November Blues

27

November Blues

    Neither Peter nor Jake, in spite of what they’d both said to Hamish on the subject, really believed that Sylvie would attempt to make trouble for him with the university authorities: it was a remote possibility, and one of which Hamish should be aware—but, as Jake had assured Polly, Sylvie was not actually mad.

    This was true; but after the interview with the Carranos on Labour Day, she was in a seething fury. In her lonely little motel unit she sat and brooded over it all. The fact that her car was in storage and that Hamish was refusing to pay to get it out again was another festering grudge. When—after some bitter dithering, in which she told herself that he had probably got to her—she finally rang Margaret Prior and Margaret suggested that she come to dinner to talk it all over with “dear Hamish”, something inside Sylvie snapped.

    “I will not!” she howled, and slammed the receiver down.

    Bright red, sweating with anger, she sat down at the motel’s horrible little Formica table with her writing pad.

    It was on the Friday before the twins’ party that the blow fell. When Hamish got to work at ten to nine he found that Marianne, who’d been there since half-past eight, had an urgent message for him to ring the Vice-Chancellor. Feeling extremely sick, Hamish shut himself into his office, and dialled.

    Gavin Wiley stuttered and stammered. He’d had a letter—actually, Sir Jerry Cohen’s lawyers—one of the senior partners was a Trustee, wasn’t he?—yes, well, he’d had a letter, too... He thought, if Dr Macdonald could possibly manage it this morning, they’d better get together...

    Hamish agreed grimly to this. He was about to stride out when it struck him that in view of Peter’s helpfulness and concern—not to say in view of the fact that if the Director had to resign immediately it was he who would bear the whole administrative brunt of running the Institute—the man had a right to hear what had happened.

    “Get Peter,” he said to Marianne.

    She gave a horrified glance at his face and didn’t point out that Peter was supervising an exam this morning, but rushed along to Charlie’s office.

    “Could you possibly supervise Peter’s exam this morning? Something’s come up, and Hamish wants him urgently.”

    … “What is it?” said Peter, in Hamish’s office.

    “Wiley wants to see me urgently. He’s had a letter. A Trustee at Dent, Foreman, Shapiro & Overdale has, too.”

    “Sylvie?” said Peter instantly.

    “I imagine so,” he replied in a hard voice.

    “Shall I come with you?”

    Hamish hadn’t intended to ask this of him, but he suddenly realized he wanted it very much. “Would you?”

    “Of course; shall I droive?”

    “Yes—thanks.”

    They drove all the way in to the City Campus in Peter’s yellow Mercedes without a word’s being said on either side.

    Whatever traditions of the University Peter might have mentioned to Hamish, he had certainly not mentioned the tradition of sweeping messes quietly under the carpet and, at need, burying them under several more layers of heavy rugs. This was because he wasn’t at all sure, himself—not having moved in the rarefied atmosphere of Gavin Wiley, Maurice Black, et al.—that this tradition pertained. He might have realized it would, though, he told himself, as the interview with Gavin Wiley wore on: it was, after all, a long-established New Zealand practice—undoubtedly inherited from the British.

    Wiley hummed and hawed and beat around the bush for some time; Peter couldn’t help admiring his command of the euphemism. He could see that Maurice Black, whom Wiley had apparently called in as some sort of moral—or more correctly, amoral—support, was becoming more and more impatient.

    Finally Maurice leant forward and said: “It seems to me that we’d be making a mountain out of a molehill to let thing go any further.”

    “Yes,” Wiley agreed with relief.

    “It’s a pity that she had to write to this trustee, of course—hasn’t written to any of the others, has she?’

    “No,” said Wiley quickly. “I checked.” Maurice gave him a hard look; he coughed, and added hurriedly: “Discreetly, of course.”

    “Good. Well, so long as we’ve got your formal assurance, Macdonald, that the girl’s going to drop political science and go back to history next year?” –He didn’t sound too unhappy about that last, Peter noted with pleasure.

    “Yes, certainly, Sir Maurice,” said Hamish miserably.

    “Fine; well, then, no harm done, eh? We can leave it at that, eh?”

    “Certainly; certainly,” agreed Wiley.

    Maurice grunted. “Can’t let the University be pushed around by some damned hysterical middle-aged woman, can we?”

    “No, of course not,” said Wiley, beginning to puff himself up in his expensive suiting again. “Sorry to drag you into it, Maurice—but two heads are better than one, and all that, eh? And you have been associated with the Institute since its inception.”

    “Yes,” said Maurice vaguely, not listening. “Won’t do for old Sir Jerry to get wind of it, of course.” He looked at Hamish. “Don’t think she might write to him, do ya?”

    “No-o; I think she probably realizes he hasn’t anything official to do with the Institute, now,” he replied uncomfortably. “She’s not stupid, you know.”

    Maurice sniffed, but apparently accepted this. “S’pose we can trust this lawyer joker to keep his mouth shut?” he said to the Vice-Chancellor.

    Wiley replied hurriedly: “Heavens, yes; no need to worry about him—he’s as close as an oyster—known him for years, we were at Grammar together.”

    Maurice Black, who was not a Grammar Old Boy, sniffed again, but apparently accepted this, too. “Yeah, well—no harm done, then,” he said, getting up.

    Everyone else got up, too, and Hamish said miserably: “I can’t thank you enough, Sir Maurice—and you, too, Vice-Chancellor.” He gave an unhappy smile. “You’d—I’d quite understand if you felt you had to take it to the Senate.”

    “What? That lot?” cried Maurice. “Not bloody likely—lot of old women!” He gave Hamish a thump on the shoulder and said: “Look—I gotta go; gotta give a speech at some damn lunch.” He opened the door, rumbled: “Don’t let it get to ya, Macdonald—could happen to the best of us, eh?”—and went.

    Hamish looked miserably at the Vice-Chancellor.

    Managing to look both pompous and embarrassed, Wiley avoided his eye. He coughed. “It’s inevitable that this sort of thing— Well, to some extent our staff are in the public eye, of course,” he muttered.

    “Aye. Look, if you’d rather I simply resigned, Vice-Chancellor— God knows, I’ve no right to—to expect you to make any sort of allowance for me—”

    Peter was conscious of a wish he’d stop calling the man “Vice-Chancellor”; nobody did that here, and it was only adding to Wiley’s embarrassment.

    “No, no,” the man said, going purple. “It’s all settled; get a lot of crank mail in my position, y’know.”

    “Uh—yes.”

    “Say no more about it, eh?” he said, with a desperate smile, holding out his hand.

    Hamish shook it, but to Peter’s amusement didn’t appear to realize that Wiley meant it as a farewell.

    “Thank you, sir,” he said—if anything, the “sir” seemed to increase Wiley’s discomfort even more than the “Vice-Chancellor” had done. “I can assure you, it’s not the sort of thing I—” His voice shook. Wiley was purple again.

    Peter said quickly: “No, no; we all realoize that, Hamish. We must be off; we are still in the middle of exams, are we not?”

    He did get Hamish away, but not before he’d thanked the unfortunate Wiley again.

    Driving back he said cautiously: “That was not too bad, I think?”

    “No.”

    Peter shot a glance at the granite Scottish profile next to him. “It seems to me that Sylvie has now done her worst—no?”

    “Aye... Mebbe.”

    “So perhaps little Mirry could be with you during the long holidays, after all?”

