Redecorating

21

Redecorating

    In Caro’s experience people at parties—unless they were very young and the lights were mostly off and the music was very loud, and they were there for the purpose of snogging—invariably sorted themselves into exclusively male and exclusively female groups. The men talked about cars, sports, video recorders, motor-mowers and occasionally, if they were all from the same place of work, work. The women talked about babies, cooking, babies, clothes, and babies. Unless they were a bit older, in which case it was older children, cooking... (Of course if they were all librarians and not married they talked about books and work and, maliciously, fellow librarians.) So although she had politely accepted the Riabouchinskys’ invitation, and was wearing her best black dress, the one that had wowed Donald Freeman, she had no great expectations about the party.

    She was a bit early, because, though not quite admitting it to herself, she was rather in awe of Veronica Cohen Riabouchinsky, and very flattered to be invited to her house, and terrified of being late. So she was the first one there. Veronica, who had insisted on setting the table in the redecorated dining-room and doing the flowers, an activity which she referred to scornfully as “doon the flahs”, but nevertheless thoroughly enjoyed, but had otherwise been firmly prevented by Peter from doing anything, was all dressed up and a bit bored by this time, so Caro was greeted with flattering enthusiasm.

    As the other guests arrived Caro began to realize, with considerable astonishment, that none of the men were separating themselves out into a huddle and that none of the women, after polite enquiries after James and Sharon, were talking about babies. In fact she had a lovely chat about Salzburg and Mozart with one of the men, who seemed to be German or Austrian (Mrs von Trotte having brought her husband, since her lover had a business dinner that evening) and, of all people, that American, who joined in quite intelligently. Caro had seen immediately and instinctively that Bruno von Trotte wasn’t interested in women sexually, but this didn’t prevent him from being an interesting and entertaining companion.

    She knew little about good food, but enough to perceive that the meal was marvellous, and enough to put Charlie Roddenberry right on a couple of points. Annoyingly, he was sitting next to her, but it wasn’t quite as awkward as it might have been, because after the row, they’d had a reconciliation of sorts, thanks to Peter.

    He’d gone along to Caro’s office and perched on the corner of her desk.

    “Caro, moy dear, I think you have the big foight with poor Charlie—no?” He twinkled at her.

    Caro went scarlet and said aggressively: “I know I was out of order—”

    “Hush! I realoize that we have been expecting you to function under impossible conditions—and to do two jobs at once—no?”

    “Uh—yeah,” she muttered.

    “I am very sorry, moy dear Caro; we overlook, you know, in our annoyance with the Senate over their decision that we must take over the University’s classes immediately, that this would mean twoice as much for you to do as we had originally told you. I think we must get you some more staff immediately—perhaps on a temporary basis—no?”

    Caro goggled at him, dumbfounded.

    Peter said contritely: “I realoize that this cannot make up for our unreasonable demands on you throughout these past two terms; but perhaps it h’will help a little—da?”

    “Well, we’ve got Jo-Beth Nakamura coming in September; she can take the day-to-day running of this place off my shoulders, while I get on with finalizing the plans for the new library; but Val could do with another cataloguer for six months or so, until all the basic stock’s arrived, at least; and we really could do with someone to help process the new books, one part-timer isn’t cutting it.”

    “I leave it up to you—mm? You wroite down for me who you need—and do not underestimate, moy dear, the Institute has plenty of money—and we get them for you immediately—okay?”

    “Yes; thanks,” said Caro dazedly.

    “And then perhaps you can foinaloize the plans for the new loibrary in peace, mm?”

    “Yeah,” said Caro gratefully.

    “And perhaps even foind the toime to arrange for poor Charlie’s computer search—no?” He twinkled at her again.

    Caro went scarlet again and said defiantly: “He told you about that, I suppose!”

    “No, moy dear, he did not breathe a word of it to me; I think you know Charlie better than to think he would, really?” He put his head on one side and looked at her with a bright, bird-like interest.

    Caro’s cheeks took on a purple tinge.

    “No,” said Peter tranquilly: “I overheard it all.”

    “Oh, God,” she said dully. “I’m sorry, Peter.”

    “I think perhaps maybe he does not understand that what in his wonderful American loibraries he takes for granted, here one must foight every inch of the way for—n’est-ce pas? Foight one’s bosses, first, to agree to getting the equipment in the first place—”

    “No, of course not!” said Caro quickly. “You were marvellous over that!”

    Peter twinkled at her and didn’t reveal that he perfectly understood that this was a singular “you”, not a plural: Hamish knew little and cared less about computers and apparently didn’t understand that when you were stuck at the back end of the English-speaking world it was very difficult to get up-to-date information through any other medium.

    “Well, at any rate, you must foight the silly architect,”—Caro flushed again—“and then the silly computer firms who troy to sell you the wrong equipment, all very expensive—”

    “Too right!” said Caro feelingly. “And try telling them it’s all got to be compatible with the University’s system!”

    “Quoite. And foinally, of course, you have the months-long struggle with the phone company.”

    “You said it!” agreed Caro bitterly.

    “Da,” said Peter looking at her with enormous sympathy.

    “They reckon they’ve got us booked in—but when it comes to the crunch—”

    “Yes.”

    Caro sighed.

    “I think I owe you a sincere apology, Caro; it is moy job to see our staff do not work themselves to death, and I h’yave been very remiss in this matter. You accept moy apology—da?” He twinkled at her again and held out his hand.

    “No! “ said Caro on a gasp. “I mean yes! I mean of course you don’t owe me an apology!”

    “Yes, I do, moy dear, and I apologoize most sincerely.”

    He was still holding out his hand. Rather limply Caro put hers into it. “That’s all right.”

    “Now,” he said brightly, “I have a word with this naughty Charlie and tell him what is what out here—”

    “No, don’t, Peter! You’ll only make it worse!”

    Peter laughed, and slid off her desk. “Trust me: I will not make it worse!” He paused in the doorway. “And if the poor American comes to offer you a very humble apology,”—twinkling again—“you listen very noicely and accept it, yes? Even if he does go on rather too long.”

    “Yes!” gasped Caro on a choke of laughter.

    “Good; that is settled, then.” Peter went out, pausing on his way to have a little chat with the quiet, meek, but very competent Val, who, there being absolutely no space in the prefab that could be used as an office for her, had her desk between two bookstacks in the main library area. In a patch of sun, when it was shining—otherwise in a draught which the indefatigable John Blewitt had fairly successfully blocked off.

    He duly had a word with Charlie—exercising even more tact and diplomacy than he had with Caro, for not only did he understand that Charlie felt himself very much to be the injured party in the matter, he also understood that under Charlie’s apparently cheerful, verbose, typical-American exterior—which certain of his work-mates found very trying indeed—there was a different, much less self-assured and rather unhappy Charlie.

    So Charlie, rather flushed, came and gave Caro a very formal and, as Peter had predicted, long-winded apology. Caro bore Peter’s advice in mind and said nothing until he’d finished, and was holding out his hand to her.

