30
Reactions And Ructions
Melanie and Damian were both cross when they were woken up in the car and informed they were home. Melanie began to declare she hadn’t been to sleep at all; Damian began to agitate because he’d left his school uniform at his grandparents’ place; Carol tried to tell him he could get up early tomorrow and get the bus over to Grandma and Grandpa’s; Helen tried to tell him that his uncle would drive him over there after breakfast; Melanie, finding nobody cared that she hadn’t really been asleep, began to suggest that it would be a good idea if she didn’t go to school at all tomorrow—
“Shut UP, the lot of ya!” said Nat loudly.
They all stopped talking and stared at him.
“Right; now listen; this is how it goes, see: you can all have the morning off school: right?”
“But—” said Helen.
“No buts; last week of term next week, isn’t it?”
“I’ll have to have a note,” said Melanie dubiously.
“So will I,” said Carol in a squeaky voice.
“Me, too,” added Damian anxiously. “Ole Ratty never believes ya if—”
“Ya can all have notes; now shut up and get out of the bloody CAR!”
Not knowing whether they were in his good books or not, the three children got out of the car and went through the door that connected the big garage to the house.
Nat had already undone his seatbelt. He was surprized to see that Helen hadn’t undone hers.
“You’ll have to write them,” she said, as he glanced her way.
“Eh? All right, if ya like.”
Helen undid her seatbelt slowly. “What’ll you say?”
Nat goggled at her. “Whaddaya mean, what’ll I say? ‘Dear Ratty, I kept Damian home this morning because he was up till all hours last night,’ that’s what I’ll say.”
Helen said faintly: “You’re not supposed... I mean, you can’t let them have a morning off school just for that.”
Nat began to feel better. He chuckled. “You worry too much about the letter of the law, old girl; ’s like I’m always telling ya: you wanna—”
Before he could say “relax a bit”, Helen said bitterly: “Yes, and you don’t worry about it enough! Expediency has always been your watchword, Nat Weintraub!”
“Expediency, eh?” said Nat, highly gratified. He shook with chuckles.
“It’s not funny: what sort of an example are you setting those ch—”
Melanie stuck her head round the garage door and said loudly: “Mum, can I make a cup of tea?”
“No!” said Helen crossly. “Don’t be silly! You’ll be up and down all night if you drink tea at this hour! Go to bed.”
Melanie turned pink. Her head retreated.
“Expediency; eh?” said Nat again, grinning. He put a hand on her thigh. “What about an expedient ki—”
Helen smacked his hand.
Damian’s head appeared round the door. “Um, Aunty Helen—”
“What?” said Helen, gathering herself up in preparation for getting out of the car.
“Um... I haven’t got any pyjamas,” he said, turning tomato-red.
“Oh, dear,” said Helen, getting out of the car. “Never mind, Damian, dear, you can—”
“Sleep in the buff!” finished Nat cheerfully, hauling himself out of the car. He slammed his door.
“Nat! Really!” said Helen. Her slab-like cheeks were almost the same shade as Damian’s.
“Why the Hell not?” he asked mildly. “Sleep in the buff meself, half the ti—”
“That’ll do!” said Helen in a sort of strangled roar. “You can borrow a pair of your uncle’s, dear,” she said kindly.
“Thanks,” croaked Damian.
“Come along; I’ll get them for you,” said Helen.
“Why bother? It’ll only make more washing; let the kid sleep in the raw,” said Nat breezily. He came quickly up behind her and put a hand at either side of her ample waist. Helen shook herself crossly. Nat’s hands tightened slightly.
“You can borrow your uncle’s dressing-gown as well,” she announced grimly.
“Doesn’t need a dressing-gown in this weather,” said Nat.
Helen tore herself out of his grasp. “That’s enough, Nat! Leave the poor boy alone!” She went over to Damian and took his hand firmly in hers. “Don’t take any notice of your uncle,” she said. “He’s only teasing. Come on.” She towed Damian away in her broad wake.
Chuckling, Nat followed slowly. In the living-room he got himself a brandy. Melanie and Carol were sitting on a sofa, giggling. “Bedtime, you two,” he said mildly.
“Aw, Dad—”
“Yes, come on, Melanie,” said Carol, getting up. “You’ll feel ghastly tomorrow if you stay up too late.”
Melanie glared at her in stunned annoyance.
“Yeah, thass right,” Nat agreed weakly. “Come on: aren’tcha gonna kiss your old Dad goodnight?”
Melanie came over to him, looking sulky. Nat held her shoulders gently. “Didja have a good time tonight, sweetie?”
Suddenly her round pink face broke into a smile. “Yeah, it was mighty; thanks, Dad!” She hugged him fiercely and gave him a smacking kiss on the cheek.
