Under The Volcano

32

Under The Volcano

    “Just a minute; she’s in the shower,” said Judith Woods. She put down the receiver and went to the bathroom door. “Marianne! Pho-one!” she called loudly.

    “Who was that?” hissed Micky anxiously.

    “Don’t worry; only some female,” replied his daughter.

    Micky flushed, but stayed hovering anxiously at Susan’s elbow.

    “Oh,” said Marianne uncertainly when Susan had issued her invitation. “I— That’s very nice of you, Susan, but... I’ve got a friend staying with me,” she ended lamely.

    “Bring her, too,” said Susan quickly.

    “Well, I— Hang on, I’ll ask her.”

    She reported that they’d both love to come. “But will that be too many?” she asked anxiously. “Will your father mind?”

    “’Course not!” said Susan breezily. It had occurred forcibly to her that if she attached herself firmly to the friend, Marianne would have to pair off with Dad, wouldn’t she?

    “I hope you will enjoy it, Judith,” said Marianne, after Susan had rung off, having given her a stream of instructions about when and where to meet them, what to bring, and what not to bring—no transistors because they drove Dad ropeable (Micky had winced) and no lunch because they’d see to all that.

    Judith beamed. “I’m sure I will; I’m looking forward to it.”

    “Have you been sailing before?”

    “No.” She looked at Marianne’s anxious face, and laughed. “Don’t worry; I’ve been on the Cook Strait ferry in all weathers, and I’ve never been sea-sick!”

    “Oh, good. But perhaps I should warn you: it isn’t a very fancy boat.”

    “That’s okay,” replied Judith in some surprise. “I’m not very fancy.”

    “No-o,” agreed Marianne, eyeing Judith’s crisp, well-ironed navy cotton shorts and uncreased blue and white sleeveless blouse uneasily. “And, um, Susan’s quite young, she’s only a student.” Judith looked at her mildly. Going very pink, Marianne ploughed on: “And Micky—that’s her father—well, he...”

    “Isn’t very young?” murmured Judith, raising an eyebrow.

    “No; well, I mean— He’s not very old, of course,”—Marianne here went very red indeed—“but—well—older than us!” she finished desperately.

    Judith was thirty. “How old is he?” she enquired without urgency.

    “I don’t know,” muttered Marianne. “In his forties, I suppose.”

    “I wouldn’t say that was very old; no,” agreed Judith judiciously.

    Marianne met her sardonic eye and laughed weakly. Judith grinned; and waited for next Saturday with considerable impatience.

    “Marianne, are you sure this is where they said?” she asked, staring round her at the tiny crescent of silver sand that was Kowhai Bay.

    “Mm.” Marianne looked at her watch. “We’re a bit early. Anyway, they’ll have to beat up the coast against the northerly; we might as well make ourselves comfortable.” She sat down, hugged her knees, and gazed out to sea.

    “At least there’s a wind,” said Judith uncertainly, sitting down, too.

    The little beach was deserted; it was only nine o’clock, so this wasn’t surprising. But the silence was absolute: even though they’d driven down a pretty street lined with charming houses in steep, tree-shaded gardens, Judith had the feeling that they were miles from anywhere.

    They’d been sitting there for about a quarter of an hour when they heard voices. A skinny little girl in a bright turquoise bathing-suit erupted onto the beach, closely followed by a big black dog. The little girl was too young to have developed inhibitions about disturbing people who were alone in solitary places; after turning right round and jigging up and down a bit—obviously waiting for someone—she turned and stared at them.

    “Marianne!” she cried. “Come on, Puppy! It’s Marianne!” The pair of them belted over.

    “Hullo, Elspeth,” said Marianne, smiling. “How are you? How’s school?”

    The little girl turned out to be Dr Macdonald’s daughter. She interrogated them narrowly as to why they were there.

    “You’re not by yourself, are you?” Marianne asked anxiously, when the inquisition was over.

