Telling Carol

37

Telling Carol

    It was, Nat, Belinda and Peter were unanimously agreed, all Damian’s fault. Nat stigmatized him unhesitatingly as a spiteful little sod. Belinda recognized that he had been under a lot of strain, poor boy, since the accident, but didn’t go so far as to excuse him. Peter thought irritably that if the schools out here had the sense to make boys of that age work, the culprit wouldn’t have had the time on his hands to spend annoying his sister—now, if he was preparing for his Bac in a year or two it would be a very different kettle of fish!

    Damian had been staying with Aunty Helen and Uncle Nat again because Grandma and Grandpa had gone down to Wellington to visit friends and relatives. By lunchtime on Saturday he’d already picked a fight with Melanie, alienated his aunt by eating half a loaf of fresh bread without asking her permission, and infuriated his uncle by asking five times why he couldn’t go over to Grandma and Grandpa’s for the day to use his computer.

    Helen had made a really nice lunch—tinned salmon quiche, potato salad and lettuce salad. She was extremely annoyed when Damian told her he didn’t like salmon.

    “Nonsense!” she said. “Eat it up; it’s good for you.”

    “It makes me come out in a rash,” said Damian in a whingeing croak.

    “Ooh, Damian, what a lie; it does not!” said Carol.

    “Yes, it does; what ’ud you know, Miss?” retorted Damian.

   “That’ll do!” said Nat loudly. “And don’t call your sister ‘Miss’!”

    Damian muttered: “You say it all the time.” He poked distastefully at his piece of quiche.

    “What did you say?”

    “Nothing,” he mumbled, stuffing potato salad into his mouth.

    “He said you say ‘Miss’ all the time, Dad,” said Melanie in a helpful voice. “You do, too; you’re always saying—”

    “That’ll DO!” said Nat, only just stopping himself from adding “Miss”. He glared at her.

    “Yes; I don’t think we want any tale-telling at this table, thank you, Melanie,” added Helen majestically.

    Melanie went very red and gave her a sulky glare.

    Helen ingested a large piece of quiche. “By the way,” she added to Nat, “did I mention I’ve got a meeting this afternoon?”

    “No, ya did not! I thought we’d go for a nice drive this afternoon,” he replied in an injured voice.

    “Well, I can’t. That idiot Phyllis Harding has got the Floral Art Guild’s accounts into an awful mess and we’re having a committee meeting to try and sort them out.”

    “Oh.” He scowled, and stuffed quiche into his mouth.

    “You could always take the children,” offered Helen.

     “Huh! Sooner take a cageful of snarling tigers!”

    “Aw, Da-ad!” protested Melanie. Carol went red. Damian scowled and shovelled lettuce into his mouth.

    “Might take Carol; at least she isn’t carrying on like a two-year-old,” he said grudgingly.

    Carol went redder than ever. Melanie went puce and said, very high: “Aw, Dad: you’re mean!”

    Damian chewed roughly, swallowed hurriedly, and said nastily to his sister: “Who do ya think you’re fooling, Little Miss Goody Two-Shoes?”

    “Here! That’ll be quite enough of that, thank you!” ordered Nat.

    Damian went a very angry tomato colour and said loudly: “She thinks she’s perfect just because she’s going to rotten university! Well, I saw ya kissing that thicko Timothy Revill in his car last night outside Pizza Hut, so there!”

    Looking as if she were about to explode from embarrassment, Carol retorted: “What business is that of yours, little boy?”

    Damian replied with vindictive triumph: “Only that last week I saw him kissing that dumb Wendy Sullivan at the pool, thass all!”

    “That’s a rotten lie!” shrieked Carol.

    “That’ll DO!” bellowed Nat. “If you can’t say anything pleasant, Damian, you can leave the table.”

    Damian glared sulkily at his scarlet-faced sister and said: “Everyone knows about Wendy Sullivan and Timothy Revill; an’ last year he was going round with that Debbie Martin, an’ Sean Martin, he reckons they—”

    “That’s ENOUGH!” roared Nat. “Go to your room!”

    Damian got up. He muttered sulkily: “Well, it’s true; and anyway that Timothy Revill’s a real dick-head; and anyway everybody at School reckons he’s a gay!” He marched out on this triumphant note.

    Nat gave a shout of laughter.

    “Nat! Really!” said Helen, turning puce.

    “He’s not gay,” said Carol in a trembling voice.

    “Well, he can hardly be both,” said Nat, grinning broadly. “Oh, I dunno, though...”

    “Nat Weintraub!” hissed Helen.

     Nat chuckled.

    Carol pushed her plate away. “It isn’t true!” she choked.

     “No, of course not, dear,” said Helen comfortingly, not bothering to enquire exactly what wasn’t true. “Timothy’s a very nice boy; his mother belongs to my Bridge Club, you know.”

    Nat choked.

    “That Wendy Sullivan’s a real rat-bag, anyway,” said Melanie. “I saw her kissing that Goldstein creep—you know, the oldest one.”

    “David Goldstein’s a very nice boy,” said Helen in offended tones.

    “Aw, Mu-um! He’s the Pits!” cried Melanie. She put a huge piece of quiche into her mouth.

    Carol’s lower lip quivered. She looked down at the table and blinked hard.

    “You don’t wanna take any notice of that little jerk, Damian, ya know,” said Nat uneasily. “His nose is just outa joint because I said he couldn’t have that bloody computer over here this weekend.”

    “Don’t swear!” said Helen crossly.

    Melanie swallowed quiche and said eagerly: “Yeah, an’ anyway, he’s got it in for Timothy Revill because Adrian Revill gave him fifty lines for not wearing his cap.”

    “Who on earth’s Adrian Revill?” demanded Nat.

    “Da-ad! He’s Timothy Revill’s brother, of course.”

    “Yeah; but— Oh, does he teach at Grammar?”

    “Da-ad! He’s the Head Boy!” said Melanie, rather as a devotee speaking of the High Priest of the cult.

    “Oh,” said Nat humbly.

    “He’s awf’lly handsome,” said Melanie.

    Nat gave her a startled look.

    “Yes; quite a nice boy,” said Helen judiciously.

    “He looks a bit like Mel Gibson,” said Melanie dreamily.

    “Yes, he does a bit,” agreed Carol.

    “Who the Hell’s Mel Gibson, when she’s at home?” demanded Nat in bewilderment.

    “Never mind, dear,” said Helen kindly. Carol giggled.

    Nat reached over for Damian’s plate. “Sounds as if it’s this Adrian Revill who’s the gay,” he remarked, tipping Damian’s repudiated slice of quiche onto his own plate. “If ’e’s like this Mel dame.”

    “He is not!” said Melanie, turning puce.

    “Mel Gibson’s a man, Uncle Nat,” explained Carol, trying not giggle again.

    “A film star, dear,” said Helen kindly.

    Nat was eating Damian’s quiche with enjoyment. He winked at Carol. “Oh, I getcha,” he said. “It’s this Mel Gibson type who’s the gay.” Carol choked.

    “That’s enough, Nat,” said Helen.

    “He is not, Dad!” said Melanie crossly.

    “Lotta these film stars are, ya know,” said Nat, ignoring Helen. “Whass ’e call ’imself Mel for, if ’e isn’t?”

    “Honestly, Dad! It’s short for—” She broke off, looking disconcerted.

    “Melvin?” suggested Helen, side-tracked from her disapproval of the gay theme.

    “Ugh, Mum!” cried Melanie in disgust.

    “Melville?” said Carol doubtfully. Nat sniggered.