   Hamish sighed. “I don’t know, Peter... Wiley did agree that it would be a good idea if we don’t see too much of each other for a while... He’s been so decent over the whole thing, I feel it would be offering him a slap in the face if I—if we just... you know.”

    With considerable annoyance Peter realized that Hamish’s sense of hierarchical proprieties had run away with him: Gavin Wiley’s embarrassed agreement with his suggestion had been quite meaningless, but he was obviously going to treat it like a Royal Command! “I think Gavin meant you to use your judgment in the matter,” he murmured.

    Hamish didn’t reply. Peter glanced at his profile again. It was grimmer than ever. Ah, la pauvre petite! he thought—but didn’t quite dare to say it aloud.

    At the Riabouchinskys’ life continued on what Peter called its “petit train-train”—Veronica looked it up in the dictionary and said “Yuck.”

    The phone rang when they were sitting peacefully in their living-room before lunch, and she jumped up to answer it, gasping: “’S prolly Polly!” Although she’d never admitted as much, Peter knew that she knew he preferred to answer the phone himself in his own house, and he looked after her with mild surprize.

    “Was it Polly?” he asked placidly when she came back.

    “Yeah,” said Veronica.

    “How is she?”

    “Aw—okay,” said Veronica vaguely.

    “And the children?”

    “Good.”

    “And how is Jake?” he asked on a cautious note.

    Veronica frowned. “Bloody,” she said shortly.

    “So, h’what has he done now?”

    “Well, ya know their sitting-room?”

    “The big living-room? That overlooks the sea?”

    “Yeah. He’s being a real sod over it. Did I tell you Polly wants to get rid of the rimu in there and replace it with kauri?”

    “Oh?” said Peter cautiously. “It will cost a small fortune.”

    “Well, he’s got a fortune, the mean sod; but you’re right, that’s what he’s kicking up about. Well, not so much the expense as such, I suppose,” she added fairly. “He keeps saying he can’t see any reason for it, and it’s driving Polly crackers!”

    “There is no reason for it,” Peter pointed out logically.

    Veronica glared at him. “Yes, there is: Polly can’t stand it.”

    “That is a whim, moy dearest, not a reason.”

    “I suppose you’ll be saying next that she oughta be sensible about it!” she said loudly.

    “No, I shall not say any such thing, moy dear. But I can see Jake’s point.”

    “Can you?” she said nastily.

    “Da. First they go to all the trouble and expense to have the rimu put in; then they rip it all out and fill the house with noise and dust and carpenters to put kauri in instead—for no good reason.”

    “You’re as bad as he is!”

    “No, no. Merely, I think perhaps maybe Jake is rather fed up with having the house in a turmoil—no?”

    “They did move in far too soon,” she admitted. “Half the rooms weren’t ready; it was worse than this place.”

    “Da—it is only about three months, I think, since the guest suites were all done? And that living-room takes very long to be finished, no?”

    “Yeah; it took Polly ages to get it furnished... Yeah, I see what you mean. Anyway, he agreed in the end, but poor old Polly’s just about exhausted.”

    “And what did Polly have to do to achieve this signal victory?”

    She looked at him sourly. “No flies on you.”

    “No,” he agreed calmly. “Well?”

    “Well, if ya must know,” said Veronica bitterly: “she broke down and bawled—don’t laugh! I suppose you imagine it’s all beer and skittles for her, having three kids under two in the house?”

    “No... All what?”

    “All beer and skittles!” said Veronica loudly and crossly, going very red.

    “Moy dearest, what an absolutely fascinatink expression! I have never heard it before; what is its derivation?”

    “I dunno; and stop trying to side-track me!”

    “I’m not; only...” Veronica was glaring at him. “Well, anyway,” he said feebly, “Polly and Jake can certainly afford as much help in the house as they want.”

    “Yeah. It isn’t a question of money, so much as finding someone suitable.”

    “I know; but at the moment Polly’s parents are still there, da? That must be a great help for her.”

    “Ye-ah; but you don’t imagine that’s all b—” She broke off and glared again.

    “But they are very noice people,” said Peter mildly.

    “Yeah; well, it’s not as bad as having that old Aunty Vi of Polly’s around the place, of course; only— Well, you know what mothers are.”

    “Not actually,” he replied drily.

    Veronica went scarlet. “Sorry!” she gasped.

    “Please do not regard it, moy dearest; tell me what mothers are?” He twinkled gently at her.

    “Well,” said Veronica slowly, “however nice they are, they’re always telling you you’re doing it wrong.”

    “Doing what wrong?” said Peter stupidly.

    “Anything!” she replied impatiently. She waved her arm in a large gesture. “Everything! And then they go behind your back and upset all your arrangements; Polly says she can’t find anything in the kitchen any more; and Maureen even rearranged the furniture in that sweet little sitting-room—you know, the one with the brick fireplace wall. Jake went down there at night to get something he’d left behind and fell over a chair—he was furious, Polly said.”

    “Didn’t he put the loight on?” asked Peter with interest.

    “Obviously not! Well, it is his house; I suppose he thought he knew his way around it, poor sod!”

    “Da,” Peter agreed, trying not to laugh. “Such things h’would not be conducive to domestic harmony—no.”

    “Oh, by the way, Polly wants us all to go to the twins’ birthday party.”

    “That will be very noice.”

    “That’s what you think,” she replied heavily.

    A week went by. The twins’ birthday was almost upon them. In the big house on the cliff-top in Pohutukawa Bay all was not well. Polly, though perfectly healthy and feeding a perfectly healthy baby, had several weepy fits, bit her husband’s head off for practically nothing on more than one occasion, and, to his dismay, took to lurking indoors even on fine days. Jake tried to pretend to himself that there was nothing really wrong with her and, resolutely pushing the memory of Sylvie’s Labour Day scene to the back of his mind, plunged feverishly into preparations for the birthday party.

    Mr and Mrs Mitchell were, of course, staying on for the birthday party. Polly’s mother was worried about her but as she knew nothing of the Sylvie invasion, put her uncharacteristic behaviour down to having just had the baby. Dave Mitchell knew all about the Sylvie do, as Jake had burst out with it the first chance he got, but kept his mouth shut.

    Hamish arose on the morning of the Carrano twins’ party in a very bad mood. Mirry woke up with a headache: that didn’t help. Elspeth woke in a state of rabid excitement: that helped even less.

    “Where are you going?” said Mirry, as he came downstairs with his briefcase, having refused lunch.

    “Work,” he said shortly.

    Elspeth burst into noisy tears. Through the hail of sobs they dimly discerned “You promised!”—“How’ll we get there?”—“You promised!”

    “I’m not taking the bluidy car!” said Hamish loudly. “Stop that damn noise, or you can spend the afternoon in your room instead of going to the damn birthday party!”

    Elspeth cried louder than ever.

    Hamish threw the front door open. “I’ll probably be late,” he said over his shoulder in a sour voice. He went out, slamming the door.

    Elspeth went on sobbing.

    “Shut UP, Elspeth!” cried Mirry. “Or you WON’T go to the party!”

    Elspeth rushed upstairs, bawling.