    Elspeth looked back towards the turning circle at the bottom of Kowhai Bay Road. “No; Dad’s coming; he’s just talking to Mrs Nicholson.”

    “Oh, good.”

    “I can swim!” said Elspeth indignantly to the sub-text.

    “Yes, I know,” replied Marianne peaceably. “Are you coming to our barbecue?”

    “What barbecue?”

    “At work; it’s for all our staff and students—didn’t Daddy tell you?” Marianne’s voice rose in some indignation. Judith’s lips twitched.

    “No,” said Elspeth, scowling.

    “Oh,” she said lamely. “I suppose he forgot to; he’s been very busy.”

    “Anyway, I’ll be at rotten school,” said Elspeth, kicking at the sand.

    “No, you won’t, it’s on a Saturday: the first Saturday after our term starts.”

    “Then I can come!” cried Elspeth, face lighting up.

    “Yes, of course; everybody’s going to bring their families,” said Marianne.

    “Have you got any children?” said Elspeth to Judith.

    “No; I’m not married.”

    “Oh. Charlie isn’t married, either, but he’s got children.”

    “Yes; but he was married. Anyway, they live with their mother, don’t they?” said Marianne.

    “Yes; like Danny.”

    “Mm.”

    “‘Mommy’,” said Elspeth thoughtfully.

    “What?” said Judith weakly.

    “‘Mommy’—that’s what they call her: their mother. Charlie’s kids,” she explained, as Judith still looked blank. “They’re American.”

    “Oh!” Judith’s attention was caught. “Are you talking about Charlie Roddenberry—from the Institute?”

    “Yeah, ’course,” said Elspeth. “There’s Dad!” She rushed off towards him, crying: “Dad! Look! Here’s Marianne!”

    Since Judith was a New Zealander she wasn’t at all surprised to see her rather stiff and correct boss emerge onto the beach from Kowhai Bay Road (where there were no bathing sheds) wearing nothing but a pair of skimpy dark green trunks, a towel, and a pair of rubber jandals. She looked at his excellent figure with interest and glanced sideways at Marianne. With a certain disappointment she saw that she was unmoved.

    Hamish wandered over to them, grinning, with the dog and Elspeth leaping up and down on either side of him, barking and talking excitedly. “Quiet, Puppy!” he said. Puppy stopped barking but continued to bounce up and down.

    He ought to tell her to be quiet, too, thought Judith; then jumped as he looked down at his daughter and said: “You, too: quiet!”

    “Hullo,” he said, laughing a little. “Fancy meeting you here!”

    The two young women responded: “Hullo, Hamish,” but their voices were almost drowned by the clamour of Elspeth telling him why they were here.

    “Shut up!” he ordered her. “Go and fetch a stick, or something.”

    Judith thought this was too pathetic for words, but Elspeth gave a loud giggle, and pushed him, declaring that she wasn’t a dog, silly: so it was evidently pitched at the right level.

    “Oh, well, go and drown yourself,” he replied mildly. “And take that brute with you.”

    “All right; but hurry up!”

    “Aye, I’ll come soon,” he replied, sitting down beside Judith.

    “He’s chicken about going in the water,” Elspeth informed them. “It has to be practically lukewarm; and then he goes in like a shrinking virgin.”

    “WHAT?” said Hamish in a terrible voice.

    “Mirry said it,” said Elspeth, going very red and starting to pout.

    “I dare say. Just don’t let me hear you say it again,” he returned grimly.

    “Come on, Puppy,” said Elspeth quickly. They ran down to the sea.

    Judith had restrained herself with a superhuman effort. Now she gave a howl of laughter and collapsed on the sand.

    Hamish was very flushed. “She picks up these damned phrases,” he muttered.

    “She’s too little to understand what it means,” murmured Marianne.

    “Aye; I don’t know whether that makes it better or worse,” he grumbled.

    Judith was amused to find that Marianne wasted little time in tackling him on the subject of the barbecue.

    “Didn’t I mention it to her? I suppose I forgot; and it isn’t for some weeks, is it?”