    “That’s worse!” said Melanie crossly.

    “Well, I can’t think of anything else it could be short for, dear,” said Helen. “Eat up your lunch, and stop worrying about  it.”

    “Anyway, he isn’t a gay,” said Melanie definitely, eating her potato salad. “Nor’sh Adrian,” she added thickly.

    “No; nor is Timothy,” said Carol, pulling her plate towards her and starting on her lettuce.

    Nat chuckled richly. “Well, you oughta know!”

    Melanie sniggered, as Carol blushed brightly.

    “Don’t tease her, Nat,” ordered Helen. “Would you like some more quiche, Carol?”

    “No, thank you,” said Carol in a tiny voice.

    “I would, Mum!” said Melanie eagerly.

    Nat grunted. “You wanna look out; you’ll be getting fat, and then this Adrian Revill of yours won’t look twice at ya.”

    “He is not mine!” choked Melanie.

    “No; she doesn’t even know him,” said Carol.

    “I do know him!” cried Melanie furiously. “I saw him on the bus yesterday!”

    “Yeah, but did he see you?” asked Nat, grinning broadly.

    “You’re horrible, Dad!”

    Helen sighed heavily. “Do you want any more quiche, or not, Melanie?”

    Glaring at Nat, Melanie said sulkily: “Yes, please.”

    They ate for a while in silence. Then Nat said to Carol: “Anyway, what’s all this about you kissing this Timothy joker outside Pizza Hut, Miss?”

    “In his car,” added Melanie officiously.

    Carol’s face flamed. “That’s my business! And anyway, why don’t you ask Damian what he was doing down at Pizza Hut at that hour of the night?” Her voice had got very high.

    “What hour—” began Nat, but Carol burst into tears and rushed from the room.

    “Really, Nat!” said Helen crossly. “You know perfectly well girls are sensitive at that age; why on earth did you have to go and upset her like that?”

    Sulkily he replied: “Well, what was she doing out with this Revill twit in the middle of the night?”

    “It wasn’t the middle of the night; they went to the pictures and he brought her home at half-past eleven,” said Helen.

    “Quarter to twelve,” corrected Melanie. Both her parents glared at her, and she subsided.

    “I knew all about it,” added Helen firmly. Nat opened his mouth. “—And what’s more, if you hadn’t been out till all hours with that dreadful poker-playing crowd of yours, you’d have known all about it, too!”

    He scowled, and chewed salad angrily. “Well, what the Hell was Damian doing down there?”

    Helen sighed. “He went to the pictures with Simeon Goldstein and—uh—”

    “Mike Forbes,” said Melanie indistinctly.

    “Yes—don’t talk with your mouth full. And he got home at—well, I’m not quite sure when, but it was before Carol did.”

    “Twenny past eleven,” said Melanie.

    “Well, I don’t think kids of that age oughta be wandering round town by themselves on a Friday night,” said Nat sulkily.

    Helen didn’t think so, either. She sighed. “Damian is nearly sixteen, dear. And Pat and Hilly Goldstein were letting Simeon go, so... And there were the three of them.”

    “Huh! Egging each other on,” he muttered.

    Helen thought so, too. She sighed again. “Well, they did come straight home.”

    “No, they didn’t: they went to Pizza Hut,” pointed out Melanie.

    “Yes, but it is on the way; they didn’t hang round in town.”

    Nat grunted. “You want that last bit of quiche?”

    Helen sighed. “No; you have it, dear.”

    Melanie watched sadly as her father engulfed the last piece of quiche.

    Helen sighed again, and, gathering up plates, went to get the dessert.

    “S’pose you’ll be next,” said Nat gloomily to his youngest daughter.

    “What?” she asked blankly.

    “Kissing spotty youths in cars,” said Nat sourly.

    Melanie turned puce. “I will not! And anyway Timothy Revill isn’t spotty! And he isn’t a youth; he’s quite old.”

    “How old is he?” asked Nat, a little surprised—though to Melanie, of course, anything out of its teens was undoubtedly over the hill.

    “I dunno; about twenty-two, I suppose; why don’t you ask Carol?”

    “I bloody well will! Twenty-two!” he said, breathing heavily and hurling his serviette at the table.

    “Now what?” said Helen, coming back with jelly and finding Melanie in sole possession of the table. “Where’s your father?”

    “Don’t ask me; I told him Timothy Revill was prob’ly twenty-two and he rushed out like a mad thing.”

    “Twenty-two!” exclaimed Helen, sitting down heavily.

    “Why does everybody keep saying ‘twenty-two’ like that?” demanded Melanie plaintively.

    “Carol isn’t eighteen yet,” said Helen feebly.

    “So what?” said Melanie, looking greedily at the jelly, which had peach slices set in it. “I read in the TV Guide that this American woman who was sixty-four married a twenty-five-year-old man.”

    Helen sighed heavily, and began to spoon out jelly.

    “Anyway, you said he was a nice boy.”

    “I thought he was about Carol’s own age; well, a year or two older, possibly,” said Helen dully.

    “No; there’s Stephanie between Adrian and Timothy,” said Melanie. Helen passed her a plate of jelly; she embarked on it greedily. “Eesh arree,” she added squashily.

    “What?” said Helen dully.

    Melanie swallowed. “Stephanie. She’s married.”

    “Oh.”

    “Mum, will Pauline and Erik be getting married soon?”

    “I don’t know, dear.”

    “C’n I be a bridesmaid?”

    “I don’t know, Melanie; it’s nothing to do with me; you’ll have to ask Pauline.”

    “She won’t let me,” said Melanie, scowling.

    Helen got up abruptly and went out.

    Melanie pulled the jelly bowl towards herself.

    Upstairs Nat had got past the “Why didn’t ya tell us how old this bloody Revill type is?” stage and had embarked on the “He’s far too old for you” stage.

    “He is not!” cried Carol. “He’s nice! And I like him!” She burst into tears and buried her face in her pillow.

    Nat fidgeted a bit. He stuck his hands in his pockets and walked up and down the room a bit. Carol continued to sob. “Yeah,” he said uneasily. “He may be nice, but...”

    Carol raised a wet, red face. “He is!” she declared.

    Nat found a hanky in one of his pockets. He passed it to her. Carol blew her nose.

    “Ye-ah... Look,” he said, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed, “I’m not saying he isn’t nice, but he’s too old for ya, Carol.”

    “He isn’t, he isn’t!” cried Carol, tears threatening again. “I’m nearly eighteen!”

    “Yeah, an’ whass he: nearly twenny-three?”

    Carol replied aggressively: “He won’t be twenty-three till next August! And anyway he’s only four and a bit years older than me; that’s nothing!”

    “Ye-ah... Only not at your age.” She gulped, and he added quickly: “Don’t cry again; if you’d just lemme explain...”

    “Go on, then,” she said sulkily. “But it won’t make any difference.”

    “Well,” said Nat uncomfortably, “you’re still only seventeen, Carol; you’re just a—a girl, still.” She glared at him in sulky resentment and he was thankful that he’d just managed not to say “a little girl”. Awkwardly he continued: “But a bloke of twenty-two: he’s not a kid any more. He’s a young man, bugger it!” Carol still looked cross, red, and resentful. “Don’tcha see what I mean? He’s too—uh—too experienced for ya, Carol!”

    “I’m not a baby,” she said sulkily.

    With a vivid memory of himself in his early twenties, Nat replied hastily and unwisely: “You are, compared to him.”

    “I am not!” she cried. “You think I’m stupid and ignorant and—and irresponsible! Well, I’m not! I know what I’m doing!”