    Then, going very red, she said: “Thanks. I’m sorry I was so rude to you; it all got a bit on top of me,” and shook his hand.

    Charlie’s hand was very cold: not only did he find the underheated prefab very hard to cope with, he also tended to get cold when he was nervous; and he was very nervous. Caro hadn’t met his eye; but at the touch of his long, cold hand on her warm one she looked up at him, startled.

    Charlie went scarlet and looked helplessly into her eyes. Caro went scarlet, too, experienced a sort of jolt to the stomach, and quickly looked away.

    “I’ll arrange to have your search done at the University Library,” she said gruffly. She pulled her desk calendar towards her. “What sort of time would suit you?”

    “Uh—well—I’ll get my timetable, shall I?”

    “Yeah—okay.” –Still looking away from him.

    Charlie escaped to his office. There, although his timetable was neatly pinned to his bulletin-board, he sat heavily at his desk and propped his elbows on it, waiting for the pounding in his veins to cease.

    Caro looked blindly at her desk calendar. Her mind seemed to have stopped functioning altogether.

    When Charlie came back with his timetable—pausing in the library to create a copy for Caro on the photocopier—they had a very sane and sensible discussion about his search, and Caro rang the Reference Librarian at the University, and they arranged a time for Charlie’s search that would be mutually satisfactory—the Reference Librarian refused to let Charlie actually do the search, but she did want him to sit in.

    Charlie opened his mouth to say “Gee, back home I always did my own searches;” and closed it again. He didn’t want to overstep the line again. Even though Peter had been very tactful and very kind, Charlie, who was far more aware of rank and hierarchies than any of Peter’s New Zealand colleagues had ever been, had been very much conscious of the fact that he was being reprimanded by the Deputy Director. Such a thing had never happened to him in all his circumspect life and he’d spent several tortured hours afterwards examining his conscience in a way that Peter had most certainly never intended and that would have absolutely horrified him.

    Competently Caro arranged for the Reference Department to open an account for the Institute, thanked the Reference Librarian, and hung up.

    Charlie said: “Uh, this is for my own research, you know—not for my teaching stuff;”—oddly, for once not calling her by her name.

    And Caro replied gruffly: “That’s part of your job; the Institute expects you to do your own research; why do you think they hired you?”

    Charlie had asked himself this once or twice over the last muddled two terms, and felt obscurely comforted by this remark. He thanked her politely and fully, and went away again.

    During the whole of this professional interview their eyes hadn’t actually met once.

    Mirry was glad she was sitting beside nice Erik Nilsson at the Riabouchinskys’ dinner table, because although she hadn’t met him personally before, she knew him as an English lecturer. They’d had a lovely talk earlier about Bach, and the University Choir—Erik couldn’t sing, either, but he went to their performances—and he was very easy to talk to. This was, of course, precisely why Peter had placed her there; Peter didn’t leave his table arrangements to chance.

    At her other side was Bruno von Trotte, and he was very nice, too; and since Mirry had been at Polly and Jake’s wedding, which had taken place in the von Trottes’ lovely garden, they were able to have a nice talk about the garden.

    The ladies all looked very smart, so she was very, very glad she had on her new dress: it was scarlet velvet, skin-tight, the skirt ruched all the way down to its mid-calf hemline, with a square neckline, shoulders that were fashionably padded but not too wide, and long, tight sleeves. She’d been very doubtful about the low neckline, but Hamish’s eyes had stood out on stalks when she’d tried it on in the very exclusive little boutique that they’d gone to, and he’d said: “That one!”` It was the most expensive dress that Mirry had ever owned; and if it hadn’t been for Elspeth’s good offices she wouldn’t have owned it at all; in fact, she wouldn’t have come...

    “Why not?” Hamish had said blankly.

    “I just don’t want to, that’s all!” replied Mirry crossly, not looking at him.

    “But I’ve accepted for both of us.”

    “Well, you shouldn’t have!”

    “But you like Veronica and Peter, don’t you?”

    “Yes,” said Mirry sulkily.

    “And Veronica’s written you a lovely note.” Indeed she had (at Peter’s urging) on the very expensive thick cream notepaper supplied by her father, with the chastely engraved initials “V.S.R.” in the top right-hand corner. It was in her own sprawling hand, not (also at Peter’s urging) on her electric typewriter.

    “I don’t care!” cried Mirry. “I’m not going, that’s all there is to it!” She burst into tears and rushed upstairs.

    “Damn!” said Hamish. He sat down limply at the kitchen table.

    Elspeth came in with Puppy and looked at him suspiciously.  “Where’s Mirry?”

    “Upstairs—and take those gumboots off.”

    Elspeth retired to the tiny back porch between the kitchen and the laundry and said, struggling out of her Wellington boots: “What’s for dinner?”—it was his turn to cook.

    “What?” he said dully.

    “What’s—for—DINNER?” said Elspeth loudly.

    “Roast lamb,” replied Hamish dully.

    “Ooh, goody! With kumara?” She padded hopefully over to the oven and peered through its window.

    “Aye—go and put your slippers on.”

    Elspeth retired to the back porch and put her slippers on.

    Puppy sat down by the fridge and looked at Hamish in an injured way.

    “Has that animal been fed?” he said as his daughter resurfaced.

    “’Course not! Not yet,” said Elspeth in some surprize.

    “Well, for God’s sake feed him: I can’t stand the way he’s looking at me.”

    “He’s only trying it on,” said Elspeth, going over to the fridge. “GEDDOVER!”

    Puppy got over.

    Hamish said weakly: “Don’t say that to him, Elspeth: he’s not a horse or—or a cow, or something.”

    “Uncle Dave says it to Tig and Jess.”

    These were Dave Mitchell’s sheepdogs. “Oh,” said Hamish, giving up.

    Elspeth retrieved Puppy’s dish from the back porch and put his dinner in it. She gave a piercing and quite unnecessary whistle, and led him out to the back porch, where she put down the bowl down for him. Puppy waited politely until she told him to “Come on, boy!” Then he golloped his dinner.

    “For God’s sake shut the door, I can’t stand hearing him eat,” groaned Hamish.

    Looking offended, Elspeth shut the kitchen door, putting herself on the back porch side of it with Puppy. She filled Puppy’s water bowl from the laundry tap and said to him: “What the Hell’s up with him, d’ya reckon?”

    Puppy wagged his tail. Elspeth put the bowl down and said: “Drink, boy!”

    Puppy slurped up his water. –After several months of a growing Puppy’s practically taking his hand off every time the hand fed him, Jake Carrano had firmly taken Puppy—and Elspeth—to obedience training on Saturday mornings, and Puppy was now a very well-trained dog indeed.

    When Elspeth and Puppy came back into the kitchen Hamish said uncertainly: “Elspeth…”

    “Yeah?”

    “Um... would you go up and see if Mirry’s all right?”

    Elspeth glared at him. ‘‘What’ve you been doing to her?”

    “Nothing... All I did was accept the Riabouchinskys’ dinner invitation, and she bit my head off!”

    “A fancy dinner?” returned Elspeth suspiciously.