    “Two weeks,” replied Marianne grimly.

    “Two weeks?” he returned in astonishment. “That soon?”

    “You’d better ring him up on the Saturday morning, Marianne,” said Judith slily.

    “Don’t worry: I will!” replied Marianne grimly. “And you haven’t forgotten the cocktail party, have you?”

    “Yes,” said Hamish definitely. He scrambled up: Elspeth had come into the shallows and was shrieking: “Dad! Come on! DAD! Come ON!”

    “I’d better go, or she won’t give me any peace,” he said, grinning. He ambled down the beach.

    “There!” said Marianne darkly. “He has forgotten about the cocktail party! I knew he would!”

    “He was pulling your leg,” said Judith mildly.

    “No, he wasn’t,” she replied bitterly. “You don’t know him! He’s capable of forgetting anything!”

    “Is he that bad? No wonder his wife left him,” said Judith casually.

    Marianne flushed. “I didn’t mean— He’s really very nice; it’s just that he gets so absorbed in his work; and he thinks social things don’t matter.”

    Judith was also of this opinion, but she was aware that most of the world wasn’t. “Well, that explains it,” she said drily. “The average woman ’ud find that very hard to live with.”

    She was surprised at Marianne’s agitated reaction to this: “No! She’s an awful woman!”

    Judith was about to take her tee-shirt off. She stopped, and gaped at her.

    “Don’t tell anyone I said that!” gasped Marianne, turning puce.

    “No, of course not. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to upset you; I was only joking, really.”

    “I know,” said Marianne shakily. “Only—it’s not funny, when it’s people you know.”

    “No; I’m sorry,” repeated Judith remorsefully.

    “She came into work once, and made a terrible scene,” said Marianne in a trembling voice.

    Judith almost burst with the effort not to ask her about it. This virtue was rewarded, for Marianne continued: “It wasn’t about anything, really: Hamish had to work late unexpectedly because there was an emergency meeting with the architect next morning, and she wanted to go to a—a committee meeting, or something, I think—something at her golf club, anyway. She was furious, because he’d said he’d look after Elspeth; only then he got me to ring her up and say he couldn’t.”

    Judith experienced some sympathy for Hamish’s unknown estranged wife; in her place she wouldn’t have been any too pleased, either, to receive such a message via her husband’s secretary. “I see,” she murmured. “She wouldn’t have been too pleased.”

    “No, but you don’t understand, Judith!” said Marianne, leaning forward earnestly. “She came right into work!”

    “Yes—”

    “That was when we were still in town! She came all the way into town from up here and—and blew up at him!”

    Marianne was so pink, and earnest, and distressed at the memory, that Judith, although very much wanting to laugh, had to hold it in. She gulped, and gave a sort of cough. She wanted to say: “What a determined lady,” but forbore. “I see,” she said weakly. “Uh—it might have been more sensible for him to ring her himself.”

    “Yes; only he’s afraid of her,” said Marianne simply.

    Judith stared.

    Marianne nodded firmly. “He really is; I know it sounds silly; he’s a big man, and she’s only a little woman. But he is, all the same. I think Elspeth is, too,” she added thoughtfully.

    “Oh,” said Judith weakly.

    “When they first came out...” said Marianne slowly, staring out to where Elspeth was screaming with laughter, and splashing her father furiously.

    “Yes?”

    “It’s hard to explain,” she said apologetically. “It’s... well, Elspeth was just so good, if you know what I mean.”

    Elspeth and the dog had got Hamish into the low, choppy surf and appeared to be jumping on him. Excited squeals and barks split the peace of Kowhai Bay.

    Judith had a pair of nephews who weren’t nearly good enough. Nevertheless she replied slowly: “Oh; I see what you mean.”

    Marianne told Judith all about that first time Hamish had brought Elspeth into the office when they were on the City Campus, and how good, and quiet, and polite she’d been. “She was too good, if you see what I mean,” she ended.