    Mirry went droopily into the kitchen and sat down at the table. Now what was wrong with Hamish? She’d been so preoccupied with exams, no wonder he’d been a bit quiet and sulky; but yesterday had been her last one, why was he like a bear with a sore head now? She felt intensely depressed and experienced a strong desire to crawl into bed and pull the duvet right over her head. She didn’t connect Hamish’s ill-humour with Peter’s abrupt disappearance from the exam room yesterday morning, since her mind was almost entirely devoid of that deviousness which characterized, for example, the mind of Peter himself.

    The day started equally inauspiciously for the Carranos. Jake rose early and, congratulating himself on not waking Polly, descended quietly to the kitchen, where he allowed his mother-in-law to provide him with a most sustaining breakfast. Dave Mitchell observed this uneasily and retired behind the pages of the Herald.

    “Your milk hasn’t come,” he said to Jake from behind this fastness.

    Jake scowled, his mouth full of bacon and egg.

    “Never mind, you can go down to the dairy later, dear,” said Maureen quickly to her spouse. She poured the last of the milk into Jake’s coffee. “You can take the boys with you—it’ll keep them out from under our feet.”

    Dave grunted from behind the Herald.

    Unfortunately, Jake hadn’t finished his plateful when Polly entered the kitchen.

    “Jake Carrano! What are you eating?”

    “Eggy,” said Davey, who was kneeling up watching.

    “I can see it’s eggy,” said Polly in a trembling voice. “And bacon; and fried bread? Oh, Mum,” she wailed, “how could you let him?”

    Maureen wiped her hands on her apron and, her face very pink, said uneasily: “Just for once, dear, surely? A man needs a good solid breakfast, you know.”

    “Good, nothing!” cried Polly. “It’s all cholesterol; it’s all saturated fats and salt! How  could you, Mum?”

    “Pussy,” said Johnny to his mother. She ignored him. “Pussy,” he said, pulling at his grandmother’s skirt.

    “Yes, darling,” said Maureen, not listening.

    Jake cleared his throat uneasily. “My fault, Pol,” he said sheepishly.

    “How could you, Jake? Do you want to drop dead of a heart attack before the twins are three?”

    “No, but—”

    “Then why are you doing this to your body?”

    Dave coughed uneasily and rattled his paper.

    “Just for once; couldn’t hurt, eh?” said Jake feebly.

    “Just for once! That’s what you said last time; that’s what you always say!”

    “I’m sorry, dear,” Maureen put in miserably. “I didn’t think.”

    Polly sighed heavily. In her experience Maureen seldom did think; principally because she apparently lacked the equipment with which to do it. “I’ve told you, Mum,” she said with strained patience. “It’s not as if he was out on the farm, doing hard manual work all day: he’s got a sedentary occupation—his body can’t process all those fats; and he doesn’t need the extra protein; he’s not supposed to have more than four eggs a week at the most.”

    Maureen twisted her apron and stared at her miserably.

    Polly sighed. “I know you only thought you were giving him a treat, but—”

    “Yes,” said Dave from behind his paper. He rustled it. “Upsetting your mother, Polly.”

    Polly flushed. “I’m sorry, Mum.”

    “I won’t do it again, dear,” said Maureen anxiously. “Only he never seems to eat enough, for a big man,” she added dubiously, looking at her son-in-law’s chunky, muscular form.

    Polly felt a surge of irritation fill her whole body. Her nostrils flared. She took a deep breath, and managed not to say anything.

    The misguided Jake tried to joke her out of it. “Had one of those cravings for bacon and eggs!” He smiled unconvincingly.

    Polly withered him with a look. “Yes, and talking about sedentary occupations, have you had your swim this morning?”

    “Uh—I’ll go and have it now.”

    “You will not! With all that food inside you? You’d get cramps and sink like a stone!”

    Johnny pulled at Maureen’s skirt. “Pussy,” he said anxiously.

    “Yes, dear; in a minute,” said Maureen, not listening.

    “Have it later,” mumbled Jake.

    “You bet your boots you will!”

    “Boots,” said Davey interestedly. No-one took any notice.

    “Grandpa: gumboots!” he said loudly.

    “Yeah; gumboots,” muttered Dave from behind the shelter of the Herald.

    Jake put out a hand for his coffee.

    “Just a minute!” said Polly swiftly. She grabbed the cup. She looked into it. “Milk,” she discovered in an awful voice.

    “Just for a change,” said Jake miserably. “Pol—”

    Polly ignored him. She marched over to the bench and threw the rest of his coffee into the sink.

    “Oh, dear,” said Maureen idiotically: “that’s the last of the milk.”

    “Good!” retorted Polly. “That’ll stop him stuffing himself on it!”

    Dave lowered his paper and said ill-advisedly: “Calm down, Polly; don’tcha think you’re blowing this up out of all proportion?”

    A vision of her husband’s body, bloated and dead before they’d been married five years, was vivid before his daughter’s overwrought mind. “No, I am not!” she cried. “And you keep out of this, Dad!”

    “Here, Pol, calm—” began Jake.

    “Shut up!” cried Polly. “You don’t even care! I’m going back to bed!” She marched out.

    “PUSSY!” roared Johnny, staggering after her. “Mummy! Pussy! Mummy!” He burst into tears.

    “Bugger!” growled Jake. “She’s forgotten to feed the bloody cat!” He scooped Johnny up. “Yeah, okay, Johnny; you and me’ll feed the bloody pussy.”

    “Mummy!” wailed Johnny, unconvinced. “PUSSY!”

    “Oh, God,” said Jake. Over his younger son’s sun-bleached head he said to Dave: “He’s fixated about the damn cat, ya know; bad as ’is mother.”

    “PUSSY! Pussy meat!” wailed Johnny.

    “—Worse,” said Jake grimly to Dave. He put Johnny down.

    “How old is it, now?” asked Dave.

    “I dunno—ancient. Must be at least twelve; it was old when I first met her.” He was searching in the fridge.

    “Maybe it’ll croak soon,” suggested Dave optimistically—he preferred dogs.

    “Yeah,” agreed Jake hopefully—so did he.

    “David!” cried Maureen. “Not in front of the children!”

    “Pussy,” said Johnny, pulling at the skirt of Jake’s dressing-gown.

    “Yeah, I’m getting the meat for the bloody pussy. –This look like cat’s-meat to you?” he asked Maureen.

    Maureen repressed a sigh. Jake was a dear, of course, but she did wish he wouldn’t swear in front of the children. She peered earnestly at the meat. “I don’t know, dear; it could be.”

    “Looks like fillet steak to me,” he muttered.

    “Use it,” said Dave briefly. “She can only blow her top.” He turned over a page of the paper.

    “Yeah,” Jake agreed. He took the meat over to the bench.

    “I’m very sorry about the breakfast, Jake, dear,” said Maureen in a trembling voice.

    “Not your fault,” said Dave swiftly. “Grown man, isn’t ’e?” He lowered the paper. “Oughta know better,” he said to his son-in-law.

    “Yeah; sorry; thought I could get away with it,” said Jake sheepishly.

    Dave grunted and retired behind the paper again.

    Davey reached over and took a piece of congealing fried egg off Jake’s abandoned plate. “Eggy,” he said.

    “Yeah—eggy,” grunted Dave, not looking up from his paper.

    His small namesake began to eat the egg. Sticky yolk dripped onto his smart pale blue sailor suit.

    Over at the bench Jake chopped fillet steak and said: “I really am sorry, Maureen; Polly’s been a bit funny lately, ya know; might’ve known it’d set her off.”