Nat kissed her cheek and patted her plump bum. “Off ya go, Kitten! Night-night!”
All pink and pleased, Melanie replied: “Night-night!” and trotted off.
“You, too,” said Nat. “Or don’t uncles rate a goodnight kiss?”
Carol came over to him. “It was a lovely dinner; thank you, Uncle Nat,” she said shyly.
Nat allowed her to peck his cheek and kissed hers gently. “Yeah,” he said, swallowing a sigh. “Nobbad, eh? Listen—”
“What?”
“Uh—nothing, really. Well, just that me and Helen are always here for ya, Carol.”
“I know,” she said huskily, turning very red. “Thank you.”
“Yeah. Well,” he said with forced cheer: “look forward to helping ole Robbo this Christmas, eh?”
“Yes: it’ll be great!” she smiled. “Night-night!”
“Night-night, love,” he said huskily, as Helen came in, saying crossly: “I don’t know what you do to your pyjamas, Nat Weintraub: three pairs with holes in the seat; I didn’t know where to look!”
Carol swallowed a smile. “Good-night, Aunty Helen.”
Helen awarded her a smacking kiss on the cheek. “Nice to see you making a decent meal for once. Good-night, dear.”
As the door closed after her niece, she sighed.
“Want a brandy, Helen?” said Nat hopefully.
She sighed again, and sat heavily on the sofa. “Just a wee one,” she said grudgingly.
He gave her a good-sized brandy and sat down beside her with his own refilled glass in his fist.
Helen sipped, and sighed again. Nat slipped his arm along the back of the sofa. She was still wearing her satin and swansdown coat. It had heavy square shoulders, and you couldn’t feel any of Helen under them. He transferred his hand to her upper-arm. “What’s up?”
“I don’t know... I was thinking of Carol when she was a baby...”
He jumped, released her arm and took a swig of brandy.
“She was a pretty little thing…” said Helen wistfully.
“Still is.”
“Yes; I didn’t mean...” She stared into space. “Becky didn’t know what to do with her, remember? She was hopeless... I had to show her everything!”
“Mm,” Nat muttered, swigging brandy.
“Do you remember what pretty little curls she had? Tiny ringlets.” Helen sighed again. “She was much prettier than our Lindy or Pauline.”
“Yeah: yellow-looking pair, weren’t they?”
Instead of hotly refuting this aspersion, Helen agreed mournfully: “Yes.’
“Mel was real pretty, though,” he urged. “Fat little thing, of course, but Helluva cute.”
“They grow up so quickly…” she said sadly.
Nat put his hand back on her arm and gave it a comforting squeeze.
Helen raised her glass and took a huge swig. Nat looked at her in surprize. A tear rolled down her large cheek.
“Here!” he said in horror. “What the Hell’s up?”
She sniffled. “Nothing. Just being stupid.” She sniffled again. “It was Damian.”
“What the Hell did he do, the little sod?” demanded Nat, flushing darkly.
“Nothing!” said Helen quickly. She put her glass down on the coffee table and rubbed her hand across her eyes, smearing her mascara. “He’s a dear boy.”
“Yeah, he’s okay,” he agreed, eyeing her uneasily.
She picked up her glass again, and sipped. Her hand shook. Another tear forced its way out. “Sometimes I wish we’d had a boy.”
Oh, fuck! thought Nat. It was years since she’d— He squeezed her arm encouragingly. “Pecker up, old Hell’s Bells!”
A tear slid out of her other eye. “Don’t keep calling me old!”
“Eh? Look, I never meant— Look, I’m sorry, darling.” He put down his glass and took hers and put it down, too. Then he hugged her into his side. “Are you feeling rotten?” he said in her ear. “Time of the month again, is it?” –What with Brenda suddenly taking off last month, and then Phoebe—he’d lost track.
“No!” said Helen sharply. “Why do men always think—” She choked on a sob.
He got both arms round her. “Because our dirty little minds are fascinated by yer female workings, that’s why, ya chump.” He waited nervously. That would either provoke an explosion, or—
Helen gave a very weak giggle.
Quickly Nat put his hand on her satin belly. It leapt under his touch. He stroked it gently. “Poor old love,” he said into her ear. “I’da given you a son if I possibly could, ya know.”
Helen sighed. “I know; I’m just being silly. –I was so sure Pauline was going to be a boy… Anyway,” she said fairly, “it’s not your fault. Just one of those things.”
“Mm.”
Shakily she said: “Don’t tell Mum, will you, Nat, but I wish she’d let Damian come to us, after— Oh, well.”
She leaned heavily against him. After a while Nat tried to slide his hand up under her skirt.
“Don’t,” she said weakly. “You’ll crease my outfit.”