    “Yes; I see,” said Judith thoughtfully. “A bit cowed? Been sat on too much?”

    “Mm.”

    Judith removed her pale blue tee-shirt. She could think of nothing further to say except possibly “Poor little tyke,” but that didn’t feel quite right, somehow. “I think I might go for a dip, too,” she said gruffly.

    Marianne looked at her watch, and out to sea again. She sighed. “That northerly must really be holding them up.”

    Judith stepped out of her navy cotton shorts, to reveal her square-ish figure clad in a one-piece blue bathing-suit of conservative cut. “Are you coming?”

    “I might as well,” agreed Marianne. She removed her smart white shorts and bright pink cotton-knit sleeveless top (a far more fashionable garment than Judith’s tee-shirt), revealing her delightfully curved figure clad in an exiguous pink and green bikini of extreme cut. (Maurice’s choice; Marianne didn’t customarily wear the gold chain at the waist which the shop girl had assured her went with it.) Judith couldn’t help silently reflecting that she must have to shave her pubic hair for that.

    Going for a swim was a wise decision; Micky and Susan, beating up the coast into the northerly, were over an hour late.

    “There they are!” cried Susan. “I told you they’d wait!”

    “Are you sure that’s Marianne?” said Micky crossly, peering.

    “Da-ad! Of course!”

    “Well, who the Hell’s that with her?”

    “Dunno,” said Susan uneasily.

    “I thought you said her friend was a female,” he said grimly.

    “She was; I talked to her—she answered the phone, remember?”

    “Get that bloody sail down before we run aground,” he replied sourly.

    “Here they are!” said Marianne in some relief. She sat up and waved.

    Hamish was lying on his front beside her almost asleep, with his back liberally plastered in sunscreen cream by Marianne—a sight which it was just as well Micky had missed. He groaned, and sat up. “What—your friends?” He peered round crossly. “Where the Hell’s Elspeth?”

    “Over there—by the rocks.”

    “Oh,” he said in relief. Judith, Elspeth and Puppy were exploring the rock pools at the foot of the cliffs at the southern side of the little bay.

    “How’s he going to pick you up?” he asked, staring out at the yacht, which seemed to be parking, or whatever it was boats did.

    “They’ve got a little inflatable, with an outboard.”

    Sure enough, a little rubber boat soon roared in to shore. Elspeth, who had rejoined them, jumped up and down excitedly. “Look at the little boat! Ooh, it’s coming right in!”

    Marianne laughed, and went down to meet it. Eagerly Elspeth (plus Puppy) came too, but as Marianne reached the hard sand at the high-water mark a hot, sandy little hand grabbed hers. “Hullo, Micky,” she said, smiling.

    Micky’s heart hammered frantically, and he was furious to feel a blush rise up his neck. “Hullo, Marianne,” he said hoarsely. “Is this your friend? I didn’t realize she’d be so young.”

    “Oh—no!” said Marianne, laughing a little. “This is Elspeth Macdonald; we bumped into her and her father on the beach.”

    Micky gave Elspeth a very nice smile. “Hullo, Elspeth.”

    “Hullo,” said Elspeth shyly. She looked with interest at his lifejacket.

    “Judith’s just coming,” explained Marianne. “She’s been round the rocks.” She turned and began to stroll slowly up the beach, still holding Elspeth’s hand.

    “I’m sorry we’re so late,” said Micky. “It’s this damned northerly.”

    “Yes, I thought it’d hold you up,” replied Marianne placidly. “Never mind; we had a nice swim, didn’t we, Elspeth?”

    “Yes,” agreed Elspeth. Micky smiled at her again and she added: “That’s a lifejacket, isn’t it?”

    “Yes; we always wear them on the boat,” he replied.

    “Marianne, too?”

    “Yes, I’ve got one for Marianne.” He took conscious pleasure in saying her name.

    “I’ve never been on a boat,” said Elspeth wistfully.

    Micky grinned. “Would you like to come out on mine for a few minutes?”