    “Yes, I know, dear; that’s all right,” said Maureen kindly. She began rinsing cups and plates.

    “Where does she keep the blasted cat’s dishes?” asked Jake.

    “In here, dear,” said Maureen, opening the cupboard under the sink.

    “This is Spode!” gasped Jake in horror.

    “Is it, dear?” replied Maureen weakly.

    “And this bowl— Goddammit, this is one of the old Bunnykins patterns!”

    “Yes, I know; it was Polly’s own bowl when she was a little girl.”

    “Wasting ’em on a bloody cat?” His eyes started from his head.

    “Well, she’s had him a long time, Jake; he’s been through a lot with her, you know, dear old Grey; he’s been a comfort to her.”

    Jake scowled. He put finely chopped fillet steak on the Spode saucer.

    “You know,” pursued Maureen unwisely: “when she was going through that dreadful time with that awful Halliday man.”

    Jake’s ears crimsoned. He grunted. Over at the table Dave’s paper rustled loudly.

    “I don’t think she’d ever have got through it without dear old Puss to comfort h—”

    “All right, Maur’! That’ll do!” said Dave loudly from behind the paper. “Ancient history, isn’t it?”

    “Yes; well, I only...” said Maureen, very flurried.

    Jake’s rinsed his hands. “Any milk?” he asked shortly.

    “Oh—no; but you could have a drop of cream.” She bustled over to the fridge.

    Jake looked sourly at the cat’s antique dishes. “I was thinking of getting a couple of pups,” he said to Dave.

    “Yeah; what happened over that?”

    “Pol put the kybosh on it: said having Elspeth’s dog in the house nearly gave the bloody cat a heart attack; said a pair of ’em ’ud be too traumatic!” He snorted.

    Dave grunted.

    “She was quite keen on it, to start with, too,” he said sulkily. “Wanted a bull-terrier.”

    “She’s always liked them,” Dave replied. “Dunno why: ugly-looking bastards, eh?”

    “Bassards,” said Davey experimentally.

    “David!” wailed Maureen. “Now look what you’ve done! How many times have I told you not to swear in front of—” She broke off with a horrified gasp. “Davey Carrano!” she cried. “Look at your lovely sailor suit! What are you eating?” She made a rush at the table with a damp sponge. “Look at him!” she cried. “He’s ruined his good clothes!”

    Dave looked at his grandson indifferently. “Toleja not to get ’em all gussied up this early; toleja they’d only go and get themselves all mucky.”

    “Why didn’t you stop him?” Maureen retorted. “Look at him; this egg’ll never come off; and goodness knows how much he’s eaten! Honestly, dear, you are hopeless!”

    “Eggy,” said Davey happily.

     Maureen sighed. “Well, I suppose he can stay like that for now; we can change him later. What was I—? Oh; that’s right, Jake dear: just a drop of cream, he’s not allowed too much, at his age.” –Dave hid a grin behind his newspaper.

    Davey took the last strip of bacon of Jake’s plate and began chewing it.

    “Pussy,” said Johnny, pulling at Jake’s dressing-gown.

    “Yeah—come on; Pussy,” agreed Jake resignedly. “We’ll go and feed His Majesty in his boudoir, eh?”

    Maureen had a produced a small tray. “There!” she said, putting the cat’s dishes on it. Jake goggled at her.

    Maureen picked up Johnny. “Come on, darling: Daddy’ll take you up to feed Pussy,” she said. She handed Jake his son. Then she handed him the tray.

    “Oh,” he said weakly, getting the picture. “Ta.” He went out holding the tray with one hand and Johnny with the other.

    “David!” cried Maureen, spotting Davey sucking away at his piece of bacon. “You’re letting that child eat bacon!” She made a rush at Davey.

    “Eh?” said Dave vaguely. He lowered the Herald. “Oh. Won’t do him any harm,” he said pointedly. Maureen glanced at him nervously.

    “NO!” grunted Davey as she tried to pull the piece of bacon out of his mouth. He jerked away from her. “MINE!” he said defiantly.

    “Give it to Grandma,” cooed Maureen. “Come on, now, Davey: good boy!”

    “Look here, Maur’; don’tcha think you’re going a bit far?” said Dave.

    “What do you mean?” replied Maureen in a voice high with nervous defiance.

    “Giving Jake all that stuff for breakfast when ya know damn well Polly doesn’t like him to have it.”

    “It was only for once,” replied Maureen sulkily. “Come on, Davey—”

    Dave reached out a long scrawny arm and caught her wrist. “Leave the kid alone,” he said mildly.

    Maureen went very pink. “David—!”

    “No; listen, Maur’. This is Polly’s house; you gotta stick to her rules, see?” He looked her firmly in the eye. “If she doesn’t want Jake stuffing himself on all that fried muck, then don’t you go giving it to him behind her back—see?” He released her wrist.

    Maureen’s lower lip quivered. She turned away and went to the sink. “She is my daughter,” she said in a small voice.

    “Got nothing to do with it; it’s her house; it’s her husband.”

    Maureen was silent.

     Dave picked up his paper with a rustling noise.

    “It was only for once,” said Maureen.

    “That isn’t the point,” said Dave tiredly.

    “But—”

    “Drop it, Maur’! he said loudly.

    Maureen subsided. She ran hot water into the sink and, in defiance of the fact that her daughter’s kitchen contained an excellent dishwashing machine, began to look for the detergent.

    Davey dropped his nasty, chewed bit of bacon onto the floor. He reached for another bit of egg from the plate that Maureen had forgotten about. Dave knew he was doing it. He let him.

    It was not yet nine o’clock.

    “Look!” Elspeth squeaked as Mirry halted the big station-waggon at the Carranos’ upper gate. “Baby horses!”

    Mirry’s head was thumping. “Ponies, you idiot,” she said shortly.

    Unabashed, Elspeth cried: “Can I get out? Please, Mirry!”

    Two riders on Polly’s and Jake’s horses seemed to be in charge of the ponies—well, if Polly and Jake didn’t want over-excited eleven-year-olds annoying their ponies they shouldn’t keep them up here by the drive, reflected Mirry sourly. “Yeah—go on.”

    Elspeth got out.

    Mirry fidgeted. She was sure all the adults at the twins’ party would be Polly’s friends—all miles older then her...

    “Mirry!” said Elspeth outside her window. Mirry jumped. She wound the window down.

    “He says I can ride one of the ponies!” said Elspeth ecstatically. “Can I?”

    The young man on one of the horses rode over, dismounted, and stuck his head down by Elspeth’s. “Gidday!” he said.

    He looked sort of familiar. Mirry felt she ought to recognize him. She didn’t. “Hullo,” she said faintly.

    “Can I, Mirry? Please?”

    “Yeah—I suppose so,” said Mirry tiredly.

    “We have met,” said the handsome blond young man, grinning. “Rod Jablonski.”

    “Oh—yes. Hi, Rod,” she replied weakly, reddening. She’d sat next to him during one of Polly’s dinner parties, not long after she’d broken off with Hamish: she hadn’t taken in much at all that evening.

    “Elspeth here reckons she can ride; can she?”

    “No.”

    “I didn’t think so,” Rod agreed.

    “I can too!” Elspeth cried. “I’ve been on a horse at Grandpa Ian’s loads of times!”

    “About what I thought,” Rod said to Mirry.