    “What? Yes—I suppose so.”

    “Where you wear your kilt?”

    “No, of course not, not out here! My dinner jacket, or mebbe just a good suit—well, I was going to ask Peter.”

    “Heck, you’re thick, Dad!” said Elspeth on a note of tolerant scorn. –The “Dad” was new; Hamish wasn’t sure whether it was the influence of the Mitchells—tall Vic, who was about ten years older than Hamish himself, and tall Bert, a couple of years younger than Vic, and Marilyn and Vonnie, their wives, all called Dave Mitchell “Dad”; or whether it was the kids at school. Both, probably.

    “What the Hell do you mean?” he said irritably.

    “She hasn’t got any clothes, of course!”

    Hamish stared at her. His face flamed.

    “You wouldn’t of noticed, of course!” said Elspeth scornfully.

    “Are you sure?”

    Elspeth knew every garment in Mirry’s scanty wardrobe and, indeed, frequently wore most of them herself. “Da-ad! It’s BAY-sic!” –Yet another expression that all the kids used.

    Hamish leant his head in his hands. “Damn! I’m a fool!”

    “You said it,” replied his daughter.

    “Look, lovey, pop upstairs and check on her.”

    “All right. Can I tell her you’ll buy her a new dress?”

    “Aye—NO!”

    Elspeth went scarlet. Her lower lip got all pouty.

    “I’ll tell her myself later—okay?”

    “All right.” Elspeth went upstairs and tapped cautiously at the door of the master bedroom. She always did that now, after an unfortunate incident early one Sunday morning when Hamish had forgotten to lock it. Fortunately it had been a chilly morning, and they’d been doing what they’d been doing under the duvet, but Elspeth had got a bit scared anyway, and said: “Are hurting Mirry?” and Hamish had been furious, mostly from embarrassment, but partly because Mirry had laughed like a drain at his embarrassment; and later that day Mirry had had to have a talk with Elspeth—because Hamish was sulking, and wouldn’t—about what grown-up people did in bed, and how it might sound a bit funny, but Daddy was definitely not hurting her, and she loved him. Whether or not much of that had sunk in, Mirry had no idea; but Hamish’s furious diatribe on KNOCKING and WAITING before entering grown-ups’ bedrooms certainly had.

    “Come in,” said Mirry after a moment.

    Elspeth went in cautiously. “Daddy’s sorry, Mirry.”

    Mirry sniffed into her hanky, and looked at her suspiciously.

    “He didn’t exactly say that,” explained Elspeth quickly, “but he said to pop up and see if you were all right.”

    “Oh,” said Mirry, blowing her nose.

    “Why does he always make you cry?”

    “He doesn’t! Hardly ever!”

    “I think you ought to give him a flea in his ear.”

    “Did you hear Uncle Dave say that?” said Mirry weakly.

    “No; Uncle Vic. Anyway,” added Elspeth, going very red: “I told him.”

    “Told him what? Not that I ought to give him a flea—”

    “Nah! ’Course not!”

    Mirry just looked at her.

    Elspeth dug her toe into the carpet—which was a fitted one, nailed down, probably why Mrs Beckinsale hadn’t taken it—and said: “Told him that you haven’t got any dresses.”

    “Elspeth!” gasped Mirry, going scarlet.

    “Well, it’s true!” said Elspeth defiantly. “I think he’s mean! Why doesn’t he buy you some nice dresses?”

    Hamish was a lot more interested in undressing her than in what she put on her back; however, Mirry could hardly point this out to an eleven-year-old.

    “Um… Well, it’s not as if we’re married, you know,” she said cautiously.

    Elspeth went very red again and cried: “What’s that got to do with it? Basil buys Gary nice things, doesn’t he? And they’re not married!” –They had recently bumped into Basil in Puriri, where they’d been window-shopping and he’d been really shopping, and she’d insisted on accompanying him into a smart menswear boutique.

    Mirry replied incautiously: “No, but they’re as good as.”

    “Well, so are you and Daddy!”

    “No, we’re not,” said Mirry, even more incautiously.

    “Why NOT? I want you to be married!” Elspeth was very pouty and sounded on the verge of tears.

    Mirry wanted it, too; quite dreadfully; so much, that it literally hurt. “I’ve explained all that,” she said drearily.

    Suddenly Elspeth stamped her foot and shouted: “I hate him! He’s a mean old pig! Why doesn’t he do something about it? He’s not even TRYING!” She ran out of the room. Her footsteps pounded along the passage and up the stairs of her little turret. Her door slammed.

    “Oh, shit,” said Mirry drearily. She lay face-down on the duvet and put a pillow over her head.

    Hamish had heard the slam of Elspeth’s door all the way from the kitchen. After a while he plucked up courage and came upstairs.

    “Was that Elspeth?” he said cautiously to Mirry’s back view

    “Yes,” said Mirry from under her pillow.

    “Have you two had a row?”

    “NO!” said Mirry crossly from under her pillow.

    “But—”

    “She’s cross with you, not me; she’s your daughter—go and ask her!” said Mirry from under her pillow.

    “Oh,” said Hamish uncertainly. He looked at Mirry’s prone form with the pillow on its head. “Aye—I will.” He went out.

    Even from under her pillow Mirry could hear that Elspeth was yelling at him. She pulled the pillow down tighter.

    Hamish came back and looked at her doubtfully. She was still face down, the pillow held tightly over her head. He came in and sat on the edge of the bed. “She seems to be upset because you haven’t got any pretty dresses,” he said cautiously.

    Mirry didn’t reply.

    “Why didn’t you tell me there were things you needed?”

    “I don’t need anything!” said Mirry crossly-

    Hamish touched her shoulder. Mirry twitched angrily. Hamish withdrew his hand.

    “Well—things you’d like—things you should have, then,” he said weakly.

    After a while Mirry said: “You made me give up my job.”

    “Aye; I thought you had too much on your plate; and we don’t need the m—” He broke off.

    Mirry was silent.

    “Bluidy Hell!” said Hamish violently. “Look, Mirry; I thought you understood. For God’s sake: what’s mine is yours!”

    “No, ’tisn’t,” said Mirry indistinctly.

    “Ma wee pet, you’ve only got to ask—”

    “I CAN’T ask!” cried Mirry despairingly. She burst into muffled sobs.

    Hamish went a painful scarlet. He attempted to pull the pillow away. She resisted.

    “Och, you’ll smother yourself!” He wrenched the pillow off. Mirry attempted to hide her head in her arms.

    Hamish hauled her up bodily and held her against his chest. “Ma wee pet—what is all this about?” He smoothed the ruffled black hair. Mirry sobbed into his chest. “I don’t understand. I love you; you know that; why can’t you just tell me if there’s something you want?”

    “I—don’t—know! l just can’t!”

    “Elspeth tells me all the time,” he said in bewilderment.

    “That’s different!” sobbed Mirry.

    It must be, he recognised glumly. “Aye, but— Look, Mirry, if you feel you can’t ask… I know: I’ll put the bank account in both our names!”