“Well, take the bloody thing off, then.” He stood up, grinning. “Come on, give me that coat!”
Helen turned puce. “You don’t mean...”
“Yeah.” He slid his zip down.
“Not down here!” she hissed.
“Why not?” He got himself out.
“The children—” she said faintly.
“They’re all upstairs, fast asleep; but I’ll lock the door, if you’re so particular.”
Helen stood up abruptly. “No; I couldn’t,” she said in a strangled voice.
“Come on—!” he began, laughing.
“No; don’t, Nat. It wouldn’t feel right.” She looked at him desperately.
Feebly he offered: “Sometimes a joker feels like a bit of—uh—variation, y’know.”
“I know,” said Helen, rather as if the words were being choked out of her, “but I just can’t, Nat. Not down here—not with the children up there!”
He sighed. “All right, if ya can’t, ya can’t.” He turned for the door, feeling considerably aggrieved, not least because this was Wednesday, and he’d given up his evening with Phoebe—Wednesdays with her having taken over as a matter of course from Wednesdays with Brenda—in order to take the family on their outing. “Come on,” he said. “We’ll just go to bed, eh?”
“Yes,” said Helen in a squashed voice.
In the bedroom she looked at him apologetically. “I’m sorry, dear,” she said faintly.
It wasn’t a particularly good sign when she called him “dear”. He turned away, and began to undress.
Helen removed her satin coat and hung it up. She looked at him doubtfully. His back was still turned. She began to undress slowly and carefully, hanging up her good clothes.
“Where the Hell are my pyjamas?” he demanded crossly.
“In the wash.”
Nat glared round him. “And what the Hell have ya done with me bloody dressing-gown?”
“I let Damian borrow it; and stop swearing!” She turned her back on him and removed her tights. She could hear him rummaging in the chest of drawers.
“Well, where are the rest of my pyjamas?”
Not looking at him, Helen went to her dressing-table. She sat down and applied make-up remover cream. “If you mean those dreadful rags, they’re in the rubbish.”
“All of them?”
“Yes. Well, Damian’s wearing the only respectable pair.” She wiped the cream off firmly.
“All right, then, I’ll bloody well have to sleep raw!” he said loudly.
Helen didn’t reply. She looked critically at herself and picked up her eye-cream. In the mirror she could see him getting into bed.
“Aren’t you even going to clean your teeth?” she said.
“All right!” He flung the covers back.
“It wouldn’t hurt you to have a shower, too,” she noted.
Nat stomped into the ensuite.
When she heard the shower she deliberately went in and turned the cold water on to clean her teeth.
Nat gave a howl of anguish.
“Sorry,” said Helen quickly, turning the water off.
He stuck his head out of the shower cabinet, scowling. “What in Hell do ya think you’re doing? Ya just about scalded me!”
“I forgot,” said Helen.
He scowled, and got back under the shower.
Helen went back into the bedroom and got into her nightie and dressing-gown. By this time he’d been in there for ages. She went into the ensuite and turned the cold water on again.
Nat shot out of the shower with a howl of rage. ‘You bitch! You did that on purpose!”
She picked up her toothbrush. “You’ve had plenty of time for a wash; and turn that shower off, you’re wasting—”
Nat struck her a furious, open-handed blow on her broad bum.
“Ow!” She swung round angrily. “You brute!”
“You deserved it, ya mean cow! And what’s more, you can bloody well apologise!”
For an awful moment there was silence, and Nat was sure he’d gone too far,
“All right, I’m sorry!” said Helen loudly. “And now you can just leave me alone, you big buh-bully!” Her voice cracked; she turned her back on him and grabbed the basin with both hands.
Nat stared at her numbly.
“Turn that water off!” she said hoarsely.
He jumped. “Aw—yeah.” He turned the shower off. He looked sheepishly at her bowed back. “Darling—”
“Don’t ‘darling’ me, you brute!” said Helen loudly. She burst into snorting sobs.
“Helen, don’t.” He took a cautious step towards her.
“Go—away!” sobbed Helen.
He came right up behind her and held her arms gently just above the elbows. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry; but ya made me lose my temper. Why the Hell didja do a mean thing like that?”
“I don’t—know!” sobbed Helen.
“’S not like you.” he said. He pressed his body very cautiously to hers.
“I—know!” sobbed Helen’
Nat laid his head gently on her shoulder. “What the Hell’s up?” he murmured.
Helen continued to sob. Nat slipped his hands round her and cupped her breasts.
“Duh-don’t!” she hiccupped. She made no move to push his hands away, however.
Nat kissed her neck gently. She didn’t react. He went on kissing it. He pushed her bra and petticoat straps down. Then he quickly reached for the hem of her dressing-gown.
“What are you doing?” she said faintly.