    “You have to watch her like a hawk. And don’t let her have the reins; she’ll saw at the pony’s mouth.”

    “Right,” he acknowledged.

    “I can too hold the reins! Grandpa Ian always lets me! And so does Uncle Harry!”

    “On Brownie; yeah,” agreed Mirry drily. To Rod she said: “Brownie’s other name is Old Iron Mouth.”

    He winked. “Gotcha.”

    Mirry got out of the car and watched as the girl rider on the big black competently roped a fat cream pony.

    Hamish got home well after seven, to find Mirry and Puppy curled up on the bed with no sign of Elspeth. Gone to bed early, very full of party food and rather shaken up after falling off a horse, was the story.

    “So she fell off the fat pony?” he said at that point in Mirry’s narrative, with apparently no concern whatsoever.

    “No,” said Mirry, going very red. “Rod was watching her.”

    “Rod Who?”

    “Some sort of funny name. Russian or Polish or something—you know: he’s a friend of Polly and Jake’s.”

    Suddenly Hamish did remember him. In fact he had a very vivid recollection of an afternoon round the patio pool at the old house not long after he, Sylvie and Elspeth had arrived in New Zealand, and of having to agree politely when Polly, her eyes on the handsome, young, bronzed figure on the springboard, had said: “Rod’s awfully nice. I wish I could get him and Mirry together—don’t you think they’d suit each other?”

    Scowling, he said: “Go on.”

    “Well, guess who the girl was?”

    “What girl?” said Hamish crossly.

    “The girl with Rod—you weren’t listening!”

    “Yes, I was, sweetheart,” he said quickly, suddenly feeling happier. “He had his girlfriend with him, did he?”

    “Yes—and it was your Japanese girl, from the Institute’s library!”

    “Oh—Jo-Beth? How did they meet, I wonder?” he said without much interest.

    “I don’t know; but you should have seen her, Hamish!” She endeavoured to describe the splendour of Jo-Beth’s American riding outfit: a bright red and yellow checked shirt, adorned with a multiplicity of white silk fringes; a white Stetson; and magnificent boots: high-heeled, in tan tooled leather, with tooled and punched white leather inserts down the sides.

    “Good grief,” he said.

    Mirry had felt very cross and envious at the sight of Jo-Beth on the black: she could ride just as well as her—but when he’d seen her in her riding gear down at the farm Hamish hadn’t kept grinning admiringly at her like Rod had done at Jo-Beth. His unimpressed “Good grief” didn’t make her feel all that much better.

    “Anyway,” she said morosely, “Elspeth didn’t fall off then. She kicked Rod in the stomach when he was trying to get her off the pony. She panicked—when she had to get off, I mean. She started to screech that she was going to fall off. That’s why I never dreamed she’d go off and try and get on one of the horses by herself.”

    “Mm.”

    “Only I s’pose I should have been warned, because after Rod had got her off the pony she asked him if she could ride his horse.”

    “I see,” said Hamish shortly.

    Mirry thought he was annoyed with her. She lapsed into silence.

    “Who else was at the birthday party?” he asked, after a moment.

    “Quite a lot of people. Veronica and Peter. I didn’t know all of them.”

    “Well, Elspeth’s all right, then?” said Hamish, as she didn’t seem prepared to volunteer any more information.

    “Yes. That wasn’t all she did!” she burst out.

    Hamish had got up, intending to go to the kitchen and forage for food: he was damned hungry. He sat down again rather suddenly. “Go on,” he said grimly.

    “Well—” said Mirry. She took a deep breath. “You know little Chrissy Green—Daphne Green’s daughter? –The lady who helps Polly in the house,” she explained impatiently, as he was looking blank. He nodded, but she could see he still didn’t know Chrissy from a bar of soap. “She’s a few years younger than Elspeth, I think, but she’s... Well, she’s got a very strong personality.

    He raised an eyebrow. “Bit of a ringleader, eh?”

    “Yes,” she agreed gratefully. “Not that Elspeth isn’t pretty determined herself, of course. If you ask me, I think they egged each other on, actually.”

    “More than likely,” said Hamish, again sounding grim. “What did they do?”

    “They went for a swim in the patio pool—in their undies, it was quite respectable—only neither of them are very good swimmers—”

    Hamish was looking at her in some alarm.

    “They were perfectly all right,” she said quickly, “only Jake caught them.”

    He gave a crack of laughter. “You mean they went in without an adult there?” Mirry nodded. “Of all the stupid—” He broke off, laughing. “She knows that’s one of his strictest rules, the stupid wee— Did he wallop her?”

    “Yes; he walloped both of them,” she admitted.

    He chuckled. “Serve them bluidy well right, the stupid wee lassies!”

    He rarely said “lassies” and when he did it meant he was in a very good mood. Mirry looked at him in great relief. “I know I should have kept a better eye on her—”

    “No, no, ma puir wee darling!” He put his arm round her. “She’s nearly twelve, for God’s sake; if she doesn’t know enough not to get herself drowned by now—!”

    “Mm,” said Mirry, leaning thankfully against him. She caught sight of the television, which was on, but with the sound off. “Ooh, look!” she squealed. He jumped. She turned the sound on. “What are they?” she breathed. “Aren’t they lovely? Look, Hamish!”

    Hamish had seen the programme before. He glanced at it tolerantly. “Meercats,”  he said. “It’s a repeat.”

    “What?” said Mirry, staring intently at the screen. She gave a delighted laugh.

    “They’re a sort of—”

    “Ssh!” she hissed sharply.

    After a while she sighed contentedly. “That’s David Attenborough doing the narrating, isn’t it? I love his funny voice.”

    She always said that about David Attenborough. Hamish scowled. “I know.”

    They watched the rest of the meercats programme in almost total silence; Hamish did attempt to speak once but Mirry shushed him crossly. When it was over she heaved a huge sigh and said: “Wasn’t that marvellous? I wouldn’t have missed it for anything!”

    Hamish thought that that programme was one of the most artful he’d ever seen: it had managed to be both thoroughly anthropomorphic and hugely sentimental without overtly appearing to be either. He himself had not been immune to the charm of the meercats (though he was almost completely immune to Attenborough’s charm), but that hadn’t meant his critical faculties had been suspended. He looked at her tolerantly. “Aye.”

    “Wasn’t the music pretty?” she said. “It really suited them, didn’t it?”

    The music had been one of the major factors in the programme’s anthropomorphism. He waited for some indication that his beloved’s critical faculties had been functioning during the programme, but none came. “Aye,” he said again, rather dry, this time.

    “You know,” she said dreamily, “Rod’s voice is rather like his.”

    Hamish had no need to ask whose voice “his” was. He said nothing.

    “Well, isn’t it?” said Mirry loudly.

    “I suppose so,” he said grudgingly, recalling quite clearly the handsome Jablonski boy’s charming, husky tenor. “If you say so.”

    Mirry switched the television off. “It’s only MacGyver on the other channel.”

    “Are you hungry?” he asked abruptly.

    “No; I ate too much at the party.”

    He eyed her suspiciously. That could mean one bowl of jelly and ice cream and a sliver of cake. “What?”

    “Oh... lots of stuff. Cheerios; and cheese and pineapple things on sticks; and a piece of birthday cake.”

    “Was that all?”

    “Um... I had a sausage roll.”