    Marianne said doubtfully: “I don’t think... We’d have to ask Hamish.”

    “I’ll ask him!” cried Elspeth. She shot up the beach, crying: “Daddy! Daddy! The man says I can go on his boat!”

    “Did you say Hamish?” said Micky weakly.

    “Yes, Hamish Macdonald; you know, my boss.”

    “Yes; no wonder—” He stopped abruptly.

    “What?”

    “Nothing,” said Micky with difficulty. He’d almost said no wonder that funny little kid reminded him of Carol, even though their colouring was different. Marianne was looking at him in mild surprise. “I thought he looked familiar,” he said weakly.

    “They live just up the road,” explained Marianne.

    It took some time to give Elspeth her promised treat: they put the mainsail up and sailed across the little bay a couple of times. So it was eleven o’clock by the time they finally got away—waving to Elspeth, Puppy and Hamish.

    “I feel quite exhausted!” said Judith, lying back with a grin.

    Marianne laughed. “She’s a dear little girl; but she can be rather tiring!”

    Judith groaned. “I reckon I identified every living thing in those damned rock pools!”

    Laughing again, Marianne replied: “You shouldn’t have told her your father’s a marine biologist.”

    Micky, at the helm, chuckled. “Tactical error,” he informed Judith.

    “You’re telling me!”

    “Want to take her?” he said to Marianne.

    Judith was impressed by Marianne’s “okay” and the casual way in which she took the helm. She was also impressed by the casual way in which Micky Shapiro then installed himself at the helmswoman’s elbow.

    “Where to?” asked Marianne.

    The experts had a short discussion. Judith kept firmly out of it.

    “Okay,” said Micky at last. “It’ll be a nice run; and we can have lunch at that nice little bay we went to before—remember?”

    Bucketing rather, the little yacht changed course for the low, navy-blue shadowed volcanic bulk of Rangitoto that to Judith looked far too far away for a “nice run”.

    “We could go on down to Waiheke, this arvo,” suggested Susan.

    “Where’s that?” asked Judith.

    “It’s one of the other islands, a bit further out. You can’t see it from here.”

    Judith gulped.

    “Not feeling queasy, are you?” asked Micky.

    Judith wasn’t: she had a cast-iron stomach. She didn’t dare to admit that was she was feeling was shit-scared: the boat seemed so small, and cockle-shell-like, and now that they were out of the bay the sea seemed so wide and the wind so strong... “No, I’m fine.”

    “Well—uh—see how it goes, eh, Sue-Sue?” he said to his-daughter. “Probably have to tack back, if we went over there.”

    “Okay,” agreed Susan amiably.

    It went very well, Judith thought, once she’d conquered her initial cowardice. Micky Shapiro seemed a very nice fellow—not too up-himself for a lawyer, either. Perhaps for both their sakes it was as well that they were meeting in their weekend garb and weekend personae: Judith had a natural antipathy to suave city types in suits of extreme cut and Porsches. She herself was pretty much the same—at least she certainly thought so—at work or at play; but Micky would have found the severely dressed, weekday Judith, in navy-blue suits in crimplene or wool according to the season, white or blue blouses, and low-heeled white sandals or navy shoes, a lot more off-putting than he did the be-shorted, relaxed, wind-blown Saturday one.

    It had taken the sharp-eyed Judith Woods about two seconds to perceive that slim, attractively crooked-faced Micky Shapiro was head over heels about pretty Marianne. As for Marianne... Judith couldn’t tell. She seemed very composed in his presence. She did appear to enjoy herself, though now and then she lapsed into abstraction, but she showed no signs of, well, the sparkle, that a young woman who favoured the gentleman who was exerting himself to please her would have done. Though of course Marianne wasn’t all that young, and being so pretty, was no doubt used to men knocking themselves out to please her... Susan Shapiro, who wasn’t the woolly-head Judith had feared she might be, but on the contrary, quite a pleasant, unaffected, and reasonably intelligent girl, was obviously all too eager to push her father’s suit. Judith thought dubiously that maybe Marianne hadn’t noticed this; Susan seemed the eager type in any case...