“This,” said Nat, probing.
“Argh!” she gasped. “Oh, darling; oh, darling!” Shaking, legs trembling, she put her hand on top of his. “Oh, darling; oh, Nat!”
“Was it that bad, poor old Hell’s Bells?” said Nat into her ear. “Why the Hell didn’tcha say?”
Helen’s head tipped back. Her eyes were tightly closed. She grunted ecstatically.
Nat kissed her neck and stopped manipulating her. Her eyes opened in surprize.
“Why didn’t you say?” he repeated, pulling her round to face him.
“I can’t; you know that, Nat. I never can,” she said hoarsely.
“No,” he agreed glumly.
“I’m sorry,” she said miserably.
“No, ’s my fault!.” He pulled her against him. “Been neglecting you a bit, what with one thing and another...”
Fortunately Helen was too far gone to ask what the one thing, or, indeed, the other, had been. She sighed into his neck. Nat’s grip tightened.
“That’s better; kiss me, for God’s sake.” He held her tightly Helen kissed him. Nat’s legs trembled. He kissed her fiercely. “Come on: let’s go to bed.”
“No—wait!” said Helen urgently. Nat looked at her in surprize. “You’re all wet,” she said weakly.
He grabbed a towel and rubbed himself perfunctorily with it. “Okay now?”
“Yes—no!” said Helen, turning scarlet.
Nat hadn’t thought it was. He waited.
“Do that—thing—again?” said Helen hoarsely. She looked at him pleadingly.
Nat thought he knew her pretty well—they were nearer their thirtieth wedding anniversary than their twenty-fifth, for Chrissakes. Nevertheless he was surprized when not only did she have one thumping great orgasm then and there in the bathroom—couldn’t help herself, poor old girl—but also got all excited again a bit later, and had another. The best way, the second one, with him pumping in her like mad and her legs right up, and him biting her neck a bit.
“Okay?” he said on a smug note, some time later.
“Yes,” replied Helen baldly.
Nat chuckled.
Just when he was almost asleep her voice said with a dangerous wobble in it: “Nat?”
He wished to goodness she’d get over the weepy stage. She’d never used to be like this—mind you, it wasn’t all bad, she was pretty much putty in his hands once she started to bawl, poor old Nell. “What?” he said as patiently as he could.
“You do love us, don’t you?” she said in a high voice.
Nat pressed against her. “’Course I do, you idiot. You and Mel, and the other girls. ’Course I do.”
“Nat?”
“What?” said Nat, yawning horribly.
“Would you like googgy-cuddles?” said Helen in a small voice.
It was a warm night; too warm, really... “Yeah—go on, then.” Wallowing in the big bed, Nat turned his back on her. Helen snuggled up. She pressed against him. She reached over and took him in her hand. Nat gave a grunt of pleasure.
“Nat?” she said cautiously.
Nat rolled his eyes to High Heaven. “Mm?” he said, not very encouragingly.
“It was good tonight.”
“Ya don’t have to say; I could tell ya liked it.”
“The other was good, too.”
“Yeah. ‘S always good when ya have a come for me—thoughtcha knew that? Ooh!” he gasped as her hand squeezed him convulsively.
“Sorry. Um, well, it feels a bit selfish if I— You know.”
“Balls,” said Nat comfortably. “It’s a turn-on, if ya wanna know.” He grinned a trifle wryly to himself. Poor old Hell’s Bells; wouldn’t you think she’da guessed by this time she turned him on like crazy; how the Hell did she think a bloke got it up, anyway? Never did have all that much self-confidence under that bossy-boots act she puts on; must pay her a bit more attention, he thought, drifting off to sleep comfortably: few flowers, or something...
Unfortunately in the morning the horrible scene of the juxtaposition of Carol and Macdonald in the restaurant came back to him in full force. He sat up in bed, grimacing. Next to him, Helen was still asleep, snoring slightly. Grimly Nat took a vow never on any account to go near that bloody place again. In fact, to avoid the whole of ruddy Puriri like the plague. And if Veronica and Peter invited them and the kids to anything at their place he’d make bloody sure just who was gonna be there, because frankly, his nerves couldn’t take another session of Macdonald and Carol in the same room.
“Eat that muesli,” said Hamish irritably. “You’ll be late for school.”
Elspeth pouted. Making herself late for school had rather been the object of the exercise: they weren’t going to work, they were going on a drive up to Carter’s Bay, it wasn’t fair.
“Not that I give a damn if you are,” he added in a nasty voice, getting up and going over to the stove to get a second cup of coffee. “You’re old enough now to realize what the consequences of your own actions are going to be.”
Elspeth glared. “It’s not fair,” she muttered.
“No,” Hamish agreed nastily.