    “Darling, that isn’t enough.” He got up. “I’ll make us an omelette.”

    Mirry went scarlet. “Haven’t you had any tea?”

    “No; I’ve been at work,” he said patiently.

    “I’ll get you something!” she gasped, trying to scramble up off the bed. Puppy gave a protesting groan in his sleep as she withdrew her foot from under his chin.

    “No, I’ll get it.”

    “I forgot all about it; I was so busy getting Elspeth off to bed—”

    “Ssh. It’s all right.”

    Mirry was still scarlet. “I had plenty of time; I just forgot. I’m being like her, aren’t I?”

    “You couldn’t be like her if you tried for a million years!” he replied, smiling.

    As he went down to the kitchen the smile faded, however. He would send her down to the farm for the holidays—no sense in provoking Sylvie any further—God, if she’d gone as far as writing to the Vice-Chancellor what was to stop her writing to half the Senate? And even if she didn’t go that far, it was more than on the cards that she’d come round here and make another ghastly scene in front of the poor wee lamb. The long vacation would be Hell without her, but— No. His mind was made up.

    “You were perfectly roight,” said Peter to Veronica, when they’d got the babies off to bed. “It was a bloody party.”

    “Goddawful,” she agreed, yawning.

    “Come in here.” He led her into their bedroom and sat her down on the old-rose duvet. “Whoy do you not pop into bed, Veronica? I could bring you something to eat up here.”

    Veronica made a face. “I couldn’t eat a thing after all that muck at the party—well, not yet,” she added cautiously. “I’m Helluva thirsty, though; think it musta been those Goddawful cheerios, I must have eaten about a hundred of them.” She yawned again. “And I had I dunno how many sausage rolls; they were salty, too.”

    “Seven.”

    “Eh?”

    “I h’was not counting, of course; but you ate seven sausage rolls.”

    “Gawd, did I?” she said with a kind of mild horror. “Well, everything else seemed to be sweet muck; except the egg sandwiches, and Dave Mitchell beat me to most of those.”

    “I will bring you a noice big drink; what would you fancy?”

    “Anything that isn’t sweet—ta.”

    Peter smiled, and trotted off. Veronica yawned. She undressed slowly, and got into bed.

    “You do not have any clothes on?” he said with pleased interest, coming back after a considerable interval with a tray laden with Perrier, tumblers, lemon slices, ice, a steaming coffee-pot, coffee cups and sugar bowl.

    “No; couldn’t be bothered with a nightie. Is that coffee?”

    “Comme tu vois—yes,” said Peter, undressing rapidly.

    “No milk?”

    “No; I don’t think you need it, after all that ice cream at the party!” He chuckled, and got into bed.

    “Ugh, don’t,” said Veronica. “Don’t do that, either,” she added quickly. “I just couldn’t—I feel bloated!”

    Peter sighed, and poured the coffee. He switched the radio on.

     “That’s nice,” she said. “I know that, don’t I?”

    “Yes: The Magic Flute; we go to it earlier this year, remember?”

    “Aw, yeah; Charlie was there, too.”

    “Da.”

    They drank coffee and listened happily to the radio for some time.

    “Whaddaya reckon was the worst thing, Peter?”

    “Eugh—about that amateur performance we saw?”

    “No, ya dill! About this arvo!”

    “Ah. Oh, undoubtedly the scene with poor Polly and the guns: do you not think?”

    “Yeah. Pity we were early, eh?” she said gloomily.

    “I’ll say,” he replied in the vernacular.

    In fact they’d been the first guests to arrive. Jake had led them out through the big living-room (not yet fallen under the carpenters’ hammers) to the formal terrace, overlooking the sea. It seemed a strange setting for a children’s party, but he explained that they were only out there until the surprize was ready, round the back.

    “What surprize?” asked Veronica.

    “It’s a surprize,” replied Jake, perfectly seriously.

    Peter chuckled.

    Johnny was sitting on his grandmother’s knee. He had a nasty scraped-looking bump on his forehead and was looking a bit wan.

    “What’s up with him?” asked Veronica.

    “He fell off his new trike,” said Polly. She glared at the offending vehicle. It was a proper metal trike with spoked wheels.

    “A bit big, isn’t it?” said Veronica. “Sharon’s got one of those dumpy plastic things—you know, look like big yellow turds.”

    “Yes,” agreed Polly gloomily. “The twins have, too; but Jake insisted on getting them proper trikes for their birthday. I told him they’re too little for them.”

    Jake grinned uneasily. “They’ll grow into them, Pol.”

    “Yes, in about three years!” she retorted.

    Davey was playing with a skateboard. He obviously didn’t have the faintest idea what to do with it.

    “Is that his?” asked Veronica.

    “Yes,” said Polly shortly.

    Veronica wasn’t particularly sensitive to atmosphere, but she lapsed into silence.

    Their host and hostess didn’t volunteer any further remarks. Jake fidgeted by the drinks trolley. Peter, never at a loss for conversation, chatted gently with Maureen Mitchell about babies. Dave Mitchell picked up a book and began to read. Veronica could see it was a book about fishing. She wouldn’t have minded having a read of it herself. Polly was knitting. After a while she said crossly to Maureen: “I can’t make head or tail of this silly pattern, Mum! –I don’t know why they say knitting’s therapeutic,” she added to the world at large. Maureen exchanged Johnny for the knitting. She unravelled several rows of it. Polly leaned her cheek on her son’s soft fawn hair and began to look less ruffled. Peter expressed interest in the knitting pattern—the awful thing was, thought Veronica, he probably really was interested—and Maureen told him all about it…

    “Pussy!” said Johnny suddenly.

    “What?” said Polly, coming to. “Oh, so it is; he’s come out onto the lawn! Look, Jake,” she said, “here’s old Grey!”

    Jake looked at the big grey cat that was slowly crossing the lawn. He grunted.

    “Pussy!” said Johnny, struggling to get off his mother’s knee. “Stroke Pussy!”

    “There!” said Polly, glowing. “Did you hear that, Jake? He said stroke!”

    “Yeah; said it this morning, too,” said Jake, looking slightly more cheerful.

    “Mum-mee-ee!” cried Johnny.

    “Yes, darling; we’ll stroke Pussy; but very, very gently. No—” She grabbed him. “Walk slowly, Johnny, don’t frighten Pussy.” They walked slowly over to the big grey cat and stroked him.

    Jake said sourly to no-one in particular: “Sometimes I reckon she’s more interested in that cat than she is in her own kids.”

    “Jake!” protested Maureen.

    Dave said tolerantly: “Had the cat a long time, hasn’t she? Only had the kids for—”

    “David Mitchell!” gasped Maureen, scandalized.

    Veronica looked at Dave with approval: that struck her as a very sensible remark. Not to say, bloody shrewd. Maybe Polly’s brains were from his side, then.

    Dave appeared unmoved. He returned to his book. “Ever used mink?” he said to Jake.

    “No. I reckon that joker’s nuts.”

     Dave grunted.

    “Dad uses squirrel sometimes,” said Veronica. She sipped her orange juice unenthusiastically.

    “Do any good with it?” asked Dave.

    “Not much,” she admitted.

    Peter was looking at them in bewilderment. “Please, what are you talkink about?”

    “Flies,” said Veronica succinctly.

    Sharon had been sitting on Peter’s knee, taking stock of her surroundings. She struggled to get down. Peter set her gently on her feet. “Floies?” he said numbly.