    Nat passed a hand over his tousled iron-grey curls and said distractedly: “Yeah, but do ya know what he’s doing?”

    From the doorway Helen said: “I think that’s enough, Nat; let me talk to Carol.”

    Carol stared mutinously as Nat got up heavily and went out and Helen came in and sat down on the spot he’d vacated.

    “It isn’t any use, Aunty Helen,” she said. “I won’t give him up, whatever you say!”

    Helen sighed. “I’m not asking you to give him up, Carol.” Carol gaped. “All I want to say,” said Helen heavily, “is that a young man of his age may expect things from you that you’re not ready to give.”

     Carol went very red.

    “Just be sure you don’t let him talk you into anything you don’t want to do.”

    “I wouldn’t! Anyway, Timothy isn’t like that!”

    Helen sighed again. “They’re all like that; otherwise the human race would have died out thousands of years ago.” Carol goggled at her. “And if you do go to bed with him, for Heaven’s sake use a condom,” said Helen heavily.

    “Aunty Helen!” gasped Carol.

    Helen looked at her narrowly. “You do know about condoms, I hope?”

    Carol’s neck and face were scarlet. “Of course I do,” she replied in a strangled voice. Helen was still giving her a hard look. “I know all about AIDS; we did it at School.”

    “Good; and do you know all about not getting pregnant?” said Helen in a steely voice.

    “Yes— I— Of course I do!” she gasped.

    “Just don’t forget that it’s twice as important for a woman to use protection,” said Helen grimly. “And never trust a man when he tells you you’ll be safe: it’s your body and your life you’re protecting, remember.”

    “Yes,” whispered Carol. Her aunt was silent. She added awkwardly: “I really don’t think Timothy... I mean, he’s nice; I mean—”

    “He can be as nice as he likes; but how many nasty girls has he slept with and how many nasty men have they slept with?” said Helen grimly.

    “Don’t!” uttered Carol faintly.

    “Carol, it’s your life that’s at stake; don’t play stupid games with it!”

    “No; I won’t,” whispered Carol.

    “And if anything does go wrong or you’re worried about anything, you come and talk to me at once!”

    “Yes; all right; thank you, Aunty Helen,” she whispered.

    Helen put a heavy hand on her thin shoulder; she shuddered, and burst into tears.

    “You’re making it all ho-horrible!” she sobbed. “I only—he only kuh-kissed me!”

    Helen sighed very heavily, and patted her shoulder. After a moment she said: “I just want you to be practical, dear. It isn’t horrible to be practical, is it?”

    “Ndo, but—!” she sobbed.

    Going very red, Helen said: “Sex can be wonderful, Carol; only it is a practical thing. Just because you may feel romantic, it doesn’t mean that—that you don’t have to think about what you’re doing.” She looked at her niece without much hope.

    “No,” said Carol, sniffing hard. She blew her nose. “I will be sensible,” she said.

    “Good,” said Helen.

    “And Timothy is quite a sensible person,” said Carol, blushing again. “I don’t think he’d— Well, he’s not a stupid teenager, you know!”

    Helen smiled reluctantly. “No; I suppose that is a point in his favour!” Carol smiled weakly back. Suddenly Helen leant forward and gave her a kiss. Carol’s thin arms closed round her aunt’s solid form.

    “Thank you, Aunty Helen!” she said huskily.

    “That’s all right, dear,” said Helen tiredly. “Just try and remember what I’ve said, won’t you?” She got up and went out, closing Carol’s door after her.

    Nat was hovering in the passage.

    “I suppose you heard all that,” she said.

    “Yeah; I hope ya haven’t put her off it for life.”

    “Be a good thing if I have,” she replied grimly.

    “Aw, come off it!” said Nat, laughing uneasily.

    Helen sighed. “I don’t want to put her off it; only she is too young, Nat!”

    “Yeah. Still, I suppose she’s gotta start some time.”

    “Yes,” said Helen sadly. “I just wish... Oh, well.”

    “She is quite a sensible little thing, really,” he pointed out hopefully.

    “I hope so,” said Helen grimly. She began to walk down the passage. “I keep thinking about what happened to her mother.”

    “Yeah,” said Nat, hurrying in her wake, “but Becky never did have any common sense, did she? I mean, if anyone was gonna get up the duff, it’d be her.”

    “Nat!” said Helen. “Don’t use that expression.”

    “Well, ya know what I mean.”

    “I know precisely what you mean, thank you,” said Helen coldly, “and I’m just praying it doesn’t happen to Carol!” She went into their room.

    “Whatcha doing?” said Nat hopefully as she unzipped her skirt.

    “Getting changed; I told you, I’ve got a Floral Art Guild meeting.”

    “Oh,” he said, his face falling. He retreated to the doorway.

    “There’s some pudding,” said Helen indistinctly from inside her blouse. “Jelly and peaches,” she added, hauling it over her head.

    “Oh,” said Nat without interest. He cupped himself suggestively. “Couldn’t we?” he said, jerking his head at the big bed.

    “No,” said Helen firmly. “And don’t you think you’d better let Damian have some lunch?” she added loudly as he retreated, scowling.

    “No!” he replied angrily. “Sod the little bugger! Sent him to his room, didn’t I? He can bloody well stay there!” He marched down the passage, fuming.

    Damian’s room was opposite Melanie’s, and next to a bathroom. Next to that was a big linen cupboard, and then the master bedroom. Carol’s room lay on the far side of Melanie’s, nearer the stairs. Damian—since Helen and Nat had neither thought to close Carol’s door while they spoke to her nor bothered to lower their voices in the passage—had therefore been strategically placed to overhear the whole thing. He wasn’t terribly interested either in Timothy Revill or in the conversation about sex (for he considered he knew it all), so he hadn’t taken much notice of the talk in Carol’s bedroom. But the remark about his mother had caught his attention and—although he knew all about that, too—he had reddened in angry embarrassment. Nat’s subsequent refusal to let him have his lunch and his callous reference to him as a “little bugger” made him see red. He kicked the leg of his bed (which hurt his foot, as he was wearing sneakers) and, muttering a lot of rude words, mooched sourly over to his window-seat, where he sat for some time, glaring at the cherry tree outside the window which wasn’t strong enough to take his weight, and thinking hard thoughts about all his rotten relations. The fact that he’d left his Walkman at school in his locker—which was why his ears had been free to overhear Nat and Helen in the first place—didn’t help.

    Nat went downstairs, grabbed the last of the jelly off Melanie, and berated her for being a greedy pig. Helen showered and changed, and went out. Melanie, at her father’s orders, sulkily cleared the table and put the dishes in the dishwasher. Then she retreated to her room, put her Walkman on, and buried herself in Devil’s Cub. After a while Damian came in and asked if he could borrow her radio. Melanie had just got to the bit where Vidal thinks he’s eloped with Sophia but has taken Mary instead. She was justifiably annoyed to be interrupted.

    “No. Piss off.”

    “You’re mean as SIN, Melanie Weintraub!” roared Damian. He retreated to his room, and slammed the door.

    Downstairs Nat, who’d dozed off over a fishing magazine, woke with a start. He scowled round the empty living-room, debated briefly going upstairs to find out who’d made that bloody racket, and decided against it. Since Helen wasn’t there to stop him, he got up and got himself a whisky. Sighing, he sat down heavily with it. The bloody humidity must be due to break soon...

    Carol had fallen asleep. The room had new pretty green and white Laura Ashley curtains: Helen had redecorated, changing Lindy’s shades of lilac to tones more suited to Carol’s colouring. The curtains weren’t drawn; after a while the sun was full on her red-gold head.