    Mirry raised a very red and damp face and said squeakily: “No: that’s your money.”

    “No, it isn’t; don’t be so silly. It’s ours.”

    “No,” said Mirry obstinately.

    “Look—this is daft!” He scowled, and hesitated. “Don’t you want to—to share things with me?” he said in a low voice.

    “Of course I do,” said Mirry soggily, sniffing hard.

    “Well, don’t you see, if you’ve given up your job to spend time looking after me and my pesky brat—?”

    “Ye-ah… I suppose it’s fair, when you put it like that,” said Mirry thoughtfully.

    “Aye, of course it is!” he cried.

    “Yeah.”

    “So you agree? We’ll put the bank account in our joint names? And—and you’ll buy yourself all the—the wee things you want?” His voice shook.

    “Yeah, okay,” said Mirry gruffly.

    “Kiss me?” he said in a trembling voice .

    After a while he mumbled into her neck: “Shall I lock the door?”

    “Ooh! No! What about the roast?”

    “Bugger the bluidy roast!” But he sat up reluctantly and grinned at her.

    “We’ll do it tonight,” said Mirry comfortingly.

    “Aye.” He stood up and held out his hand to her. She took it and he pulled her to her feet. “And tomorrow we’ll go to the bank at lunchtime—okay?”

    “Okay,” Mirry agreed meekly.

    “And then,” said Hamish firmly, “we’ll get you something to wear to this damned dinner party of the Riabouchinskys’. Okay?”

    “Okay.”

    Although he still hadn’t said anything about furniture, or about anything as definite and official as putting the house in their joint names, too—which his second cousin Polly, for one, would  have been considerably incensed to know hadn’t even crossed his mind—both Polly and her mother would probably have agreed that this was at least a step in the right direction. Maureen, who didn’t have a clue about today’s prices, would have been shocked by the amount he subsequently spent on the dress, the shoes to go with it—scarlet suede, very high-heeled, the most wonderful shoes that Mirry had ever owned—and, over her horrified objections, the heavy winter coat to go over the dress: black, with a fluffy black fake-fur trim on the collar and cuffs.

    Happily aware that she looked extremely decorative, and quite undisturbed by her culinary ignorance, Mirry now ate Peter’s superb trout in aspic with enjoyment, and said to Bruno von Trotte next to her: “What sort of fish is this? It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

    “This is trout; haven’t you had it before?” asked Bruno, smiling.

    “No; this jelly stuff is nice, too, isn’t it?”

    “Yes, delicious: it’s made from a wine court-bouillon.”

    Veronica was at one end of the big kauri table with Bruno on her left. She grinned and said: “It’s one of Peter’s specialities; Dad gave him the trout—he catches more than he knows what to do with.” She laughed. “Actually, Peter did this dish for Mum and Dad once, and Dad didn’t even realize it was trout: he’s so used to burning it on the barbecue at the bach!”

    “A shocking waste of good fish!” said Peter, from the other end of the table.

    Everybody laughed and Charlie offered: “Trout sure seems to be a popular fish, here. The Carranos served it too, huh?”

    “That’s right,” Magda agreed, from Peter’s right. “Though it’s not widely available, and if you can find it, very dear, I’m afraid. –Bruno, darling, remind me to ask Polly for that recipe.”

    “You can have this recipe, too, if you loike,” murmured Peter.

    Magda chuckled and tapped him on the hand. “Ach, you old kidder! This is your favourite Elizabeth David recipe—from her French Country Cooking, ja?”

    “So you recognoize it, then?” he said airily.

    She laughed. “I use that cookbook a lot, too,” she explained to the table at large and to Charlie, who was gaping at them, in particular.

    “Did you cook this, Peter?” he said weakly. He was quite a good cook, himself—at least, up to now he’d thought he was…

    “Certainly,” replied Peter tranquilly. “I hope you like it, Charlie?”

    “Sure; it’s delicious. –Very subtle,” he added after a little pause for thought.

    Pauline was sitting between him and Peter. “Peter’s a marvellous cook. Last time we were here he did a scrumptious fluffy egg thingy for pudding; do you remember, Erik?”

    Erik smiled across the table at her. “That old zabaglione trick; don’t let it impress you, darling, he only does it to show off.”

    Somewhat to Charlie’s relief Peter, Pauline and Magda all laughed at this; so he did, too.

    Peter then sighed and said: “But alas, this dinner must be moy swan-song, I fear.”

    “Good Heavens! Why?” cried Magda.

    He laughed. “Well, for a toime, at least. Veronica’s doctor has put her on a very strict doiet—is that not roight, moy dear?”

    “What?” said Veronica. She’d lost interest in the chat from the other end of the table—though not, of course, in the food itself—and was telling Hamish all about their tremendous piece of luck in finding their antique kauri dresser.

    “I am saying that the so-bossy Bruce Smith has ordered me to feed you on plain steaks and salads with milk puddings and much fresh fruit!” said Peter, chuckling.

    “Too right: none of this foreign muck!” agreed Veronica with a grin.

    “So it is moy swan song, for a whoile,” Peter explained to Magda. “Then when Veronica is the roight weight and not feeding Baby James, we go mad again and indulge ourselves!”

    If he’d been looking at his wife, which he wasn’t, he was looking politely at his guest, he might have wandered why Veronica’s grin endured even through her next large forkful of his deliciously subtle trout in aspic, because Dr Smith’s care for her welfare wasn’t exactly a joke, after all. Unbeknownst to him, however, it wasn’t her welfare that Bruce was concerned about, so much as his.

    Polly and Veronica had both been bawling when Bruce walked into Polly’s room in his nice private hospital.

    “Oy, what’s all this?”

    He sat down on the edge of Polly’s bed—Veronica was already sitting on the other side of it and Polly was in the middle, so the bed was now a bit crowded—and put his arms, which were very long and bony and, for a doctor, rather gangling and uncoordinated-looking—around both of them. Polly bawled harder. Veronica bawled, too, leaning her head against Polly’s. Bruce leant his head against both of theirs, and didn’t say anything for quite some time.

    “Here—have a nice blow,” he said at last, handing Polly his nice clean hanky. Polly had a nice blow and then, since Veronica didn’t appear to have a hanky, handed it on to her. Veronica had a nice blow, too, and handed it politely back to Bruce.

    Neither of them noticed that Bruce put it back in a different pocket, which was his used-hanky pocket, as opposed to his several other pockets which were his nice-clean-hanky pockets. –The hospital’s laundry costs were of course so astronomical that he could have used a hundred handkerchiefs a day and they would have made no difference.

    “Well,” he said gently, “was that about anything in particular?”

    “Post-natal depression,” said Polly gloomily.

    “Youse intelleckshuls read too many books,” replied Bruce.

    Polly and Veronica chuckled weakly.

    “Jake’s being bloody about the house,” confided Polly.

    “That right?” said Bruce with interest. “Thought you had it all straight, now?”

