and too—”

    “American.”

    “We-ell—earnest,” he amended. Their eyes met. They chuckled.

    “And no-one would ever have guessed Darryl and Micky’d have a thing in common—I mean!” she said with feeling.

    “No,” said Peter shakily. It was no use, he had to meet her eye, and they both howled with laughter all over again.

    “I think it’s a very salutary experience for us, Véronique,” he said at last. “We were both so pleased with ourselves, were we not? We imagine we arrange everythink for our friends so satisfactorily! Fate is punishink us for our hubris, I think.”

    Veronica didn’t understand this last remark, but she agreed: “Yeah; I was really chuffed when it dawned that Erik had never been round here when the kids were still up.”

    “I know,” he said, squeezing her waist.

    “Pauline wants awfully to have kids.”

    “This I know, too; kiss me, Little Mother.”

    Veronica kissed him. Her solid warmth trembled against him. “I wish we could just nip upstairs,” she said into his neck.

    Peter gave a tiny laugh. “I have a feeling some disaster moight precipitate itself on the lawn, if we do!”

    “It’s all a disaster, anyway,” said Veronica morosely, disengaging herself.

    “Never moind; perhaps food will improve matters!” he said cheerfully. “Take the salad, please, Veronica.”

    Veronica obediently picked up the salad. Well, at least he didn’t seem too down, she thought dubiously.

    Three hours later they were once again in the kitchen, slightly damp and chastened.

    “Whaddaya think?”

    “Hé bien,” he said cautiously, “it was not, perhaps, as bad as we feared.”

    “No-o...” Veronica ate a left-over green olive.

    “Susan enjoys herself very much, I think?” he said brightly.

    “Yeah; one good thing, I s’pose.”

    “Da; she has been rather lost and lonely, since her flat breaks up; and also, I think, a little at a loss with her fellow law students; the majority of them are rather younger than she.”

    “Yeah, and the rest are miles older.”

    “Précisément.”

    “Not that she seemed to fall for that Whatsaname—pal of Timothy’s.”

    “No,” said Peter. He looked sideways at her. “I do not think anyone could.”

    Veronica gave a snort of laughter. “No: you’re right, there!” She hesitated. “Rod seemed to have a good time.”

    Peter rinsed a few plates. “Jo-Beth also enjoys herself, I think?”

    “Yeah, but not together!” she said explosively.

    “No, that’s true... Nevertheless,” he said bravely, “one does not necessarily attend a party in order to—eugh—to sit in one’s escort’s pocket.”

    “No, I s’pose you’re right. Shall I put these plates in the dishwasher?”

    “Yes, please, moy darlink.”

    Veronica did so, hoping that Peter wouldn’t bring up the point that Rod and Jo-Beth hadn’t left the party together.

    “But I must admit I cannot understand,” he said acidly, “whoy she has to go off with John Aitken!”

    Veronica said weakly: “Well, they do live next-door to each other; I s’pose she thought he needed a lift...”

    “But so did Rod also need a lift!”

    “Ye-ah... Only Mum and Dad offered to drop him off down at Brown’s Bay on their way home.”

    “It is not so very far, if Jo-Beth wishes to— And anyway, why does she not wish to take him back with her to her place?”

    “Hard to tell if she wanted to or not, with that Oriental inscrutability of hers,” said Veronica sourly. “But if you ask me, she woulda given him a lift, if he hadn’t started messing round with Sharon again.”

    “I think you’re right. Where are they now?”

    “Upstairs,” she said gloomily. “Him and Pauline are giving her a bath.”

    Peter sighed. “So is Erik still talking to your parents?”

    “He was five minutes ago, yeah.”

    Silence fell.

    “I left the bloody rug under the tree,” remembered Veronica glumly.

    “Never moind, moy precious; better the rug gets wet than you do, n’est-ce pas?”

    “Ye-ah... Gee, I wish Marianne hadn’t gone down the ruddy cliff! The rain’s ruined that dress of hers—and it musta cost a small fortune, I’m absolutely poz I saw it at Mr John’s in Remmers a week or two back!”

    “Mm-m... Darryl also gets very wet, coming back up the cliff in the rain,” he said slyly.

    Veronica attempted to snort derisively, met his eye, and almost strangled laughing.

    When he’d finished thumping her on the back and chuckling, he said, with an attempt at severity: “Marianne should not wear such an expensive dress to an informal garden lunch—I specifically tell her it is informal, I promise you, Veronica.”

    “So did I; well, it was in Mr John’s as leisure wear, or some bloody thing—still, I agree, she was daft to wear it. Maybe she wanted to make an impression on Micky.”

    “Mm...” He put more plates in the dishwasher, and added detergent. “This is full; shall I put it on?”

    “No, better not, it makes that awful roaring noise, you can hear it all over the house.”

    “We shall not have many plates left for dinner,” he warned her.

    “That doesn’t matter,” said Veronica, fixing him with her basilisk eye, “because we’re not ruddy well asking anyone to stay for dinner!”

    “Not even Jerry and Belinda?”