    Damian was bored to tears. There were no locks on the bedroom doors in the Weintraubs’ house (in fact there weren’t even any locks on the bathroom doors, an aberration which Damian found intensely embarrassing), so although he’d have liked to have a wank, he didn’t dare to. There was nothing to read in his bedroom except the school texts in his satchel. After some time he worked up the courage to approach Melanie again.

    “If ya won’t lend me your radio, c’n I borrow a book?”

    Mary had just shot Vidal with his own pistol! Melanie, cheeks flushed and heart thudding, roared: “NO! Get out of my room!”

    Nat had dozed off again. He came to with a start. Were those bloody kids at it again?

    “Aw, I haven’t got anything to do,” croaked Damian plaintively.

    “You’re not supposed to have anything to do, you’ve been sent to your room,” she replied coldly.

    Encouraged by the fact that she wasn’t roaring at him, Damian said: “Couldn’t I just have a book for a lend? I’ll give it back to you as soon as I’ve finished it.”

    Melanie had never forgiven him for the time he’d lost her copy of Coot Club. “No. Go away.”

    “I’ll give it back by teatime!” he promised recklessly.

    “No, ya won’t, because I’m not lending it to ya.”

    Damian had spotted a Wilbur Smith in her bookcase. He edged towards it. “Just a paperback,” he mumbled.

    “No! You’d pinch, it, I know you! Go away!”

    “I would not pinch it!”

    “Either that or lose it, like ya lost my Coot Club.”

    “I would not! That was ages ago!” cried Damian. “Don’t be so mean!”

    “I’m mean as sin,” pointed out Melanie. “And if you don’t get out of my room in two seconds flat I’m gonna scream!”

    “Aw—please!”

    Melanie opened her mouth wide.

    “All right, I’m going!” he roared. “You’re a rotten little SHIT, Melanie Weintraub; you’re as mean as your rotten FATHER!”

    Melanie hurled a pillow at him. He dodged, and slammed the door. Melanie got up and picked up the pillow. She opened her door. Damian glared sulkily at her from his doorway. “And don’t come into my room again, Damian Rosen!” she shrieked. “You stink like a pair of ten-day-old used socks!” She closed her door with a crash.

    “I do NOT!” roared Damian. “You’re a mean, rotten, fat PIG!”

    “Cut out that bloody row, the pair of you, before I come up there and teach you a lesson!” roared Nat from the foot of the  stairs.

    “Aw, get stuffed!” muttered Damian, sotto voce. He retreated into his room, but didn’t slam the door.

    The noise had woken Carol. Her head was splitting. She stumbled over to the bathroom and splashed her face with cold water. She couldn’t find any Panadol. She tapped on Melanie’s door. “Melanie, have you got any Panadol?”

    “No; go away,” growled Melanie, not looking up.

    “I’ve got an awful headache.”

    “Good! Go away!”

     Red and scowling, Carol returned to her own room. Her head was very hot, and thumping unmercifully. Should she go and look in Aunty Helen’s bathroom? But what if Uncle Nat came in? She was sure he’d heard everything Aunty Helen had said to her; she just couldn’t face him... Only her head did hurt; perhaps if she was quick... Why should he come upstairs just at that moment, anyway? ...Only what if he did? She sat on the edge of her bed, dithering.

    Damian came in. “C’n I borrow your radio?” he said in a whiny voice.

    “It’s broken,” said Carol indifferently.

    “It is not! You were listening to it yesterday!”

    “Yes, and now it’s broken!” said Carol crossly.

    “How is it broken?” demanded Damian suspiciously.

    “It—won’t—go,” said Carol loudly and clearly. “Go away, Damian!”

    “Maybe I could fix it,” he said hopefully.

    “Yeah, like you fixed Grandma’s hairdryer,” agreed Carol scathingly.

    Damian reddened. “I nearly fixed it.”

    “That’s not what Grandpa said; he said you got your looks from Dad and your brains from Mum,” recalled Carol with enjoyment. “And that it was a great pity it wasn’t the other way about!”

    “Yeah, well what about you, Miss Smarty-Pants?” sneered Damian furiously. “Where do ya reckon ya got your brains from?”

    “Oh, go away, you tiresome little boy!” snapped Carol.

    “Well, it wasn’t from Dad, I can tell you!” roared Damian, almost at breaking point.

    Carol had no idea what he was implying, but her head was throbbing unbearably and she was still very upset over the earlier encounters with her aunt and uncle—not the least upsetting aspect of these being her elders’ view of her as a sexual being.

    “Push off and play with your toys, you stupid little twerp!” she shouted.

    Damian’s last vestige of control snapped. “Well, if I’m a twerp at least I’m not a BASTARD!” he roared.

    “Get out, Damian!” yelled Carol.

    “You think you’re so bloody smart; well I can tell you you never got your brains from Dad, because he wasn’t your bloody father at all!” roared Damian.

    Carol stared at him. Damian, terrified at what he’d just heard himself say, stared back, mouth open and eyes very round. “What?” she said faintly.

    “Nothing,” he muttered.

    Carol sprang up and grabbed him by the upper-arms. “What did you say?” she said through her teeth.

    “Nothing—ow! Leggo!”

    “Tell—me—what—you—meant!” gritted Carol, shaking him fiercely.

    “Ow! Nothing! Let go!”

    “Tell me what you meant, you miserable little worm!” she shouted, and stamped on his foot.

    “Ouch!” shrieked Damian, wrenching himself out of her grasp. “All right, if you wanna know, you mean, rotten bitch! Dad wasn’t your father! Everybody in the family knows about it except you! And what’s more Mum had to get married because you were on the way!”

    Carol swiped him across the face. “You’re a rotten, mean, stinking little LIAR, Damian Rosen!”

    Backing away, Damian roared: “I am NOT! It’s true! Ask anybody! Ask Uncle Nat, if you don’t believe me! Ask Melanie! You’re a BASTARD!”

    “Get into your room!” said a terrible voice.

    Damian gave a terrified gasp, and bolted into his room. Nat heard him burst into hoarse tears there, as Carol shrieked: “It’s not TRUE! You’re lying! It’s not true!” She stood in her doorway, panting and trembling. “It’s not true, is it, Uncle Nat?” she said wildly.

    “Uh—look, come and sit down, sweetheart,” he croaked.

    Carol burst into tears, and rushed to throw herself on the bed.

    “Aw, fuck,” he muttered. Uncertainly he followed her. “Uh—now, look, sweetheart... Christ, don’t cry like that!”

    “Go away!” sobbed Carol. “Leave me alone!”

    Nat recalled that leaving her alone hadn’t done that much good in the past. He sat down on the bed next to her. “Come on, now, sweetheart,” he muttered. He touched her shoulder gingerly.

    “What’s all the row about?” said Melanie’s voice crossly.

    “Buggeration!” muttered Nat. He turned his head. “Piss off; and shut that bloody door after you.”

    Melanie stood her ground. “What’s she bawling for now?” she asked, without sympathy, but without any evidence of malice.

    Nat opened his mouth to send her packing but Carol suddenly looked up. “He said Dad wasn’t my father; he said I’m a bastard!” She gulped loudly, and stared pleadingly at her cousin, teary eyes wide with mixed hope and fear.

    “What, Damian? He’s a nerd,” replied Melanie uneasily. She began to back away. “Well, I’ll just—”

    “It’s true, isn’t it?” cried Carol loudly to Nat. “Look at her! She knows! It’s written all over her!” She laughed wildly.