Elspeth pouted again. She poked at her muesli. “I hate muesli,” she muttered.
He hated it, too; nevertheless he replied: “Rubbish! It’s good for you; eat it up.”
“Why is it good for me?” whined Elspeth.
Hamish went rather red. He strode over to the kitchen door and looked out into the porch. “It’s full of—uh—roughage, or someth— EAT IT!”
Sulkily Elspeth ate another mouthful of muesli.
“Have you fed Puppy?”
“Yes, of course I have!” she replied angrily.
Hamish wandered onto the back porch and stared out into the back garden; or, more accurately, at the clothesline, the drying green, a terrace wall, a bit of grass, a higher terrace wall, and the natural native bush on the side of the hill where, mercifully, the land was too steep for the Beckinsales to have attempted to terrace it. It was a perfect morning: the grass was laden with dew, the tree ferns were pale, delicate traceries against the darker growth of the trees, and from somewhere in amongst them there came the “clonk” of a tui. He felt sick, miserable, and terrified: he absolutely must tell Mirry she’d have to go down to the farm for the holidays, he’d made up his mind that he’d tell her after their trip today.
“DAD!”
“What?”
“I said,” said poor Elspeth loudly, very red in the face, “can I have a lift? Or do I have to catch the bus?”
“Uh—what’s the time?”
Elspeth looked at the digital watch that Mirry had insisted she needed. “Eight point four one.”
“What?” he said angrily. “Well, you’ve missed the bluidy bus good and proper, haven’t you?”
Elspeth pouted.
“Oh, all right! Go and clean your teeth, first.”
“Can I say goodbye to Mirry?”
“No! Don’t you dare disturb her!” he said, going very red.
Elspeth went out sulkily.
After a while it dawned on Hamish that he wasn’t dressed. Muttering to himself, he went upstairs.
When Elspeth started to moan that she’d be late if he didn’t drive faster than that, she got very short shrift indeed.
“I don’t see why you’re in such a bad mood!” she said loudly. “You’re going on a trip, and I’m not! It’s not f—”
“Right!” he cried, pulling up abruptly. “See if this is fair! You can bluidy well get out now and walk the rest of the way, you bluidy wee pest!”
“I’ll be LATE!” roared Elspeth, turning purple. “You’re MEAN!”
“Get out!” he replied, scarlet to the roots of his hair.
“All right, I will!” she cried, wrenching her door open. “And what’s more I’ll tell Mr White that you’re a mean, horrible—”
“Aye, you bluidy do that!” he roared.
She got out and glared at him.
“Get going!”
Elspeth began to walk sulkily up the street. She would most certainly be late if she went at that pace; this reflection not unnaturally hardened Hamish’s heart and he drove on past her, turned into the crossroad that ran along past the back of the supermarkets, and headed north for home.
He wasn’t acknowledging it to himself, but part of Hamish’s ill humour was due to what had happened the previous night after they’d got Elspeth off to bed.
They were in their room, and he’d just been about to kiss Mirry when she said: “Ooh; where’s Puppy?”
“Damn bluidy Puppy; come here—”
”No.” She pulled away from him. “Hamish, where is he? He’s usually waiting for us when we’ve been out; do you think something’s happen—”
“No, I don’t,” he replied in annoyance. “He’s probably hunting rats in the bush, or something—come here!”
“No; I’m going to look for him.” She made for the door.
“Och, bugger!” he cried. “For Christ’s sake, he’s a big dog, he’ll be all right—”
Mirry paused at the door. “What on earth’s come over you, Hamish? Puppy might be hurt, or something!”
“Nothing’s come over me,” he replied angrily, “unless you mean the fact that I’ve been dying for you for the last three bluidy hours!”
She went very red. “Well, you’ll have to wait; we’re responsible for that dog!” She shot out.
“Damnation!” he cried. He looked round him furiously, seized on blameless Teddy, and hurled him across the room. Then he stamped after her.
By the time he got downstairs Mirry had the outside lights and the porch light on, and was in the back garden in her cheongsam and gumboots, calling the brute.
Hamish opened his mouth to say he’d do it, but before he could speak she scrambled up onto the first terrace. Scowling, he followed. “Mirry—”
“You go round the front,” she ordered.
“Mirry—”
“Go, ON, Hamish; what’s the matter with you? Go and check all down the road; I’m going up the gully.”
“Not in the middle of the night: not in that dress!”
“What? Oh—blast!” Mirry returned to the drying-green. She gave him an angry push. “Go ON!’
“Well, get out of that good dress,” he replied.
“I’m going to; hurry UP!” She gave him another push. Hamish turned for the house. She shot past him into the kitchen and hauled her dress off.
“Mirry, I’m sure he’ll be all right.”
“Go and LOOK!” she screamed.