    “No; I’m not having Dad driving down the bloody motorway in the middle of the night!”

    “Oh; no, of course.” He twinkled at her. “Perhaps we should also have invoited the so-dreadful Jimmy? He could have driven the car for them.” Veronica snorted. “Also he would have been company for Timothy’s friend—do you not think?”

    Veronica grinned, but replied: “Nope, he’s not that sort. Shall we have some coffee?”

    “Yes, that is a good oidea, Veronica; would you groind the beans, please?”

    “How many?”

    Peter measured the beans out for her. Veronica began happily to grind them in his antiquated grinder.

    Above the noise he said: “Do you feel it, Veronica? –When a man is, eugh, neuter or homosexual,” he clarified.

    “Yeah,” said Veronica, ceasing momentarily to turn the handle. “’Course I do. Don’t you? About women, I mean.”

    Peter replied mournfully: “I thought I did. But I must say the soight of Darryl and Marianne first disappearing down the cliff together and then going off home together has really—really shaken moy faith in moy ability to discern any such thing.”

    “Nothing in that,” said Veronica gruffly. “Marianne’s down in Puriri, isn’t she, and Darryl’s only down the road a bit, at Thingy Junction; meant Timothy could use her car to take his mate and Carol home.”

    “Ye-es... But they seemed very thick,” he said unhappily. “Did you catch what they were talking about, Veronica? I was listening to Jerry, I couldn’t hear.”

    “Books,” said Veronica succinctly. She began to grind again.

    Peter felt quite weak. When she’d finished the beans he made automaton-like motions with the coffee-pot.

    Veronica eyed him cautiously. “Anyway, thought you said you were sure Darryl wasn’t really a Les?”

    “Perhaps maybe I am misled boy the effect she has on me,” he said morosely.

    “What effect?”

    “I foind her very desoirable, Veronica,” he said sadly. “I thought you understood this.”

    “Yeah, well,” said Veronica, so shaken by his tone that she was unable to work up even a flicker of indignation at this avowal, “isn’t that a good sign?”

    Peter drooped over his coffee pot. “Don’t ask me,” he said gloomily.

    She swallowed. “Toleja what Polly said, eh? About that bloke she was mixed up with.”

    “Polly is mixed up with so many blokes,” he excused himself dully.

    “What? No! Darryl!”

    “What? Oh, I’m sorry, moy dearest, I misunderstand; da, da, the middle-aged mamma’s boy; yes, you tell me.”

    “Well,” said Veronica in a determined voice, “I reckon you were right about that: what she needs is—” She broke off abruptly. She’d nearly said “a real man”. Gulping, she finished in a less determined voice: “A—uh—a bloke who knows something about women, to get her back on the right track!”

    Peter switched the element on under the coffee pot. “And you think John Aitken is that man?” he said, very dry.

    Veronica gulped again.

    Peter raised his eyebrows sardonically.

    “Well, all I can say is,” she said loudly, “I’m not volunteering you for the job!” To her immense relief, he laughed pleasedly at this.

    She was just going out to see who wanted coffee when the door suddenly opened.

    “There’s a few more plates here,” said Belinda Cohen brightly. “Is there anything I can do, dear?”

    “Yeah,” said Veronica weakly. “Not burst into people’s kitchens like that. Ya nearly gave me a heart-attack—I was standing right in front of that door!”

    “I didn’t burst, exactly, Veronica,” protested Belinda mildly.

    “Do you want a coffee, Mum?”

    “That would be nice, if you’re making one, dear.”

    “That’s one,” said Veronica to Peter. “What about Dad?” she asked her mother.

    “Not this late in the day, dear.”

    “’S what I thought; you’d better make him a cup of tea, Peter.”

    “I could do that, Peter, dear—”

    They started a polite argument about who was to make Sir Jerry’s tea. Veronica hurried out. Peter’s voice pursued her into the hall. It was saying the dread word “samovar”. “Oh, Gawd,” she muttered.

    Quite some time later that evening, when they were both relaxing with drinks against their pillows, she said: “Listen, Sherlock.”

    “I am all ears, Watsonia,” he responded politely.

    When she’d finished laughing she said: “No, seriously, Peter, what do you really think about Micky and Marianne? About their, um, personalities. I mean, after Maurice Black, do you think she’s gonna fall for Micky?”

    “Do I think,” said Peter slowly, “that after having been the recipient of Maurice’s no doubt expert attentions, a girl such as Marianne will settle for those of Micky Shapiro?”

    “Ye-es... Well, not just the sex thing; but—you know!”

    “Mm... Maurice is a very sophisticated man, of course.”

    “Sophisticated?” repeated Veronica doubtfully. “I dunno that I’d have said— Well, Micky’s pretty sophisticated, too.”

    “I do not know him very well, but I would not have said that at all.”

    She goggled at him.

    “He is a man of sophisticated tastes; that is not at all the same thing, moy dear one.”

    Veronica looked at him very hard. Peter was just about to elaborate, when she said: “That makes it worse.”

    He gave a tiny sigh. “Precoisely, Watsonia.”