    “Here! That’s enough of that!” said Nat, grabbing her and pulling her roughly against him. Carol laughed again, beat her fists against his chest, and collapsed in sobs. Over her head he said grimly to his scarlet, dumbfounded offspring: “Nip downstairs and get us the brandy.”

    Melanie gulped, nodded, and disappeared.

    “Ssh, sweetheart,” said Nat. “Lotsa people have these sorta things in their family; it doesn’t mean a thing.” Carol went on sobbing. “Jim was your Dad to all intents and purposes,” he said.

    “He was!” she sobbed.

    “Yeah; couldn’ta loved you more if you hadda been his own kid.”

    “Uncle Na-at!” she wailed, clutching him.

    Melanie appeared in the doorway, red and panting, clutching a bottle of whisky. “I couldn’t find any brandy! Will this do?” she gasped.

    Nat didn’t bother to point out that the brandy was in the decanter. “Yeah,” he said, grabbing it off her. “Get us a glass, for God’s sake.”

    Melanie looked round her wildly, and shot out.

    Carol was still crying, and clutching Nat’s chest. He took a slug straight from the bottle, and patted her slender back.

    “Here!” panted Melanie, handing him her own precious tooth-mug, which had a picture of Tom Kitten on it and dated from her infancy.

    Nat tried to force whisky on Carol. Finally, sniffing, she sat up and swallowed a bit. “Ugh!” she said, pushing it away.

     “Come on, wee bit more,” he said.

    “No; I’ve got an awful headache.”

    “Get her something for it, for God’s sake,” he said, scowling, to the hovering Melanie.

    Melanie disappeared. Carol sighed, and leaned her head into Nat’s shoulder.

    “That’s better,” he grunted.

    “Does everybody know?” she said sadly.

    Nat cleared his throat. “Well, I wouldn’t say...” He inadvertently met her eye. “Well, most of ’em, I s’pose,” he finished lamely.

    Carol sighed, and blew her nose. “How come Damian, knows, and I didn’t?” she asked bitterly.

    “Don’t ask me,” returned Nat sourly. “I never told ’im. Far’s I know, nobody else did, either.”

    “Probably listened behind a door,” she said with resignation.

    “No,” said Melanie, reappearing with Helen’s tooth-glass and a packet of Panadol tablets. “Allyson told him.”

    “She would!” they chorused. Carol smiled sheepishly at him.

    “That’s better,” he said. “Now, get these down ya.” Carol washed down a couple of tablets. “All right?” he said. She nodded. “Come on, Mel, we’ll leave her to herself for a bit,” he said.

    Carol sighed, and lay down. Nat drew her curtains and propelled Melanie bodily from the room, closing the door after them. In the passage he scowled at Damian’s door. “S’pose I oughta...” he muttered.

    “Are you going to belt the living daylights out of him?” she asked eagerly.

    “What good ’ud that do?” he replied heavily.

    Melanie’s face fell. “It might teach him a lesson,” she suggested hopefully.

    Nat sighed.

    “Go on, Dad!”

    “Shove off, Mel,” he said wearily. “Whaddever it was you were doing before, go and do it.”

    “Aren’t you even gonna—?” she began, very squeaky.

    “Get going!” He gave her a bit of a push. Sulkily Melanie shambled off to her room.

    Nat scowled. He glared at Damian’s door. “Better get it over with,” he muttered. He opened the door.

    Damian was squashed into the corner of his window-seat. He shrank when he saw his uncle.

    “I’m not gonna belt you,” Nat said tiredly. “Though God knows you deserve it.”

    Damian goggled at him.

    “What the fuck are we gonna do with you, Damian?” said Nat. “I s’pose you know you could really have sent Carol off the rails, telling her that; ’specially after the state she was in most of last year.”

    “I didn’t mean...” he mumbled.

    “No, I dare say ya didn’t, but ya said it, didn’tcha?” Damian was silent. “Well, for a start,” said Nat heavily. “no more pictures for you for the rest of this term. And I’ll have a word with your grandfather about that bloody computer of yours—get him to put it away till the May holidays, too.”

    Damian went very red. His lower lip trembled. Nat saw with relief that this inspiration, which had come to him quite on the spur of the moment, had been spot-on. “And for the time being,” he added with satisfaction, “you can get downstairs and clean the car for me.”

    “All right,” said Damian in a very small voice.

    “And for this weekend,” added Nat as his nephew went out, “you can have your meals up here in your room—because if you imagine any of us wanna look at your spiteful mug, ya got another think coming!”

    Damian said nothing, but his face was very red. He went quickly downstairs.

    Nat heaved a heavy sigh. He’d only had the ruddy car waxed last weekend: the kid was undoubtedly gonna ruin its surface. Still, he’d had to think of something; and mowing the lawn was no good—in the hot weather they'd been having it had practically shrivelled up. He felt pretty shrivelled up himself, come to think of it; he went down to the kitchen and drank a very cold beer straight from the can. Then he got out another can and, moving very slowly, went into the living-room with it.

    When Helen came home, Nat, Melanie and Carol were in the family-room watching a video and eating a huge meal of Chinese takeaways. “You might have waited for me,” she said. “And where’s Damian?”

    “In his room,” said Nat. “And we waited for you as long as we could; we’ve had this lot in the oven for over half an hour, eh, girls?”

    “Yesh,” agreed Melanie with her mouth full. She swallowed. “Only it was getting overcooked, so we thought we’d better start.”

    “Oh,” said Helen, sitting down. “Has Damian had his?”

    “Yes,” said Nat.

    “No,” said Melanie.

    Helen stared at them.

    “Having it now—in ’is room,” explained Nat. “He’s in the doghouse.”

    “What’s he done now?”

    “Tell you later,” he said hurriedly.

    Helen sighed, and took a fried dim-sim.

    “Have a plate, Aunty Helen,” said Carol quickly. “And some of this.” She poured her a glass of something.

    Helen tasted it, and gasped. “What on earth’s this?”

    “Rice wine,” said Nat, grinning. “Got it from that place near the Golden Horse; good, eh?”

    “No, it’s horrible,” said Helen, picking up a fork and beginning to eat the food that Carol had put on her plate. “What are you watching?” She reached for the soy sauce.

    There was a slight pause.

    “Animal House,” said Nat sheepishly.

    “What—that disgusting thing? Oh, really, Nat!”

    “‘S not disgusting; ’s funny,” said Melanie, not taking her eyes off the screen.

    Helen drank some wine. She ate hungrily.

    Nat, Melanie and Carol all laughed uproariously. Helen sniffed.

    “Anyone want this last bit of duck?” asked Nat after a while.

    “You have it, dear,” said Helen vaguely, her eyes on the screen.

    “Can’t manage it,” he said regretfully. He poured the last of the wine into his glass, as Helen chuckled richly.

    “Whadd’e say? Whadd’e say?” cried Melanie eagerly.

    “I’m not sure,” replied Carol regretfully.

    “Mum? Whadd’e say?”

    “Never mind,” said Helen repressively.

    Nat grinned. He poured half the rice wine out of his glass and into Helen’s, and watched with great pleasure as she murmured vaguely: “Ta,” and raised the glass to her lips.

    It was only half-past eight when the video finished. Helen made them tidy away the debris of the takeaways and wash their hands, but raised no objections to their having another video.

    “Well, lessee...” said Nat.

    “How many videos did you get?” asked Helen in astonishment.

    “They had a special offer,” he mumbled.

    “Five for the price of three,” explained Melanie.

    “Five!” she cried.

    “Let’s have the James Bond one,” said Melanie eagerly, ignoring her mother.