It finally dawned on Hamish that she was terrified the dog had been run over. Feeling sick, he went out round to the front of the house and began to search up and down Kowhai Bay Road.
Two hours later Hamish had come back three times to report his lack of success and each time Mirry had sent him out again to hunt further afield. The fourth time he refused utterly to go out again: he was, of course, still wearing his kilt, and some hysterical resident of the Bay had rung the police to report that a pervert in women’s clothing was roaming the streets in the dead of night. Unfortunately plump Sergeant Jim Baxter, who happened to be in the patrol car that night training a very young new constable, had just about laughed himself sick when Hamish, asked to explain himself, had roared: “I’m luiking for a bluidy lost dog, and it’s no’ a bluidy dress, it’s a bluidy kilt, where are your eyes, man?”
When he refused to try again Mirry burst into hysterical tears, declaring that Puppy was dead, or caught in a trap—he tried to tell her that there were no traps within fifty kilometres of Kowhai Bay, but this made no impression—or dog-napped.
“What?
“Dog-napped!” she screamed. “He’s a valuable dog, they might have stolen him; there was that case last year, those bikie gangs stealing dogs—”
“He’s no’ a bull-terrier, you silly wee thing, he’s a Labrador; and anyway he’d settle any bikie I’ve ever seen in double-quick time—”
“He wouldn’t, he’s too gentle!”
“Balls!” he roared.
“I’m going out myself!”
“You are not!” He grabbed her.
“Let me go!” she panted, and kicked his shins.
“Ow! Stop it, Mirry, you’re hysterical! We’ve done all we can; for God’s sake calm down!”
“No!” she sobbed. “I’m going to try up the bush again—”
“You will not!”
She pulled away from him.
He grabbed her roughly. “You are not setting foot outside this house again tonight! And if need be I’ll bluidy well lock you in masel’!”
“Let me go, you bully!” she shrieked, heaving at his chest.
Suddenly Hamish really lost his temper. “Stop it!” he roared, shaking her.
She gasped, wrenched one hand free and slapped his face. “You’re a selfish beast, Hamish Macdonald; don’t you even care?”
“Not all that much, no,” he said in a hard voice:
Mirry opened her mouth to tell him he was a disgusting, heartless brute, but at that precise moment Puppy came into the kitchen, muddy, damp and bedraggled, carrying a large rat in his mouth.
“Puppy!” she cried ecstatically, not noticing the rat.
Puppy deposited the rat tenderly at her feet.
“PUPPY!” screamed Mirry in revulsion. “UGH!” She flung herself at Hamish. “It’s a rat, it’s a rat!” she shrieked.
“It’s dead as mutton, you silly wee—”
She shuddered against him. “Get rid of it, get rid of it!
“To Hell with the bluidy rat.” He began to try to get the coat off her.
“Get rid of it! What are you doing?” she cried, shuddering.
“Trying to get into you, you’re driving me out of ma skull.”
“It moved!” she shrieked.
“Rubbish.” He released her and unbuckling his sporran.
Mirry sprang onto a chair. “What are you doing? Get rid of it!”
“It’s dead, what’s the matter with you, woman? Forget about—”
“I’m scared!” she wailed.
“Och, BUGGER!” he roared. He stomped out to the back porch, sized a spade, stomped in, scooped up the rat with it, and hurled both it and the spade into the garden. “Are you SATISFIED?” he roared, stomping back.
Mirry replied in a small voice: “We’ll have to disinfect the kitchen floor.”
“WHAT?”
“We’ll—”
“All right!” he yelled. “If you want to disinfect the floor at this hour of the night, you go right ahead! I’ve had enough; I’m going to bed! But first—” He grabbed Puppy by the collar, dragged him bodily forth, and locked him in the laundry.
Mirry was still on the chair. “What if he wants to go in the middle of the night?”
“Then he can either widdle on the spot, or burst; I don’t give a tinker’s damn!” He stomped over to the door. “And in case you haven’t noticed, it bloody well is the middle of the night!” He stomped out.
It was some time before Mirry appeared in the bedroom. Hamish had had a shower and calmed down enough to realize that his mixture of rage and lust in the kitchen had been caused only partly by the immediate circumstances of Mirry’s plastering of herself to him and his making a fool of himself all over Kowhai Bay in his kilt. However, recognizing that he was thoroughly disturbed over what he had to say to her on the morrow did not actually help him to feel any better—or, indeed, very much more in control of himself. When she did come in, in her lacy cream slip, looking very damp and smelling strongly of disinfectant and wet dog, he was once more seized by both annoyance and desire.
“Don’t tell me you washed the bluidy dog as well!”
“All right, I won’t tell you,” retorted Mirry sulkily, going into the ensuite.