    “No! It’s the beastly sitting-room—I hate it!” Polly sniffed, but didn’t burst into tears again. “Magda”—Bruce may or may not have known whom she meant; anyway, he didn’t enquire—“had this piece of cream and navy and pink material, you see, and when she showed it to me we thought pink’d be just right for cushions and things in that room; only it isn’t, and I hate it!”

    “I see; and Jake doesn’t want you to redecorate?”

    “It’s not that, exactly... He’s driving me mad! He won’t buy anything old unless it’s dripping with—with provenances and seals and God knows what—and if it feels wrong he still won’t buy it!” She continued in this vein for some time, with a blow-by-blow account of what Jake had refused to buy at the art and antiques auction where Veronica and Peter had bought their heavily restored but very charming old Victorian kauri dining table and six matching chairs. The table sat eight and the set was minus two chairs, which would undoubtedly have been two larger ones with arms.

    “Carvers, according to His Expertness,” put in Veronica sourly. “Jake told Peter it was a bad buy and we’d never match the chairs, bugger him.”

    “Goddit. Have ya told him all this, Polly?”

    Polly went scarlet. “No,” she said hoarsely.

    Bruce put his hand kindly on her shoulder and massaged it a bit. “Might be a good idea. Instead of getting yourself all flumdoodled over it, eh?”

    “Yeah,” said Polly hoarsely.

    Bruce massaged her shoulder a bit more.

    “I’ll tell him tonight!” said Polly suddenly. “When he comes.”

    “That’s a good idea,” said Bruce mildly. “Promise?”

    “Yeah, I promise,” said Polly huskily.

    “Good!” said Bruce, taking her pulse. “My goodness,” he noted conversationally: “five hundred and ninety-two; you’re gonna have to stay in here till doomsday, at this rate.”

    “Couldn’t I go home tomorrow?” Polly had been immured in hospital for two and a half weeks before Baby Katie Maureen’s birth, plus another five days after it.

    “Day after, if you’re pretty good-oh by then,” said Bruce, giving her a peck on the forehead—something that he would no doubt have been drummed out of the medical profession for if the Medical Association, or whatever it was, knew about it, thought Veronica interestedly.

    “Won’t do you any harm to have another day or so in here,” he added cheerfully; “and God knows that husband of yours can afford it!”

    Polly grinned at this last: both she and Bruce were perfectly well aware that Jake Carrano was the anonymous benefactor who had just donated a huge sum for the construction of a paediatric wing at Bruce’s hospital.

    “I miss the twins.” She leaned back against her pillows, and yawned.

    “Yeah, of course ya do,” said Bruce, getting up and coming round to Veronica’s side of the bed.

    “I miss my own bed.”

    “Yeah, ’course.” Bruce sat down and took Veronica’s pulse.

    “It’s got a lovely view,” said Polly dreamily.

    “Mm,” agreed Bruce. “Steady as a rock,” he said to Veronica.

    “Of the sea,” added Polly, yawning.

    “Mm—I know.” He winked at Veronica. “Come on.” He got up, pulling her to her feet—he was a lot stronger than looked.

    “I’ll see ya later, Polly,” said Veronica.

     Polly opened her eyes. “Oh! Yeah—thanks for the freesias, Veronica—they’re lovely.”

    “That’s okay. Well... see ya.”

    “See ya,” said Polly, closing her eyes again.

    “She seems awfully tired,” said Veronica doubtfully in the passage.

    “Yeah; second-time syndrome,” said Bruce, putting his arm round her shoulders.

    “Eh?”

    “Second-time mums—think they know it all, and buzz round doing too much after they’ve popped.”

    “Oh—I getcha!”

    Having sorted out Polly to his satisfaction, Bruce steered Veronica to a pretty little sofa in a window embrasure, and prepared to sort her out.

    “And what were you bawling for, eh? Sympathy? More post-pop whatsits? Or what?”

    “Nothing, really,” growled Veronica.

    Bruce put his arm round her shoulders again. “Come on, old Ride of the Valkyries—what’s up?”

    Veronica replied gruffly: “It’s Peter.”

    “Don’t tell me he’s playing silly-buggers over antiques, too!”

    She laughed weakly. “No; nothing like that; it’s just... He’s doing too much, and I don’t know how to stop him!”

    “Mm,” said Bruce thoughtfully.

    “Um, well, last night it was good—you know.”—Bruce merely nodded.—“Only this morning, he—he didn’t feel like it.”

    “I expect he was tired.”

    “Yes,” said Veronica, looking earnestly into his face, “but that’s what I mean, Bruce! He—usually in the mornings—you know!”

    “Mm,” agreed Bruce.

    “It isn’t just that, either; he’s been working so hard at the bloody Institute; and he insists on making these incredible dinners every day; I’m worried about him, Bruce!”

    “Mm-m.” Bruce rubbed his chin. “Look, tell you what: you send him along to see me, eh? Tell him I asked to see him; and I’ll give him a good check-up and tell him you need a very plain diet for a while—that’ll stop the dinner business, anyway!” He grinned at her.

    “That’s a great idea! Tell him—tell him lots of plain steaks and salads—and baked potatoes!” cried Veronica.

    “Will do,” Bruce agreed, grinning more than ever. He squeezed her hand and added: “I don’t really think there’s anything wrong with him, Veronica: he’s probably just tired—been worrying about you, y’know.” He hesitated, then said: “I think the birth took it out of him a bit.”

    “Yes,” said Veronica: she’d come to the same conclusion. She looked rather sheepishly at Bruce and said: “I’ve decided not to have another; I’d quite like to, myself—but I don’t think Peter could take it. Anyway, we’ve got Sharon: two’s plenty!”

    Bruce gave her a peck on the cheek. “Good girl.” He gave her knee a little pat, and said: “Well, feel a bit better, now?”

    “Yeah; ta, Bruce,” replied Veronica, getting up.

    Bruce stood up, too. He walked all the way to the front door with her with his arm around her shoulders. On the front steps he kissed her cheek again and said: “Don’t forget to send Peter to see me.”

    “I won’t; I’ll make him make an appointment soon as he comes home,” said Veronica determinedly.

    “Good.”

    She hesitated.

    “What?” said Bruce mildly.

    “Jake Carrano is being bloody over that house, you know.”

    “I know: he’s a perfectionist,” said Bruce calmly.

    Veronica goggled at him.

    “Polly knows that too, when she’s herself,” added Bruce.

    “Yeah, but—”

    “Don’t worry; I’m going to put a flea in his ear,” said Bruce, still calm. He winked at her. “No-one upsets my nursing mums and gets away with it—bloody multi-millionaire or not!”

    “Gawd—they oughta bottle you, or something, Bruce,” said Veronica weakly. “Talk about a tonic!”

    Bruce, who knew he was a tonic, not to say a panacea, just grinned amiably, and said: “Well, I’ll see you and James soon, eh?”

    “Yeah—see ya, Bruce!”

    Veronica got into her little Saab and drove home feeling much more at peace than she had when she’d set off.

    Bruce Smith strolled along to his office and calmly emptied his dirty-hanky pocket and refilled his clean-hanky pockets.