    “It’s an old one,” Carol warned her.

    “I like the old ones; they’re more...” She searched for a word. “More serious than the later ones,” she decided. “He’s a much sexier James Bond, too, isn’t he?”

    “Really, Melanie,” said Helen. “What is it, anyway, Nat?”

    “Dr No,” said Nat, smiling a little, putting it in the machine.

     “Oh,” said Helen in a feeble voice. “Sean Connery.”

    “Mm,” he agreed. “Kids off the sofa!” he said loudly to Melanie.

    “Aw, Da-ad!” she grumbled, getting up.

    “Come on, old girl,” he said to Helen.

    They watched Dr No with rapt attention, Melanie sprawled on the rug (though she could just as well have taken Nat’s vacated chair), Carol curled in a large armchair, Helen on the sofa, and Nat on the sofa, too, with his arm round his wife.

    … “Well?” demanded Helen, sitting up in bed later that night in a fresh nightie, showered and pleasantly replete.

    Nat waggled his eyebrows at her. “Well, indeed!” He shed his dressing-gown.

    Helen swallowed. “What about Damian?”

    “Aw—him.” Nat got slowly into bed, looking rather dashed.

    “Come on—what did he do?”

    “Couldn’t we just—?” he suggested, touching her thigh.

    “No; it’d be like the sword of Thingy hanging over me,” said Helen, pushing his hand away.

    “Eh?”

    “The suspense,” she explained.

    “Oh. Well,” he said gloomily, “if ya really wanna know...”

    “Oh, dear!” said Helen when he’d finished.

    “Yeah,” he agreed gloomily. “Do ya think I took the right tack? –With that little sod, Damian,” he elaborated as she looked blank.

    “Yes, of course: it was very naughty of him. Of course, he’s been under a strain this last year, too, poor boy... Only we couldn’t let him get away with something like that.”

    “No; ’s what I thought.”

    “Mm. Carol didn’t seem too bad,” she said cautiously.

    “No; doesn’t seem to be brooding, eh?”

    “No,” she agreed. “We’ll have to keep an eye on her over the next few weeks, though.”

    “Mm; come down in the bed, old girl.”

    Helen wriggled down beside him and kissed him. She saw with surprise, when she stopped, that his eyes were still closed. “God, I needed that,” he muttered.

    “Yes,” agreed Helen in an uncertain voice.

    His eyes opened. “Take that bloody nightie off, for Chrissakes.”

    Helen sat up and began struggling with her nightie.

    “Come on!” he said. He tugged at it impatiently.

    “Nat—don’t; you’ll tear it; what on earth’s got into you?”

    Nat didn’t reply. He wrestled the nightie off her, and began fondling her breasts. “Jesus,” he muttered.

    “Don’t say that,” she murmured, sinking back against her pillows.

    “Shuddup!” he said fiercely. A hand closed tightly over one breast; he bent and sucked hard at the other.

    “Darling,” said Helen faintly.

    Nat mumbled something against her.

    “What?”

    “I said I love you, dammit!” he said loudly and crossly.

    “Oh,” said Helen, flushing richly. Her arms closed round his back. “I love you, too,” she acknowledged hoarsely.

    His hand caressed her nipple. “It’s been a Helluva day,” he mumbled.

    “Yes,” said Helen. She turned out her bedside light, and hugged him strongly.

    “That’s better,” he said. “Kiss me, old lady.”

    Helen kissed him; he immediately rolled on top of her and began kissing her fiercely back, panting and sighing, fondling her desperately, as if they were both in their twenties all over again.

    … “Feel better now?” murmured Helen, when it was all over and he was lying half on, half off her, in a collapsed, sweating heap.

    “Just a bit!” he panted, laughing, and rolled off her.

    “Me, too,” she acknowledged, smiling.

    Nat cupped her large face gently, and kissed her tenderly. “God, I missed you this arvo, old girl! Tell ya the truth, I was scared outa me wits, having to tackle Carol by meself.”

    Helen had gathered that. “You did all right.”

    “Hope so,” he mumbled into her neck.

    About ten minutes later he was asleep. He’d left the bathroom light on. Helen lay very still for at least twenty minutes, but it was no good: she eased out of bed and went to turn it off. When she came back and got cautiously into bed he stirred, groaned, rolled onto his back, and muttered something. “What?” she said. Nat groaned again, rolled over onto his side and, breathing heavily, was apparently fast asleep. Helen stared into the dark with a puzzled frown on her wide forehead. She must have misheard him—perhaps it had been “Bloody Damian”; only it hadn’t sounded like that, it had sounded like “Bloody Macdonald”. But they didn’t know anyone called—well, there was that Mrs Macdonald from Melanie’s Play Group, but that was years ago... Oh, and Peter’s boss, Dr Macdonald, of course, but they hardly knew him... Perhaps he was dreaming about takeaways, she thought with a tiny smile, and it had been “Bloody McDonald’s!” She turned on her side, and was soon asleep.

    Poor Nat had almost three days’ grace. Then, on the Tuesday evening, when everyone except him and Carol had gone to bed, and he was yawning, thinking he’d go too, and wondering whether Helen, who seemed to have spent most of the day closeted with the hens from the Floral Art Guild, would be in the mood for it, she said: “Uncle Nat?”

    “Yeah?”

    “Who was my real father?”

    Nat gulped. “Uh—Becky never told anyone that,” he said desperately, feeling himself start to sweat.

    “Oh,” said Carol. Her pale forehead knotted. Nat watched her uneasily. “Not even Grandma?” she said at last.

    “Uh—why don’tcha ask her?” he replied, ungallantly passing the buck.

    “Ye-es...” She was still frowning. “Was he married?”

    “I dunno, sweetheart,” said Nat hurriedly. He licked his lips nervously.

    “I expect he was.” She looked up at him suddenly. “He must have had red hair, don’t you think? That must be where I get it from.”

    “I dunno!” he gasped.

    “It must be; that’s why I don’t look like anyone else in the family.”

    Nat eyed her uneasily.

    Caro sighed. “I’d like to know; I feel...”

    “What?” he croaked, as she didn’t seem to be going to finish.

    “I don’t know, exactly; ...odd.”

    The sweating Nat replied hoarsely: “It doesn’t really matter, Poppet; I mean, it was Jim who brought you up; I mean, he was your real father, in a way, wasn’t he?”

    “Yes, he was,” she agreed. “Only it’s a funny feeling, not to know who—who your biological parent was.”

    “Yeah.” He edged towards the sideboard where the grog was kept.

    “It’s very unsettling,” said Carol.

    Nat went rapidly to the sideboard and knocked back a brandy. “Try not to think about it,” he suggested lamely.

    “It’s impossible not to think about it,” she replied. “It keeps kind of coming back, the moment I stop thinking about something else.”

    “Couldn’tcha kind of try concentrating on your varsity work, or something?”

    She sighed. “Ye-es; there’s that horrible essay we have to do for Dr Macdonald...”

    Nat started violently.

    “Only I can’t think about that all the time.”

    “No, I s’pose not.” He rubbed his hands down the side of his slacks, and waited for her to mention Macdonald’s red hair. She didn’t. “What about your boyfriend? Try thinking about him, eh?” he croaked, in a pathetic attempt at jollity.

    Carol went very red. “Do you think I ought to tell him, Uncle Nat?”

    He goggled at her. “What the Hell for?”

    “Well, I... Well, it kind of seems dishonest not to, somehow.”

    Such delicate scruples would never have occurred to Nat. “Balls!” he said flatly.