    Veronica was so absorbed that she forgot to laugh. “I can’t help thinking that if it was me...”  She looked at him apologetically. “I reckon that if I’d been with Maurice for a year, Micky’d bore me solid. Mind you, she can’t expect to find another Maurice Black—there’s only one of him.”

    “You are rationaloizing it too much, Véronique; it is not a question of what she can expect; it is a question of what she wants, with her innermost beink, you understand?”

    “Bum,” replied Veronica. Obviously she did understand.

    There was a silence.

    “Ya reckon poor old Micky’s had his chips, then?”

    “Non, non; that would be going much too far; Micky has not, I think, had a chance to—what would one say—faire sa cour? Eugh... to court her,” he translated anxiously.

    “Yeah: he hasn’t had much of a chance, yet; it is a bit soon.”

    “So, we will observe his progress over the next month or so with hope, da?”

    Veronica brightened. “Yeah.”

    “And, I think, not mention to Marianne that Maurice is to make a floyink visit?”

    “Hell, no.”

    “Good!” He became aware that her attention was no longer on him. “Veronica; do you wish now for a piss?”

    “No.”

    “Another drink?”

    “No.”

    “You are hungry—we have not had our dinner!” he remembered.

    Veronica growled: “Doesn’t matter; we had a huge lunch.”

    Peter sat up. “That was hours ago; and we have had much strenuous exercise since then! What would you loike, moy dearest?”

    He was prepared for almost anything except what she actually said—or, rather, muttered.

    “What?” he cried.

    “I dunno what else to call them; that’s what Helen calls them.”

    “Mousetraps?” he repeated incredulously.

    “Yeah; they’re kinda cheesy things—on bits of bread.”

    “Ah! Welsh rarebit!” he cried.

    “No!” said Veronica, rather more loudly than she’d intended.

    Peter’s face fell about a foot. “You do not loike moy Welsh rarebit?”

    “Yes, ’course I do; it’s lovely; only it’s not the same!”

    “Well,” he said, in some bewilderment, “I do not know—you do not mean a croque’?”

    “Eh?”

    Peter endeavoured to describe a croque-monsieur; Veronica replied doubtfully that it wasn’t the same, hers were kind of bubbly… “Shall I ring Helen?” he said at last.

    “Ye-ah... She does them in the oven,” Veronica explained.

    “In the oven! That is definitely not a croque’; I ring her,” he decided.

    Veronica watched doubtfully. “Tell her ya do them in the oven!” she hissed, as Nat transferred him to Helen.

    After considerable exchange of compliments he got round to it. “I see,” he said. “One egg? And one grates the cheese? Yes, that would make it bubbly, I think that is what Veronica troied to descroibe.”

    He was about to hang up when Helen said something that stopped him.

    “What?” he cried. “When was this? ...But moy goodness, Helen, the choild was here only this lunchtoime, and she says nothink of this to us! –At least,” he added cautiously, “I don’t think— One moment, Helen. –Veronica, did Carol say anythink to you today about Hamish?”

    “No. Um, she said Elspeth was nuts about that toy rabbit that Nat gave her.”

    “Ah. –No, no, Helen,” he said into the phone, “she has not breathed a word; when was this? ...Oh, last weekend?” His face was all pink and interested; Veronica gaped at him.

    “What about Carol and Hamish?” she said, when he’d finally hung up.

    “Ah!” he said, getting out of bed and putting on his dressing-gown. “Come downstairs with me, moy dearest, I tell you all about it whoile I make the mousetraps.”

    “Come on, Peter!” she said impatiently when they got there.

    “Un moment,” he replied, breaking an egg into a bowl. “Veronica, could you fetch me the Tasty cheese, please?”

    “You got two seconds to start,” she said grimly, holding a kilo of Tasty cheese poised above his head.

    He chuckled. “Well, moy dear, it seems that Carol takes her courage in her hands at last, and goes to see Hamish!”

    “Really?”

    “Da, da; I think they are all sorted out, at last!”

    “Well, go on!”

    “Well—all I know is what Carol tells Helen and Nat—”

    “Go ON!” said Veronica, waving the cheese.

    Peter laughed, and took it off her. “Well, moy dear, it is loike this...”

    At the end of it they looked at each other, and beamed.

    “So!” he said. “Perhaps maybe the Micky and Marianne thing will not work out, but this is a most satisfactory resolution of the Hamish and Carol muddle, no?”

    “Ye-ah,” said Veronica cautiously. “Looks like it.”

    “Veronica! Must you be so... anglo-saxonne?”

    Veronica grinned unrepentantly. “Sorry. –Feel better?”

    “Much better! I had not realoized until this moment how much the whole thing preys on moy mind these last few months,” he admitted with a sheepish smile.

    Veronica had. She didn’t point this out, it would have done nothing for his self-esteem. “Cummere, ya Russian nong!”

    Happily Peter allowed himself to be enfolded in a huge hug.

Next chapter:

https://themembersoftheinstitute.blogspot.com/2023/01/carols-ordinary-day.html