    The picnic lunch was excellent; if the boat wasn’t fancy the lunch made up for it: pâté, cold chicken, firm, ripe tomatoes, plenty of French bread and a whole round of real Brie. Judith, who had never bought anything but a sliver of Brie herself, revised upwards somewhat her estimate of the socio-economic status of scruffy Micky Shapiro in his ancient denim shorts and disreputable once-white tee-shirt. She revised it upwards considerably when, grinning sheepishly, he produced the chilled champagne. Real champagne—French.

    “It’s to make up for our rotten holidays,” he explained, putting his arm round his daughter.

    “Yeah,” grinned Susan. “Mum made me and Allyson go to Tasmania with Grandma and Grandpa; it was gruesome!”

    “Where did you go, Micky?” asked Judith with interest.

    He grimaced. “Noumea—Club Med.”

    “Micky! You didn’t!” exclaimed Marianne. “It’s got more—” She broke off, reddening.

    “More what?” asked Judith with great interest. “Have you been there?”

    “No; but a friend of mine went; he said it was full of old-age pensioners!” bowdlerized Marianne desperately. Maurice had said—with great precision, being slightly pissed at the time: “More wrinkles—proportionately—per square yard than per square inch of an old man’s prick.”

    Susan giggled. “He believed those silly TV ads!”

    Judith and Marianne looked incredulously at Micky.

    Hurriedly pouring more champagne into plastic mugs, he said: “I wanted to believe ’em, you mean! Here, let’s drown our sorrows.”

    After that lunch got very relaxed indeed and Judith silently hoped that her companions would be sober enough to get her back safely to the mainland.

    Susan had fully intended to take Judith off for a nice walk after lunch; unfortunately she’d eaten so much that she was too stupefied to stir for quite some time. It was too hot to move, in any case: the little bay they’d found was sheltered from the northerlies, and very still. They lay on scruffy grass under a gnarled pohutukawa and dozed for some time.

    Finally Susan sat up, groaning. “I’ve eaten too much.” She removed her tee-shirt. “Maybe I’ll go for a swim.”

    Micky was lying on his back. He looked reluctantly at his watch. “Bit soon, sweetheart.” He readjusted his shabby denim hat over his eyes.

    Judith was on her back, too. “I feel like a beached whale,” she sighed.

    “You look more like a cast sheep,” said Susan thoughtfully.

    “Susan!” said her father, sitting up in horror. He looked apologetically at Judith. “Oh,” he said weakly to his daughter. “I see what you mean.” Judith had draped her recumbent bathing-suited form in her large white cardigan when she’d been in the shade, but the sun had moved on.

    “Aren’t you hot?” said Susan.

    “Yes,” said Judith in a muffled voice from under her white canvas hat.

    Micky laughed, and removed the cardigan.

    “Ta; the sun’s gone round,” she mumbled.

    “It does that,” he agreed, chuckling.

    Marianne said sleepily from under her big straw sunhat: “What’s the time? Is it too soon to go for a swim?”

    “It’s only about forty minutes since lunch,” said Micky.

    “You could go in,” said Susan to Marianne. “You didn’t eat as  much as the rest of us.”

    “Some of us spent the morning beating up the coast against the northerly; it’s bloody hard yacker,” pointed out Micky.

    “Some of us didn’t. Some of us is a pig,” said Judith in a voice of sepulchral doom from under her hat.

    Micky and Marianne chuckled; Susan laughed a lot, but then she suggested airily: “Come for a walk, Judith; walk it off.”

    Judith groaned.

    Micky said hurriedly: “Now don’t you go dragging her off if she doesn’t want to go.”

    “No,” said Judith, removing her hat from her face, “I really ought to walk it off a bit. Where’s my tee-shirt?”

    Marianne sat up. “Wear your hats, won’t you?” she said anxiously. “It’s terribly easy to get sunburnt out here; I don’t know why—something to do with the volcanic rocks, or something.”