    “I feel as if I—I’m playing a rôle, or something; I feel as if I’m lying to him, in a way.”

    “Aw, crap,” he said uneasily. “Won’t make a blind bit of difference to him, ya know!”

    “No, I know; only...”

    “Come on, love, we’re not living in the bloody nineteenth century, ya know!”

    “No Name,” said Carol, smiling suddenly. “No, I know nobody would care, these days, but that isn’t the point.”

    Nat didn’t recognize the reference; he said energetically: “No, ’course nobody cares; and anyway, you have got a name: Jim’s your father on your birth certificate, ya know!”

    Carol’s eyes filled with tears. “He was a very good man!” she said in a choked voice.

    “Yeah; ‘course ‘e was,” agreed Nat in embarrassment.

    She wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand, and said: “I wish I’d known, when he was alive.”

    “Wouldn’ta made any difference to him,” he muttered.

    “No, but it would to me! I could have told him... Well, I could have thanked him!”

    “He was very fond of your mother, y’know,” he mumbled.

    “Yes, he must have been,” said Carol, sighing.

    “No; what I mean is,” said Nat, turning puce, “he got something out of it, too—see?”

    “Oh...” she said slowly. “Yes.”

    Nat began to edge towards the door. “Well—”“

    “But do you think I should tell Timothy, Uncle Nat?”

    Nat sighed heavily. “Tell him if you want to, sweetheart.”

    She  frowned. “I feel as if I’m playing a rôle, or something,” she repeated. “I feel as if I’m not really me.”

    “Oh.” He swallowed convulsively.

    “I wish I knew...” She frowned again. “Maybe he—he was someone really rotten; maybe he deserted Mum!”

    “Balls,” said Nat uneasily.

    “Maybe he was a criminal!”

    “Come on, Carol, you’re exaggerating!” he said crossly.

    “Yes, maybe... Only how can I know?”

    “Look, you’re you; it doesn’t matter who your bloody father was!”

    “It does to me,” she said obstinately.

    Nat sighed heavily. “Don’t keep brooding about it, sweetheart; it won’t do any good.”

    Carol ignored this. She asked gloomily: “Do you think that’s where I get my rotten temper from?”

    “Shouldn’t think so,” he mumbled. “Look at Old Jerry—flies off the handle, too, doesn’t ’e?” He gave a silly laugh.

    “Ye-es; But he’s not... vindictive, like I am.” Nat was about to say “Come off it”, but she added miserably: “I stamped on Damian’s foot.”

    “Good!” he growled. “Felt like stamping on ‘is bloody foot meself!”

    Carol gave a startled laugh.

    “That’s better,” he said. “Come on, Poppet: bedtime; I’m bushed.” He yawned widely.

    She came slowly across the room.

    Nat switched the sitting-room light out, and put his arm round her.

    “I think I will ask Grandma,” she said thoughtfully.

    Bugger! Now he’d have to ring up Belinda and re-hash the whole bloody business. “Yeah,” he said weakly.

    “Goodnight, Uncle Nat,” she said, looking up at him.

    “Goodnight, sweetheart; try not to brood, eh?” he sighed, kissing her forehead.

    “No,” said Carol obediently. She hugged him.

    Nat held her tight for an instant. He wanted to say that that Timothy Whatsisname was a lucky young sod, but didn’t quite dare to. He watched wistfully as the neat young behind in pale green shorts disappeared up the stairs.

    Unfortunately Timothy Revill’s reservations about the needfulness of Carol’s knowing her parentage were the same as Nat’s, and he expressed them rather more trenchantly. Opposition, as it usually did, made Carol more determined.

    “Well, I don’t care!” she said, glaring at him mutinously as they sat in the stuffy student caff at Puriri. “I’m going to find out! Grandma’s coming back from Wellington on Friday morning; I’ll ask her on Saturday.”

    Timothy swallowed a stodgy hunk of filled roll with difficulty. “What’s the point of that? I thought you said your uncle reckons she doesn’t know anything. And anyway, you’ll only upset her—she’s an old lady, isn’t she?”

    “So what?” said Carol, pouting sulkily.

    Timothy didn’t recognize that this unpleasant reaction was due largely to fright at the unwelcome reminder of her grandmother’s mortality. He replied: “You don’t wanna go reminding her of the past and getting her all worked up for nothing.”

    “Grandma isn’t like that!” said Carol, very red.

    Timothy’s sole surviving grandmother specialized in getting all worked up and throwing her descendants into tizzes. He replied firmly: “All old ladies are like that. Do you want this bit of beetroot?”

    “No,” said Carol crossly.

    Timothy left the slice of beetroot on the side of his plate, and embarked on an enormous piece of Sally Lunn.

    “You’ll get fat,” she said, looking at it resentfully.

    “I never get fat,” he replied thickly. He swallowed. “You oughta eat more.” He took another bite.

    “Don’t you start!” said Carol crossly. “You’re as bad as Aunty Helen! Anyway—” She broke off, reddening.

    Timothy swallowed. “Anyway what?” he said suspiciously.

    “Nothing,” said Carol, absolutely scarlet, glaring out at the browning lawn.

    “Anyway what?” he persisted loudly.

    “I’m broke,” she mumbled.

    “Moron!” said Timothy scathingly. “Why didn’tcha say?” He fished in his pocket, and produced a handful of loose change. “Go and get yourself something else to eat, for Pete’s sake.”

    “Well—all right—but I’ll pay you back.”

    “Yeah, yeah,” he said tolerantly.

    As it was almost two o’clock the queues had disappeared, but so had most of the food. Carol came back with two egg sandwiches and a piece of Sally Lunn. She handed Timothy his change, and bit hungrily into her first egg sandwich.

    “Anyway,” she said defiantly when she’d finished it, “I’m going to ask Grandma.”

    Timothy sighed heavily. “Look, no-one cares who your bloody father was. You’re still you, aren’t you? How can it possibly be significant who your biological father was?” He raised his eyebrows superciliously.

    “Don’t he so superior!” said Carol crossly. “You can’t possibly know what it’s like; you’ve never been in my position!”

    Timothy was silent.

    “Have you?” she asked aggressively.

    “No,” he admitted. “I still think you’re making a mistake, though.”

    “Why?” demanded Carol, pouting.

    Timothy went rather red. “What if it turns out to be someone you don’t want it to be?”

    “At least I’ll know! Isn’t it better to know the truth, rather than to remain in ignorance?”

    Timothy was still young enough to subscribe to this belief. “Yeah; I suppose so,” he agreed glumly.

    Carol ate her second sandwich. Timothy stared out across the campus. Suddenly he gave a little laugh. “There goes Dr Macdonald!”

    “So what?” said Carol blankly. She took a bite of Sally Lunn.

    “He’s got red hair, like yours; supposing it turns out to be him?”

    “Hah, hah; very funny,” said Carol, without interest or amusement.

    Timothy smirked. He thought it was a very good joke.

    After a long silence Nat said gloomily to Peter: “She’s gonna come over and talk to Belinda about it tomorrow.”

    “Da; you said.”

    “Well, do ya reckon... Whaddaya reckon?”

    “She is nearly eighteen,” pointed out Belinda. “I don’t really think... I think it’s time she knew the truth.”

    “Yeah,” said Nat heavily.

    Peter said hesitantly: “I don’t suppose we could leave it until she is eighteen and comes into her share of her parents’ estate? Then perhaps when she goes to see Micky he could tell her officially—as her solicitor?”

    “What?” said Nat indignantly. “And leave the poor kid in suspense for another two and a half months?”