    Everyone had finished their trout and their host excused himself to go into the kitchen, gathering up plates; Charlie sprang to his feet and helped him.

    Hamish hadn’t paid much attention to Veronica’s story about the old kauri dresser—which Jake, if he’d seen it, which he hadn’t, fortunately, would no doubt have said was not only extremely suspicious as to the shelving in its cupboards but also of a much later period than the dining table and the sideboard.

    “Then, of course,” Veronica said to him, “there was the sideboard!” She chuckled richly.

    “Oh, aye?” Hamish replied, looking doubtfully at the sideboard, an enormous piece behind Mirry’s side of the table, and pleasurably at Mirry.

    “Mm!” said Veronica, incautiously taking a gulp of Perrier. “Gawd!” she gasped.

    “What’s the matter?” asked Hamish in alarm.

    She made a face. “Forgot I didn’t have grog in me glass! How is the wine, anyway?”

    “Oh—very pleasant,” said Hamish. He didn’t know much about wines. It was light, dry and white, and he’d enjoyed it.

    “Good,” said Veronica gloomily, giving his glass a jaundiced glare.

    “E-er—go on with what you were saying; about the sideboard, was it?”

    “Oh, yes!” said Veronica, cheering up. She embarked on a long story about the sideboard, which had apparently belonged to her grandmother, and had been a wedding present. Hamish didn’t listen much. The sideboard was elaborately carved and well polished. On it, right behind Mirry’s shining dark head, was a huge bowl of flowers. Hamish didn’t know much about flowers, either, but they were very pretty, and delicate-looking, and framed Mirry’s sweet face beautifully. Suddenly she looked up from her conversation with Erik and caught his eye. Hamish smiled, very tickled to see the blush as she smiled back. He began to wonder how long this damned dinner party was going to go on and how soon they could decently get away.

    When Peter and his helper had brought in the roast sirloin, the Sauce Madère, the new potatoes, the baby carrots and the braised endives belges—which Caro, Mirry and Pauline recognised as witloof, though they’d never eaten them, but which Charlie had had to have explained to him out in the kitchen—and everyone had been served, Magda said to Peter: “So you make the great decision about the colour scheme for this room at last?”

    Peter chuckled. “Da; the wallpaper is noice, is it not?”

    “Very nice,” agreed Magda, looking at the very traditional pale fawn wallpaper with its embossed vertical stripe.

    Peter chuckled again. “Veronica, moy dearest,” he said down the table: “you hear that? Magda loikes the wallpaper.”

    Veronica choked on a mouthful of rare beef and had to be patted on the back by Bruno.

    When she could speak again she glared at her husband and said to Magda: “Dad gave us those Dutch still-lifes, so we had to have something that wouldn’t kill them stone dead.”

    “They are lovely,” said Magda admiringly.

    “Yeah; not bad, eh?” their owner agreed with ill-concealed pride.

    Peter laughed. “Jerry has four such pictures and he tells Veronica she must choose the two she loikes. These ones are actually far inferior—only ‘school of’, you understand? But the others have a poor dead rabbit and a poor dead—er—Schnepfe?”

    “Ja, ja.”

    “Ja, eine Schnepfe, and this poor Veronica, she takes one look at all this game and turns green!”

    Veronica glared. “Only because I was preggy; and anyway, you don’t want your guests to have a view of corpses from the dinner table, for God’s sake!”

    Hamish looked sideways at the bloody piece of meat on her plate and laughed suddenly.

    Peter twinkled merrily down the table at him. “Da; very illogical, is she not, moy dear Hamish? But this is, of course, a woman’s privilege.”

    At this both Caro and Mirry looked at Veronica in startled horror, but she only grinned and said: “M.C.P. Eat up your dinner and stop chattering, for God’s sake.”

    Chickling, Peter began meekly to eat up his dinner.

    Mirry looked at the fawn embossed wallpaper, at the plain velvet curtains behind Peter, in a very dark green that looked almost black until the light caught it, at the big dresser behind Veronica, with the remains of the green and white dinner-set on it, and at a funny old corner cupboard down near Veronica’s end of the table, which was full of pretty bits and pieces of old china (Peter’s—Veronica wasn’t into old china) and sighed. “It’s such an elegant room,” she said to Bruno.

    He laughed. “Yes, indeed; they have got it looking so nice! Even the fireplace!”

    “The fireplace?” said Mirry cautiously. The fireplace was in the middle of the opposite wall, and behind Charlie; she couldn’t see it very well, but when they’d come in she’d noticed a huge bunch of flowers on the hearth.

    Bruno laughed again. “Maybe I should not tell you—should I, Veronica?”

    “Go on—display me shame,” replied Veronica, grinning.

    “Well, last time Magda and I are here—just before Baby James was born…” Bruno told Mirry all about Veronica’s attack on the fireplace.

    When he’d finished Veronica laughed cheerfully, so Mirry laughed, too. She looked at the corner cupboard again and said to Veronica: “We had a cupboard just like that one over there, when I was a kid.”

    Promptly Veronica told her about the trip up North with Polly, which—after every second-hand and/or junk and/or antique shop within a hundred miles of Puriri had been scoured—had netted the corner cupboard. She told her all about the disgusting state it had been in, and how she’d sent it to the “Puriri Strip Joint” and they’d done a marvellous job, and then she’d sanded it and varnished it herself.

    “That was before I got too heavy, of course!” she ended, laughing.

    Mirry looked at her in awe.

    “Your parents still got their cupboard?” asked Veronica, helping herself to another braised witloof. “Want another?”

    “No, thank you,” said Mirry politely; she’d thought it was awfully bitter. “No; at least—I think Mum put it in the attic.”

    “Hamish?” said Veronica.

    “Yes, please; I adore chicory,” replied Hamish, to Mirry’s confusion.

    “What a Helluva waste,” Veronica said to Mirry, awarding Hamish another witloof. “If it’s the same period as ours, and it’s in decent nick, it’d be worth a bomb.”

    “Oh,” said Mirry doubtfully. “It’s plainer than yours, I think; it hasn’t got that pretty carving on it.”

    “Could be either earlier or later,” said Veronica in a considering voice, “or maybe just made by a local carpenter, of course.”

    “Oh,” said Mirry.

    Veronica engulfed a piece of witloof. When she’d swallowed she said: “Why don’tcha get hold of it? Terrible waste to let a nice piece of furniture dwindle away in an attic.”

    “Um… I suppose Dad would give it to me, if I asked him.”

    “There y’are, then!” said Veronica, through another mouthful. She swallowed noisily. “Hamish, didja hear that? Mirry’s dad’s got a corner cupboard like that one”—she waved her fork at it—“that he can let you have.”

    Hamish twisted to look behind him. “Oh, aye? It’s a nice piece.”

    Since a visit from the up-market Mrs Nicholson from down the road, who had been unable to conceal her stupefaction at finding the Macdonald residence virtually unfurnished, Mirry had had some hard thoughts on the subject of Hamish and furniture; but had felt too shy, and too unsure of her ground, to broach the subject with him. She looked at him with a mixture of indignation at this remark—if he knew a nice piece when he saw it, why hadn’t he bought some for them?—and hope.