“Well, for Heaven’s sake have a decent wash! You smell like a damned public lavatory!”
She’d turned the water on before he’d quite finished this remark, so he wasn’t sure that she’d heard it. He felt even more annoyed.
“I don’t like rats,” she said in a small voice, coming back at last, now smelling strongly of Bronnley’s Rose Geranium talcum powder.
“I’d never have guessed,” he replied sourly, trying to ignore his hard-on.
Mirry got into bed.
“What the Hell have you got on you?”
“My nightie!” she said indignantly.
“No,” he said, switching off his bedside light. “Some damned scent, or something.”
“It’s the last of the Rose Geranium powder Aunty Vi gave me for my birthday; you said you liked it!” she replied crossly.
“Not in those quantities,” he returned sourly.
Mirry turned her bedside light off. “It’s an English brand; and you said it was a good one!” She turned on her side with her back to him.
Silence.
After some time he reached cautiously for her, only to realise she was asleep.
She was still asleep when he got back from driving Elspeth in to Puriri. Hamish was seized with guilt. He didn’t try to wake her up, just went quietly downstairs again. She finally surfaced around eleven-fifteen, by which time he was wondering if they were going to manage the promised expedition after all.
“I buried the bluidy rat,” he reported with a sigh.
“Oh, good,” said Mirry in a small voice.
He bit his lip. “I’m sorry about last night. To tell you the truth, the police stopped me when I was out looking for the pooch—someone had reported a perverted prowler in drag.”
“In dr—” She gulped. “Help!” she croaked.
“Aye,” he said drily. “Fortunately the sergeant thought it was funny, and didn’t haul me in.”
“I’m awfully sorry, Hamish,” she croaked.
“No,” he said, passing a hand over his face: “I am. I was looking forward to going to bed with you, and after an evening of Elspeth at the Chez Basil—not to say Basil, I never realised how vile he could be when he's doing his maître d’ thing,” he added, “Puppy’s escapade was the last straw.”
“Mm,” she agreed gratefully.
Since Mirry wasn’t at all devious herself, it never occurred to her that his waiting until after they’d had lunch up at the old pub at Carter’s Bay and been to the antique shop just south of Carter’s Bay and bought the dining-suite to confess all could have been could have been considered a devious move. And, in fact, it wasn’t: all he’d meant by it was for her to have a happy time having lunch out and buying a dining-suite; which she did.
He told her the whole story of Sylvie’s attempt to sabotage him as they sat on a deserted beach just over the road from the antique shop, anxiously adjuring Mirry once before and twice during it not to interrupt him.
“I see,” she said in a very small voice.
Silence fell. Then she said: “I wish you’d told me about those horrible letters when she—when it happened.”
“I explained—”
“Yes, I know,” she said quickly, unable to bear the idea of having him explain it all again.
He looked down at her flushed little face with its trembling lower lip. “Darling, you mustn’t think... I’m not blaming you, at all; none of it’s your fault; and I’m not—” his voice shook—“not trying to—to punish you, or—or some such thing.”
“No,” said Mirry in a thread of a voice; he had to stoop to hear her: “I don’t think that; but I should have thought… I should have realized it could get you into trouble at work.”
Hamish was near tears. “No; it was my responsibility, sweetheart: you mustn’t blame yourself.” He swallowed. “I’m twice your age; I should have known... Och, God, I did know! I just didn’t let maself think about it!”
“Could you—could you really get the sack?”
“Aye,” he said grimly. “And by rights I would have, already, if Wiley hadn’t been so decent about it.”
Mirry’s neat nostrils flared. “She hates you,” she said in a low voice.
“Aye.”
“I could kill her!”
“Aye... “
After a moment she said timidly: “But don’t you think, Hamish, if she’s written those letters and—and nothing’s happened—well, maybe she’ll kind of give up on that side of it?”
“And concentrate on forcing me to sell the house, you mean?”
She looked at him sympathetically. This was Sylvie’s latest move, conveyed to them by a sympathetic and horrified Margaret Prior: Sylvie had decided that half of the value of the house was hers. Poor Margaret was currently trying to persuade her (a) that it wasn’t, (b) not to go to a lawyer about it, (c) that it would do her no good in the law’s eyes to be seen to be removing the roof from over her child’s head (it was very difficult to put this point tactfully), and (d) to forget about it.
“That’d be better than ruining your career, anyway.”
“Aye... I was hoping she’d shot her bolt, too,” he admitted. “Only if she gets riled up again, she’s capable of writing to God knows who—the whole of the Senate, mebbe; or Sir Jerry Cohen—anyone!” He sighed. “And God knows I’ve got a few enemies at the university.”
Mirry looked up in surprize. “But you haven’t done anything to anyone.”