    “It would not really be suspense,” he murmured. “Not if Belinda were to say she knows nothing.” The two New Zealanders glared at him in horrified indignation. Peter gave a shrug. He could see them both registering it as a very foreign shrug. “Bof!” he said.

    “What the fuck does that mean?” demanded Nat evilly.

    Peter didn’t attempt to translate; anyway it was untranslatable. “Nothink; I mean—it was just a suggestion... Have it your own way,” he ended weakly.

    Nat turned his shoulder on him. “She seems to be behaving quite sensibly over it, at least,” he said to Belinda.

    “Yes; poor little thing.”

    They both sighed.

    “I could tell her, if ya like,” offered Nat abruptly.

    Startled, Belinda replied: “Oh! Thank you, Nat, but I don’t think... I think it would be better coming from me.”

    “Ye-ah,” he replied uneasily.

    In spite of his own genuine concern, Peter observed this unease with some amusement. It was plain to him that Nat understood as clearly as he did himself that Carol was very much not a woman’s woman and would probably take such a revelation far better from Nat than she would from her grandmother; and that Belinda, perceptive about many matters though she undoubtedly was, did not understand this at all.

    “I wonder if possibly it would be better if you both told her—together?” he murmured. “She does get on very well with Nat, does she not? And you have certainly handled her extremely capably, so far,” he added to Nat, smiling his nice smile.

    Nat looked at Lady Cohen with an expression of humble hope.

    “Yes,” she agreed, sighing. “I must say—if you wouldn’t mind, Nat, dear; it’d be much easier with—with your moral support.”

    Nat’s heavy face flushed. “Okay, then,” he growled.

    “Good,” said Peter. Nat and Belinda were looking pleased with themselves. They appeared not to have realized... Rather sharply he said: “I suppose you do both realoize we have no proof!”

    Their heads turned quickly. They goggled at him.

    “What?” said Belinda faintly.

    “Aw, come off it, Peter!” exclaimed Nat, recovering from his stupefaction. “Whaddabout all that business with that bloody dinner party of yours? You said yourself bloody Macdonald virtually admitted it!”

    “Yes, that’s right, Peter, dear; you did,” put in Belinda anxiously.

    Peter repressed a sigh. “Yes; of course it is obvious the man is Carol’s father.”

    “Well, then?” said Nat loudly, glaring.

    “But we cannot tell Carol just like that! First we must face Hamish with it!”

    There was a nasty silence.

    “Oh, fuck,” said Nat slowly at last. “I never thought of that.”

    “You see,” said Peter quickly and in rather too kind a voice: “it is possible that if we tell Carol first, she goes to speak to Hamish—

    “Yeah, yeah; ya don’t need to spell it out!” interrupted Nat.  He got up heavily and went to pour himself another whisky.

    “Besoides, there is just the possibility...” Peter’s voice trailed off.

    Nat gulped whisky. He gave Peter a nasty look. “What possibility?”

    Belinda said quickly: “Just the merest possibility—of course it isn’t really likely—but just the merest possibility—that—that Dr Macdonald isn’t Carol’s father, after all.”

    “WHAT?” cried Nat. He stomped back to his chair and threw himself into it, glaring.

    Peter said hurriedly: “Yes, though common sense indicates that he must be. But we must give him the chance to—eugh—to defend himself.”.

    “Defend—! I’d give ’im ‘defend’!” spluttered Nat.

    “It is only fair, Nat, dear,” said Belinda anxiously.

    “All right, then!” he said angrily. “When do we see the joker?”

     Belinda and Peter looked at each other uncertainly. “Don’t you think...?” she murmured.

    “Da; perhaps maybe it is better if I speak to him alone,” said Peter.

    “Yeah, an’ give him a chance to wriggle out of it!” cried Nat bitterly.

    “No, no; I do assure you, Nat—”

    “Yes, ya will!” He swallowed the remains of his whisky in one gulp.

    “Nat, dear,” murmured Belinda in faint reproach; it was, however, perfectly obvious to Peter that she shared Nat’s doubts.

    He said hesitantly: “Perhaps if I approach him initially—”

    “Initially!” said Nat scornfully. “—Always stick together,” he muttered.

    “Who do?” asked Peter in genuine surprise.

    Turning puce, Nat mumbled: “Bloody intellectual types.”

    Peter had to swallow hard.

    “Peter does know him,” said Belinda. “Don’t you think... Well, it would be better, coming from him, don’t you think, Nat?”

    Nat still looked sulky. Peter and Belinda looked at him anxiously. After a while he muttered: “I suppose there is just the outside chance... I still reckon it was him, though!”

    “So do I,” agreed Peter. “Although—” He broke off.

    “Although what?” demanded Nat, glaring.

    “Well, you know, one can understand Hamish’s not remembering Becky, after about seventeen years; one recognoizes that she must have changed much in that toime”—he glanced rather apologetically at Becky’s mother, but Belinda merely nodded understandingly—“but what has always puzzled me, I must admit”,—they were now both beginning to look somewhat indignant and Peter knew they were thinking he was introducing unnecessary intellectual complications—“is whoy he didn’t at least recognoize the name.”

    “Oh—that!” said Nat scornfully.

    Peter goggled at him.

    “Thought you knew,” said Nat.

    “Yes,” agreed Belinda.

    “Knew what?” asked Peter, flushing.

    “Not being a Cohen, and that,” said Nat obscurely.

    “A silly stage Becky was going through, Peter, dear,” said Belinda quickly. “Socialism and—and all that sort of thing.”

    “Calling ’erself Rebekah Köhn and that—with a K; not letting on she was old Jerry’s daughter,” explained Nat.

    “I see... Rebekah with a K, do you mean, Nat?” he asked cautiously.

    “Eh? No—Köhn with a K; well, Rebekah too, I suppose, yeah.”

    Peter hit his knee in triumph. “So that is it!” he cried. Nat and Belinda looked blankly at him. “No wonder Hamish did not recognoize the name!” he said pleasedly.

    “Yeah,” agreed Nat, with an unflattering lack of interest in Peter’s satisfaction at having located this missing part of the puzzle.

    “It explains a lot...” he murmured.

    “Yeah, I  dare say it does,” said Nat pointedly, “but when are we gonna see the joker?”

    Belinda looked anxiously at Peter.

    “Perhaps maybe if you could put off seeing Carol until Sunday, Belinda; then I could speak to Hamish tomorrow.”

    “We could, ya mean!” said Nat grimly.

    “Nat, I do assure you—” Peter began earnestly.

    “Stop assuring me!” said Nat aggrievedly. “You’re not even one of the family!” Very flushed, he glared at Peter.

    “Nat, dear!” Belinda reproved him.

    Suddenly Peter gave a strange laugh. “Nor are you!”.

    “Eh? Shit, nor I am!” Nat laughed sheepishly. “It’s only...”

    “I am the newcomer; also an odd foreigner into the bargain,” said Peter drily.

    “Oh, no, Peter, dear!” cried Belinda.

    Nat grinned. “Yeah, something like that,” he admitted. “Sorry, Peter.”

    “Not at all,” said Peter, his mouth twitching.

    To Belinda’s bewildered relief they both suddenly burst out laughing.

    “We do it together—okay?” conceded Peter.

    “Yeah,” agreed Nat, grinning.

    “Only—” He hesitated.

    “Only what?” said Nat suspiciously.

    Peter’s curly mouth twitched. “Only please to remember I am not very good at First Aid!”

    Nat chuckled complacently.

Next chapter:

https://themembersoftheinstitute.blogspot.com/2023/01/further-revelations.html