    “For fishing,” explained Maureen kindly. “You know: trout flies. They make them out of little bits of fur, and feathers, and things; David’s got quite a collection of bits and pieces; they’re really quite pretty, some of them.”

    “Oh,” said Peter weakly.

    Sharon tottered over to Davey and stared hard at him and his skateboard.

    Peter began to tell Maureen about James’s last attack of colic. Maureen listened with every appearance of deep interest. Veronica fidgeted.

    Polly came back with Johnny and sat down. “Pussy ’leep,” he said.

    “Yes, I think so,” she agreed, looking over to where the big grey cat had curled himself into a ball on the lawn. “Isn’t it nice to see him out in the sun, Johnny?”

    “Pussy,” agreed Johnny pleasedly.

    Jake scowled. Was she turning the kid into a cat-fixated pansy?

    Sharon grabbed Davey’s skateboard.

    “MINE!” he cried, grabbing it back.

    Sharon held on. “Me, me!” she panted.

    “MINE!” screamed Davey, tugging.

    “ME, ME!” screamed Sharon, tugging too.

    Jake and Veronica sprang to their feet.

    “ME!” roared Sharon, turning purple. She hauled with all her might. Davey lost his grip. Sharon sat down heavily in her two-year-old’s Treasures nappy. She roared with pain and shock. Davey screamed with rage and frustration. On Polly’s knee Johnny burst into tears of sympathy.

    Veronica grabbed Sharon up. She wrenched the skateboard out of her grasp. “No!” she said. Sharon screamed with rage and frustration. “It’s not yours,” said Veronica loudly. “Give it back, give it to the boy, Sharon, it’s his.” She held out the skateboard to him.

    At the same time Jake was earnestly admonishing Davey to let the little girl play with his skateboard; she wouldn’t keep it, just let her play with it. He took the skateboard from Veronica and put it back in Sharon’s hand. Sharon gave one last sob. “Me!” she said. She struggled to get down.

    Veronica said uncertainly: “It is his, Jake; I don’t think—”

    “No, let her have it; I’ve got something that’ll take their minds off it!” He hurried indoors to the accompaniment of wails from both his sons.

    Veronica put Sharon down. Hugging the skateboard fiercely, she tottered off in the opposite direction from Davey.

    Veronica sat down. “I’m awfully sorry, Polly.”

    “That’s okay,” said Polly. “Do him good—he’s terribly possessive. –Like his father,” she added darkly.

    Veronica had just been thinking that; she jumped, and reddened.

    “Johnny’s more like Dad,” said Polly thoughtfully. “Quietly stubborn.”

    “Thanks,” said Dave, not looking up from his book.

    “Like you, too, dear,” said Maureen.

    “I’m not like Dad!” said Polly indignantly.

    “Yes, you are, dear,” said Maureen placidly. “Very like.” She began to tell Peter the story of Polly and her little red gumboots. Polly reddened. Veronica was torn between a desire to roar with laughter and a desire to gather up her disgracefully-behaved adopted daughter and depart with her. She fidgeted.

    Jake came back with two large boxes. “Here we are!” he said cheerfully. “This’ll give ’em something else to think about!”

    “Not more presents?” said Polly faintly.

    “Why not?” he replied defiantly, not looking at her. He knelt on the terrace. “Come on, Davey; come on, Johnny; lessee what we’ve got here, eh?”

     After some coaxing the twins condescended to open their new presents.

    “Hey!” said Dave, with pleased interest. He got up.

    “What—the Hell—are those?” said Polly in a dreadful voice.

    “They look like fun!” said Dave enthusiastically. He knelt, and picked one up. “Look, Johnny,” he said. “Bang, bang, eh? Bang, bang!” He pretended to shoot a non-existent bird with Johnny’s yellow plastic gun.

    “Da-ad!” said Polly.

    “Fire ping-pong balls, do they?” he said to Jake.

    Jake was loading Davey’s red plastic gun. “Yeah,” he said. “Look, Davey: bang, bang!” He pretended to fire the gun. Davey wasn’t interested. “Look, Davey: bang, bang!” Jake fired the ping-pong ball at the stone wall of the terrace. Davey chuckled. “That’s right!” said Jake, encouraged. He began to reload.

    “Jake Carrano! Why are you giving those babies guns?” cried Polly furiously, bouncing up.

    “Aw, come on, love! They’re fun.”

    “Yeah,” agreed Dave. “No harm in it, Polly.” He fired Johnny’s gun.

    “Bang, bang!” said Johnny.

    Dave beamed. “That’s right; good boy!”

    “No, it isn’t good boy!” cried Polly. “It’s horrible! Giving guns to babies who can scarcely even talk!”

    “Won’t do them any harm,” said Jake, gaining courage from his father-in-law’s brazen attitude. “Anyway, boys need to know how to handle a gun.”

    Polly choked. “Boys need—! Yes, and boys need to know how to rape and murder and start stupid wars! Of course it’ll do them harm, Jake! What are you thinking about? How can they grow up to be responsible citizens if you teach them that might is right and that violence is acceptable when they’re only two?”

    Veronica opened her mouth to back Polly up. She caught Peter’s eye and closed it again.

    “Now look, Pol,” said Jake. “You’re exaggerating.”

    “Yes, dear,” said Maureen anxiously, “don’t you think... I mean, all your brothers have handled guns all their lives; it hasn’t done them any harm.”

    Polly scowled.

    “They’re sensible men, dear,” urged Maureen. “They wouldn’t dream of doing any of—of those things.”

    “Yeah; calm down, Polly,” agreed Dave. “Never seen me or the boys behaving silly with a gun, have ya?”

    “No; but—” said Polly. She sat down slowly. “That’s different. They grew up on a farm.”

    “Rats,” said Dave mildly. “Anyway, these are only toys.” He sighted at a rosemary bush.

    “You don’t understand, Dad!”

    “Yes, I do,” said Dave.

    Davey was playing with his gun, encouraged silently by Jake. He pointed it at his brother and gurgled happily. Veronica blenched. Fortunately Polly missed this fratricidal sight, she was glaring at her father.

    “There’s a difference between knowing how to handle a gun and rushing round murdering people,” said Dave calmly. “People who know how to handle guns don’t.”

    “That’s right; they treat ’em with respect,” agreed Jake.

    Polly was so agitated that she was incapable of rebutting these arguments. “All right, have it your own way; I still think it’s wrong,” she said sulkily.

    Jake and Dave ignored this. Getting down on his hands and knees, Dave started showing Johnny how to stalk. They stalked the rosemary bush and shot it several times. Johnny loved it; possibly he was destined to be a gun-toting cat-fixated pansy.

    Glumly Veronica told herself that she’d known it was going to be a bloody awful do: Polly was all steamed up about the bloody sitting-room; she hadn’t settled down after baby Katie Maureen; and what with her and Jake practically at each other’s throats and the Mitchells insisting on putting their oar in... Could she pretend to get a migraine? No, bum, she’d never manage to bring it off.