    “It’s all a volcano, isn’t it?” asked Judith, peering up at the island’s peak.

    “Yeah,” said Susan, struggling back into her tee-shirt. “It’s one of those ones that come up with a rush and go off with a frightful roar just the once. –I think.”

    “How consoling,” said Judith acidly, looking at the peak again.

    Thanks, without any doubt, to Maurice’s baleful influence, Marianne had been unable to stop herself reflecting that Susan’s innocent description of Rangitoto sounded very like certain men. She choked, and turned puce.

    Micky had thought exactly the same thing. He looked at the choking Marianne in surprise. Surely—no, not sweet, polite Marianne! He gave her a mug with the dregs of someone’s champagne in it. “Here.”

    “Ta!” she gasped, gulping it and not meeting his eye.

    Micky looked at her suspiciously. If she had met his eye he wouldn’t have been suspicious. “Crumb in your throat?”

    “Something like that,” she muttered, still puce, and still not meeting his eye.

    Micky became rather thoughtful and failed to object when his daughter pinched his denim hat.

    “Don’t let her drag you too far; and for God’s sake don’t try and climb the bloody volcano, it takes hours,” he said to Judith as they prepared to depart.

    “Don’t worry,” said Judith. “In my present state I doubt if I’ll manage so much as half a mile.”

    As they moved off Micky heard his dreadful offspring say, with every appearance of deep interest: “Did you say your father was a marine biologist?”

    “God,” he groaned, removing his tee-shirt. “She’ll be getting a reputation like that Elspeth kid’s!” He dropped his tee-shirt on the grass and lay down again with his hands linked behind his head.

    Marianne was sitting up. She noticed that his underarm hair was exceedingly luxuriant, much more so than Maurice’s. It was a delightful shade of fawn, paler than the hair on his head. Wasn’t that unusual? she had time to think pleasedly, before being overtaken simultaneously by the conviction that she must be some sort of fetishist or something and a most dreadful blush, that seemed to start somewhere around her knees and burn its way up to her ears. Hurriedly she lay down again, heart thudding, and replaced the big straw hat over her face.

    Micky had seen the blush. Could it mean she wasn’t as immune to him as she’d always seemed? His heart raced.

    They both lay in silence, breathing rather hard, for some time. Micky could smell, stronger than the musty smell of the pohutukawa above them, the lovely scent that always said “Marianne” to him. One of the typists at Dent, Foreman had recently taken to wearing it, and he consciously went out of his way to avoid the girl; such a physical reminder was too painful. The slender rounded form was about three inches from his own body. He lay there grimly, trying to force himself not to react to her.

    Marianne lay there trying to convince herself that she didn’t want Micky Shapiro, she couldn’t possibly want him, it was scarcely two months since she’d said goodbye to Maurice, it was stupid to imagine— She tried not think about Micky’s nice, slim chest which, though not as hairy, was not unlike Maurice Black’s chest... After a period of hot, confused cogitation she sat up. “I think I’ll go for a swim,” she said huskily, not looking him in the face.

    “Good idea,” he replied, not moving.

    Marianne stood up and removed her pink top. Micky’s pulse-rate increased considerably. The skimpy bright bikini showed both that she had a delightful smooth tan and that there was quite a lot more to her up there than he had guessed from the looseish, fashionable garments she normally wore. Very nicely shaped, too: it was obvious that the slender bikini straps weren’t holding her up: it was Marianne that was holding the bikini up. She turned away from him, and slipped her shorts off. Micky’s face flushed darkly: since the bikini had been chosen by Maurice, it revealed that her buttocks were rounded and firm. She turned slowly. “Aren’t you coming in?” she murmured.

    God, I’d like to! he thought. “Uh—might as well, I suppose,” he groaned. Marianne was looking at him; under the old denim shorts his body burned.