    Veronica swallowed the last of her witloof and said in a swallowy voice to Mirry: “Uh fro’ Taranaki, aren’t you?”

    “Yes,” said Mirry in surprise.

    “Peter told me,” said Veronica simply. “Why don’tcha drive down over Labour Weekend, then, Hamish, and collect the cupboard?” –She seemed to regard it as quite settled that Mirry’s parents would give it to her; Mirry stared at her and couldn’t help thinking that her mother must be awfully different from Kay Field.

   Hamish smiled at Mirry and said: “We could do that, if you like, sweetheart. We could pop over and visit Mum and Dad, too, mebbe.”

    At the public endearment Mirry went as scarlet as her dress and said in a sort of strangled squeak: “That’d be nice.”

    At the head of his board Peter, though apparently maintaining a flow of light conversation with Pauline while Magda chatted to Erik, had been listening avidly to every word of this conversation—not really difficult, as Veronica rarely bothered to lower her voice, and certainly not at dinner in her own house. He noticed Mirry’s blush and evident pleasure at Hamish’s agreeing to accept the cupboard and congratulated himself both on having insisted that their invitation should include Mirry and on the influence that they were apparently having, interior-decoration-wise, on Hamish. For the indefatigably verbose Charlie hadn’t failed to report, as well as the story of the “four little girls”, the denuded state of their Director’s house.

    Charlie said cautiously to Caro: “Sure are funny vegetables, these Belgian things, huh?”

    “Yes, they are unusual,” Caro agreed with equal caution. “They’re very dear; they’re terribly difficult to grow.”

    “Are they now? Hot-house things, would they be?”

    “Um… no; not exactly.” Caro hesitated.

    Charlie gave her a doubtful look. He ate a baby carrot to take away the taste of endive belge and said: “How do you mean, ‘not exactly?’”

    “We-ell; I once saw a Country Calendar programme on them.”

    “Oh, yeah? That’s a real good series, isn’t it? You sure do have some excellent programmes on the agricultural industry.” He had eaten all of his meat that could possibly have been called well done, or even medium; Peter had considerately asked everybody how they liked it as he carved, but his idea of well done was not Charlie’s. He cut off a small piece of rather bloody meat and tasted it gingerly.

    “Yes, pretty good,” Caro agreed, trying not to think of the Town and Around turkeys-in-gumboots episode, which always made her giggle. She ate a piece of bloody meat with enjoyment and said: “Well, evidently you have to grow witloof in two stages...”

    She endeavoured to explain the cultivation of endives belges to Charlie; even once they’d got it sorted out that what they were eating were “chicons” not “chickens” he wasn’t much the wiser, as she had a very imperfect grasp of the subject herself. It all sounded positively science-fiction to Charlie; and he didn’t like science fiction at the best of times.

    “Say, are you pulling my leg?” he said suspiciously.

    “Pull— No!” said Caro indignantly, going very red.

    “I’m sorry, Caro,” said Charlie, also going very red. “It’s just— I only— Well, gee, it just didn’t sound very likely, that’s all!”

    “I‘m afraid I didn’t explain it very well,” said Caro contritely.

    “No,” said Charlie hurriedly: “your explanation was fine; it’s me—I guess I’m just a hick American; I’d never even heard of witloof before tonight!” He grinned at her.

    Since Peter and Veronica didn’t believe in eating in the full glare of three hundred or so watts directly overhead, the lights in the dining room were subtle and indirect, and didn’t reflect off his spectacles. Caro, who happened to be looking at him at the time, got the full effect of the very nice brown eyes—even darker than hers: Charlie, though he didn’t advertise the fact, had native American blood from his paternal grandmother.

    Involuntarily she smiled back at him and admitted: “Well, I’d heard of it; but I’ve certainly never tasted it before!”

    Charlie laughed, and ate some more bloody meat. After a moment he said: “Do you have a lot of fancy vegetables like this, in New Zealand?”

    “Heck, no!” said Caro energetically. “In fact most New Zealanders wouldn’t ever have tasted witloof, either.” She began to describe the conservatism of local tastes in vegetables and fruit, and went on to expound at length, and with some bitterness, on the export trade which swallowed up most of her country’s production of first-class horticultural produce.

    Charlie listened with his usual capacity for absorbing facts, though, in spite of his earlier remark about the agricultural industry, not particularly interested in the topic. He was, however, very interested in the fact that Caro’s big, warm eyes glowed as she spoke, that her cheeks flushed slightly and that she smiled at him quite often. He was also very interested in the fact—though it would probably have been quite difficult to get him to admit it—that her dress was distinctly low cut and that below the tan of her chest it was quite possible, especially if you were a good deal taller than her, to see the much paler, creamy fullness of her breasts disappearing into the black dinner dress and even, if one concentrated, to get a glimpse of black lace which must be her bra. After a while he found he was speculating on her bust measurement; mentally he took himself to task for this piece of crassly adolescent fantasizing, and tried to concentrate on what she was saying about it being impossible to get decent onions here any more.

    The roast was followed by a very plain lettuce salad, and then cheese. After his baptism by fire at the Carranos’ this didn’t entirely surprize Charlie; but as he now knew, from having eaten several times at Pam Anderson’s, at Caro’s—before Donald—and, of course, once at Hamish’s, that it was not normal New Zealand practice at all, he said very quietly to Caro: “I guess this is a European-style menu, huh?”

    “Yes,” replied Caro, also in a lowered voice. She looked cautiously at Peter, who was laughing at something Magda had just said to him and added, very quietly indeed: “Peter grew up in France, you know.”

    “No, I didn’t know that,” replied Charlie with interest. He found he was making a mental note to ask her about it at work next week and had to pull himself up with a start; more than likely she wouldn’t be willing to be asked—or even talked to. He poked at his cheese and began to wonder whether maybe she was splitting up with that Goddawful architect, or whether the only reason that he wasn’t with her tonight was that he hadn’t been invited.

    From Caro’s other side Hamish suddenly said: “Did you enjoy the concert the other night, Caro?”

    “Yes, it was lovely—especially the counter-tenor! I wonder where on earth they found him? Wasn’t he good?”

    Hamish agreed, and they began to chat about the concert.

    Charlie listened in astonishment. When he could get a word in edgeways—which wasn’t until they both had their mouths full of bread and cheese—he said: “Was this the Early Music Society’s concert in at the University Theatre?”

     Caro looked at him suspiciously and said ‘‘Mm!” through her bread and cheese, nodding emphatically.

    Hamish swallowed and said casually: “Did you go, Charlie? I didn’t see you there.”

    “We-ell,” drawled Charlie, “I guess you could say I went—in a way!” He grinned at him.

    Caro swallowed and asked, glaring: “What on earth do you mean?”

    Charlie grinned more than ever and said: “I was behind the scenes—helping with the recording.”

    “Oh,” said Caro: “that’s right; you’re very mechanically-minded, aren’t you?” This just managed to keep on the politely dismissive side of downright rudeness; Hamish, who knew nothing about the row, stared at her in astonishment.