“Not personally,” he agreed grimly. “But it’s like Peter said: there’s quite a lot of jealousy in certain quarters because of our funding, and—e-er—things like the extra-curricular courses we can teach, and, e-er—the new building, and so on.”
“Yes,” she said miserably. “I can see that.” She paused. “I wish you hadn’t had to go and talk to him about it, that’s all!” she said explosively.
“To Peter? No, no, you’ve got it all wrong, darling: I didn’t talk to him about it; he brought the subject up himself; I hadn’t really—it hadn’t really struck me, at that stage...”
“He’s always sticking his nose in!” she said bitterly.
“Don’t be like that, sweetheart,” said Hamish miserably. “He was only trying to help; he was genuinely concerned. It hadn’t really struck him, either, you see, until he came round to our place that day that Sylvie was there. I think he realized her—e-er—potential for harm.”
“Spitefulness, you mean. Yes.” She thought about it. “He was quite nice that day,” she admitted grudgingly. “Quite kind.”
“Aye, of course he was,” said Hamish. He put his arm around her shoulders.
“What can we do about it?” she said dully. “There isn’t anything, really, is there? If only I hadn’t switched to Pol. Sci.!” She paused on this angry note. “I only did it to be near you,” she admitted. “And partly for the Student Assistantship, of course.”
“Mm.” Hamish felt as if he might choke, in spite of his open-necked shirt. Now was obviously the time to bring up the subject of the holidays... “Shall we walk on the beach for a bit?”
They walked on in silence for a while.
“Would it help if I switched back to History next year?”
He gave a sigh of relief. “Aye, I think it might, sweetheart; it can’t undo the damage that’s been done, of course...”
“No; but at least it would show our good intentions,” she said earnestly.
“That’s right,” he agreed, not very happily.
Mirry sighed. “Heck, all those papers wasted—all those A’s, too!” She thought about this. “I suppose that makes it worse, in a way,” she said gloomily.
“What? Oh—no; we had all the marking for the M.A. papers vetted by outside examiners.”
“Well, that’s good, isn’t it? You could prove that,” she said earnestly.
Hamish sighed. He explained about points of honour. Mirry replied that that was silly. Hamish sighed again, thinking irritably that that was just like a woman.
“I see what you mean, though,” she added sadly.
“Aye,” he said gratefully.
They walked on down the beach. “Isn’t there anything we could do?” she asked.
He took a deep breath. “Well, I don’t know that it will really help, but— Peter and I thought it might be a good idea if you go down to your parents’ place for the holidays.”
For a moment Mirry didn’t react. “Then she said: “By myself? For the whole of the holidays?”
“Yes,” he said hoarsely. He cleared his throat nervously.
Her eyes filled with tears. In a trembling voice she said: “I don’t see what good that’ll do; the damage has already been done, like you said.”
“Aye; but—”
“And how can making me miserable for two months affect the fact that we’ve been living together for six?” she demanded in a high, shaking voice.
“Just on seven,” he corrected, tightening his arm round her.
“Well, then!” said Mirry sulkily.
“It’s not that, exactly: obviously we can’t undo what we’ve done. It’s more that—well, if we don’t—don’t flaunt ourselves, as it were,”—he was aware that this sounded absurd but was unable to think of another way to phrase it—“then—then perhaps no-one… Out of sight, out of mind,” he finished uncomfortably.
“Her, you mean!” said Mirry crossly.
“Aye, well... Her and anyone else.”
“They’ll all be away for the holidays,” Mirry said logically.
Hamish hadn’t thought of that one. He doubted if Peter had, either. He was very tempted to change his mind. He sighed. “I don’t think we should take the risk.”
They walked on in silence for a while. The day had fulfilled its early promise: the sky was pale blue and scattered with fluffy little clouds and the sun was pleasantly warm. A few seagulls pottered near the ragged line of damp seaweed that was the last tidemark.
Abruptly Hamish admitted: “To tell you the truth, sweetheart, I can’t face the thought of you having to go through another scene with bluidy Sylvie!”
Mirry flushed deeply. “I’m not a baby’“
“No, but—”
“You don’t have to protect me!” she said bitterly.
“I feel I do,” he replied lamely.
Mirry’s eyes filled with tears. She compressed her lips, and blinked fiercely.
They had reached the far end of the little beach. Hamish turned her gently. Suddenly she pulled away from him and walked on very fast, heading down to the frill of breaking wavelets and splashing along on the wet sand in her bare feet.
Hamish still had his shoes and socks on. He followed her slowly, further up on the hard sand, feeling miserably guilty, but very relieved that at last he’d got it over with.
Next chapter:
https://themembersoftheinstitute.blogspot.com/2023/01/long-hot-summer.html
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