    Peter had seen enough of guns, murder and violence as a young man in Israel to last him several lifetimes. He had a lot of sympathy for Polly’s position but was glad he’d managed to stop Veronica from verbally supporting her. He knew that Veronica was aware that he shared her feelings on this subject, so he wasn’t worried about possible repercussions. He felt very annoyed with Jake for his total lack of tact: couldn’t the man have had the sense not to provoke his wife when she was obviously in a very emotional state? At the same time, however, he could see that he’d done it deliberately, and wondered at the strange perversity of the human spirit. He was familiar with Dave Mitchell’s type, so he didn’t blame him at all for his support of Jake. Wryly he told himself that he should have taken more notice of Veronica when she’d said it was going to be a bloody awful do.

    Unfortunately neither Jake nor Dave had the sense to leave it at that. They went on playing with the twins and the guns—Jake in a spirit of defiance, and Dave because he honestly felt that Polly had been making a fuss about nothing.

    Polly meanwhile revived sufficiently to give her mother a telling speech about the inadvisability of encouraging violence in the young, male chauvinism and several associated topics, to which Maureen responded with a story about David’s and Vic’s disapproval of the way those men from the city went hunting deer these days from helicopters…

    Meanwhile Davey had shot at a bush and missed, and shot the terrace wall, bobbing up and down several times from its shelter, to his father’s loudly expressed approval. He bobbed up again.

    “Pussy!” he said.

    “Yeah; ssh,” breathed Jake.

    Polly drank orange juice angrily and said to Veronica: “I think Jake’s attitude is completely irresponsible. It’s going to be good cop, bad cop for the next eighteen years or so, the way he’s going, and if he thinks I’m going to play Parent to his infantile Child, he can think again!”

    “Come on, Johnny, I reckon that’s a lion over there,” said Dave.

    “Lion! Bang, bang!” cried Johnny.

    “Dad! What’s the use of me teaching the boys about conservation if you tell them it’s okay to kill wildlife?” cried Polly.

    “Only a game,” grunted Dave.

    “Lion! Bang, bang!” cried Johnny again.

    They crawled off after another rosemary bush.

    Polly’s eyes followed them angrily as she said to Veronica: “What really gets me is the duplicity of it: Jake knows I don’t approve of children having guns, but he deliberately went behind my back; and what’s more he’s sheltering behind Mum and Dad, he thinks I won’t make a scene in front of—”

    Davey had pretended to fire at the cat. “Pu—”

    “Ssh!” hissed Jake. “Watch this!” He knelt up and took careful aim.

    “Pussy!” said Davey loudly.

    Polly swung round in time to see Jake fire the ping-pong ball and hit the old grey cat square in the middle of its fat, furry back. It sprang to its feet and, belly lowered and tail fluffed up, streaked for cover across the velvety lawn.

    “RIGHT!” she cried at the top of her voice. “That DOES it! Give me that!” She snatched the red plastic gun out of Jake’s hand. “And that!” She marched over and snatched the yellow one off Johnny. “Bad!” she said loudly to him. He burst into tears. “I’ll show you what to do with guns!” she cried to the world at large. “Guns are bad—naughty!” She dashed down the terrace steps and hurried over to the fence along the cliff top.

    “Polly—wait!” cried Jake.

    Polly whirled at the fence, holding the guns high. “Guns are bad, Twinnies!” she cried. “Naughty, do you understand? NAUGHTY!” She hurled the guns over the cliff.

    “Oh, shit,” said Jake glumly.

    Polly marched back towards them, her mouth a firm, straight line.

    “Sweetheart—” said Jake, reaching for her.

    Polly side-stepped. She pointed a quivering finger at him. “Don’t you say one word, Jake Carrano!” she choked. “Not one word!” A tear oozed out of one big grey-green eye. She dashed it away furiously and marched inside.

    Peter and Veronica sat up in bed in silence and reflected on this episode.

    Finally Veronica sighed. “Yeah, that was pretty bad, all right.”

    “Mm,” he agreed.

    “Mind you, the scene with the ponies was fairly ghastly, too.”

    “What scene? Oh, when the little boy—I think he is the housekeeper’s little boy, no?—when he falls off?”

    “No; that was pretty bad, though: I thought his poor mother was going to pass out.”

    “Da; also Polly.”

    “Poor old Rod Whatsaname was as white as a sheet, too.”

    “Naturellement; he was in charge; but luckily the little boy is not hurt.”

    “No; he must have a bloody hard head.”

    “Mm; so which scene with the ponies was fairly ghastly, moy angel?’

    She made a face. “When poor old Jake trotted them out, proud as punch, and the twins both burst out bawling when he tried to put ’em on ‘em.”

    “Yes, that was bad. Poor Jake, he was so...” He sought for a word. “Crestfallen.”

    “Yes; and then when all the other kids went on ’em without a murmur—even that cute little Whatsaname of Fred’s, he can’t be two yet—made it worse, didn’t it? I felt really sorry for him.” she confessed.

    Peter kissed her cheek gently. “You have a tender heart, moy precious.”

    Veronica flushed indignantly. “I do not!”

    Peter laughed.

    After a moment she added: “’Course, it was pretty bad when Jake caught Hamish’s kid and that other skinny little girl—wasn’t she the housekeeper’s daughter?”

    “Da; Chrissy,” he agreed.

    “Yeah; well, when Jake caught them in the patio pool.”

    “Da, he was extremely angry; more than the occasion warranted, do you not think? But of course by that toime almost everythink else had gone wrong, too.”

    Veronica yawned. “Yeah... I don’t think either of ’em can swim; I think it scared the Hell out of him.” She yawned again. “Let’s have a nap, eh?”

    “A nap?” he echoed in disappointment.

    “Yeah; might feel a bit livelier after a nap, eh?”

    They had a nap.

    Things didn’t improve much at the big house in Pohutukawa Bay: Jake was still suffering guilt pangs and Polly was still angry with him. Further down the hill Daphne and Tim Green had a row over whether Tim should have let their little boy go on the pony. Even Fred and Missy Nakamura had an acrimonious discussion as to whether it had really been very sensible to let their even smaller Harry go on a pony—what if he’d fallen off, Fred, honey?

    The atmosphere in the modern white house in Kowhai Bay Road didn’t improve much, either. It certainly wasn’t helped by the fact that Elspeth had conceived an enormous crush on the blond Rod Jablonski, and bent her father’s ear unceasingly on the topics of Rod, horses, or both. Hamish was racked with guilt over not telling Mirry about Sylvie’s attempt to stir up trouble with the university or about his decision to send her down to the farm for the Christmas holidays, but nevertheless, having taken a decision on the night of the twins’ party not to mention these topics until she had her exam results, stuck to it. Mirry began to wonder whether he was making up his mind to give her the push: long bouts of gloom seemed to alternate in him with bouts of demanding and very urgent passion, which he might have enjoyed, she thought dubiously, but which she certainly didn’t. Perhaps he’d be better, she thought without much conviction, when he’d finished his marking; she’d never realized before, not having had to actually live with it, just what a taxing time exam marking was for the university staff. At least if you had to sit the beastly things you got them over and done with in one fell swoop, but marking seemed to go on and on forever! Her archaeological friends asked her to go on a dig up North with them, and she was very tempted to accept, if only to get out from under Hamish’s feet. However, someone had to act as a buffer between him and Elspeth, so she stayed.

    Take it for all in all, then, the Carrano twins’ birthday party had done nothing to improve anyone’s domestic relations and in several instances had demonstrably worsened them.

Next chapter:

https://themembersoftheinstitute.blogspot.com/2023/01/shreds-and-patches.html