    Charlie flushed; he said across her to Hamish: “It was real difficult getting the balance right on the Lacrimae Pavane; I don’t think they had the mikes placed quite right; or maybe it was because Sid moved his chair a bit before he sat down. Of course, that theatre’s much too big for the pre-Baroque sound, anyroad.”

    “Aye; I did notice once or twice that the sound seemed to be swallowed up.”

    “Yeah; all that red plush!” said Charlie, laughing. “Kinda deadens the tone!’

    “I didn’t notice anything wrong,” said Caro on a defiant note.

    The two men looked at her kindly.

    When it was apparent that Charlie wasn’t going to say anything, Hamish said: “What about the crumhorns? Didn’t you think they sounded a bit... well, odd?”

    “Crumhorns always sound odd,” replied Caro defiantly,

    Hamish and Charlie both laughed, but rather too kindly.

    “Of course,” Charlie added, “I’m not counting those pieces where Joe Phillips did the accompaniment—nothing woulda gotten the balance right on them!”

    Caro stared confusedly from him to Hamish.

    “‘Am I too loud?’” quoted Hamish, smiling broadly.

    Charlie gave a yelp of laughter. “Someone oughta told him!” he gasped.

    “Do you—do you mean the man who played the lute?” ventured Caro.

    “No, the guitar, honey: those Monteverdi pieces,” said Charlie kindly.

    “Oh—in the second half?”

    “Uh-huh.”

    “I thought they were very pretty; I could hear the singer okay.”

    Hamish and Charlie exploded into laughter. Caro went very red.

    “Could you hear the guitarist, though?” gasped Hamish at last.

    “Yes, of course!” said Caro crossly.

    “Where were you sitting, honey? In the front row?” asked Charlie in a very kind voice.

    Hamish gave another yelp of laughter.

    With utter astonishment Caro recognized that That American had said that on purpose; and that he hadn’t in the least meant to be kind. She went very red again and stared at her plate, deciding crossly that they were a pair of stuck-up pricks and that she loathed all men.

    Charlie ignored her and began to tell Hamish all about a real awful experience he’d had once helping out with the recording of a very well-known Early Music consort at his own university. Until this moment it hadn’t really sunk into Caro’s head that Charlie’s university was a very distinguished one: she was so used to thinking of him scornfully but kindly—well, kindly before the row—as just a typical verbose and rather simple-minded American. What with this and his deliberate put-down—not to mention her awareness of her own musical ignorance compared to what was obviously his considerable knowledge—she felt very small indeed and began to feel the dinner was never-ending.

    Charlie was quite aware of her discomfort; her crack about his being mechanically-minded had really hit him on the raw, for some reason which he wasn’t at all prepared to examine; so he let her squirm.

    Peter, once again appearing absorbed in conversation, was quite aware of how things had developed between Caro and Charlie, and was very annoyed by it. He made a mental note to see that they both got large brandies down them—forgetting in his match-making eagerness that Charlie disliked brandy.

    Veronica normally didn’t notice such social contretemps, but she noticed this one, because of course she knew all about the row. So when her husband began to collect cheese plates she bounded up and went out to the kitchen with him.

    “Well, ya bombed there, ya match-making Russian Sherlock.”

    “Da; they get on each other’s wick again, do they not?” he admitted glumly.

    Uh… Was that possible? If one person was getting on the other’s wick, could the second person... In any case, what the Hell was a wick? Sometimes it was damned complicated, being married to a foreigner.

    “Véronique?”

    She jumped. “Eh? Yeah; up each other’s noses good and proper. God knows why; only over some bloody concert or other, wasn’t it?”

    Peter chuckled. “Yes, but I think there is more than that entailed; I think perhaps our Caro does not realoize until just now that Charlie has considerable musical knowledge; more than she does, in fact!”

    “That right?”

    “Oh, yes,” said Peter with satisfaction; “con-sid-er-ab-lee more!”

    “Well, ya needn’t sound so damned pleased about it, ya macho so-and-so!”

    Peter inspected his pudding course anxiously. “But that is the point, moy dear,” he said in a vague voice.

    “What is?” said Veronica suspiciously.

    “Macho so-and-so,” said Peter, even more vaguely. “These are too plain, I think, now,” he added, looking sadly at his “Oranges Caramel”: just orange slices with a caramel poured over them and left in the fridge until the caramel had dissolved.

    “No—those green things look good on ’em,” said Veronica firmly.

    Peter looked doubtfully at the carefully shaped angelica leaves on his oranges. “Some people may not loike angelica.”

    “Some people can lump it. What were you saying about Caro and Charlie?”

    “What, moy angel? Oh—yes!” He chuckled. “I think Caro needs very much to discover that in some things Charlie is much more knowledgeable than she—and I do not mean in endless facts and figures about nothing very much!” he added before she could point out something of the sort. “No; in things more... aesthetic, or intellectual.”

    “‘He for God only, she for God in him,’” quoted Veronica sourly.

    “Not quoite!” said Peter with a snort of laughter.

    “Shall we make the coffee now?”

    “No-o; no, I think perhaps maybe people get talking over their puddings—da?”

    “Not ‘perhaps maybe’: that’s tautologous,” said Veronica with satisfaction.

    “Oh, boy the way, moy dearest, have you noticed how pleased little Mirry is when Hamish says they will go down to Taranaki to collect that cupboard?” He picked up his trayful of pudding dishes.

    “Peter—” said Veronica weakly.

    “Oui, mon ange?”

    “Did you—when you said I had to write Mirry that note... I mean, when you made sure Hamish’d bring her, did you have some sort of scheme in your head?”

    “We-ell,” said Peter, twinkling, “I did think that it would be a very good thing if Hamish sees our beautiful redecorating and says to h’yimself: ‘Maybe I buy some furniture to make a noice home for moy little Mirry.’”

    “You’re incredible!”

    “No; I just loike to see things work out noicely for people.” He prepared to depart with his tray.

    Veronica had gone very red. “But—”

    “But what, moy darling?” he said, pausing, a surprized expression on his face.

    “You—you can’t just—just treat people as if they were pieces on a chessboard! I mean, it’s one thing to—to redecorate the house; but you can’t, um, you can’t redecorate people’s lives, Peter!”

    Peter’s curly mouth twitched. “Well, moy dearest, you have the talent for colour co-ordination and interior decoration of the house—da? I have no talent for that, but perhaps maybe—no, just perhaps—I have the talent for, as you say, redecorating people’s loives—just a little bit!” He chuckled gently and went out.

    Left alone in the kitchen, which had been redecorated to his specifications and was therefore extremely white and functional as to wall tiling and appliances, but had a bright red vinyl floor chosen by herself to cheer it up, Veronica scowled uncertainly.

    “You’re playing with fire, Peter Riabouchinsky,” she muttered. She picked up a stray angelica shape from the bench and went out chewing it, still scowling.

Next chapter:

https://themembersoftheinstitute.blogspot.com/2023/01/party-games.html