    Marianne hadn’t meant to direct her gaze in quite that direction; she looked quickly away. No, it was just her dirty mind again! Then she remembered that time at the theatre. She didn’t dare look at him again. “Come on, slow coach,” she said, trying to sound casual and friendly, and ran down to the sea.

    Micky heaved himself up and walked slowly in her wake.

    Marianne’s swimming seemed to be of the bobbing up and down and splashing in the surf variety. Micky bobbed, too, for a while, but it was an activity that he’d always found rather boring—besides, her proximity wasn’t exactly calming, in the lukewarm shallows of February. Soon he turned and swam strongly for the yacht. When he got there he was surprised to find, as he clung panting to the ladder, that Marianne was following him, doing a slow but steady breast-stroke. He watched anxiously, but she reached him without difficulty.

    “Well done,” he said, smiling.

    She laughed breathlessly, and clung to the ladder. “I’m like the tortoise: slow but sure!”

    “I didn’t realize you could swim so well.”

    “Dad made me and Bernie learn before he’d let us have a boat,” she explained.

    “Oh, yes; that’s the brother you shared your dinghy with; the one next in age to you,” he remembered.

    “Yes; did I tell you?” she returned in surprise.

    Micky flushed. “Yes.” He looked helplessly into her eyes. He couldn’t possibly say “I remember every word you’ve ever said to me”—it was too trite; and she wouldn’t believe him, anyway, she’d think it was a line.

    Marianne looked away. She licked her lips nervously. Micky’s heart jolted.

    “Shall we go aboard?” he suggested hoarsely.

    Marianne looked at his old-fashioned rope ladder. “If I can,” she murmured.

    She’d had no difficulty getting in from the inflatable. “What?” he said, staring at her. “You didn’t have any trouble before.”

    “No; it’s harder from the water,” she replied, looking embarrassed.

    Neither of Micky’s hefty young daughters had ever suggested this to him. Breezily he said: “Look, I’ll go first, eh? Then I can give you a hand.”

    Marianne didn’t think this would work at all, but she said weakly: “All right.”

    Micky’s male arms and shoulders pulled his slim-hipped body out of the water with no apparent effort. Marianne watched this with a certain resentment.

    “Come on,” he said, leaning over the side of the little yacht, laughing a little. “It’s not far!”

    “It’s not the distance,” said Marianne crossly, grabbing the ladder with both hands: “It’s overcoming the initial inertia.”

    While Micky was still recovering from this, she pulled on the ladder, scrabbling with her feet. She got very red. She’d known she wouldn’t be able to do it; it was like that time down on the East Coast with Maurice, when they’d hired that launch. Only, Maurice had understood!

    “Put your feet on the bottom rung,” said Micky.

    “I am!” she panted crossly. “I can’t do it; it’s my stupid arms!”

    Micky leant right over and reached for her. “Come on; I’ll pull you—”

    “No!” said Marianne, jerking away. She released the ladder. “I don’t want my arms—” She began to sink, and grabbed the ladder. “—pulled out of their sockets!” she finished crossly.

    Micky went crimson. “Susan can do it,” he said feebly.

    Susan had shoulders like a navvy; she was out on the boat all year round; and Marianne had seen her with her own eyes doing an expert butterfly stroke right across the bay before lunch. “She’s stronger than me,” she replied, rather sourly.

    “Evidently,” said Micky drily. It was then borne in upon him that he’d just failed some sort of a test—oh, not a deliberate test, no doubt, but that didn’t make him feel any happier.

    “I can’t help it if I haven’t got the strength in my upper body; lots of women haven’t!” she said indignantly.

    Feebly Micky muttered: “You’re a good swimmer.”

    That made it worse: going fiery red, Marianne cried: “I spend ninety-nine percent of my life sitting in an office! I can’t help it if I’m not an athlete!”

    “I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. He stared down at her. Marianne’s eyelids flickered. She looked away. “I really can’t do it,” she said faintly.

    “Never mind,” he replied weakly. He supposed he could get down there and push her; but he couldn’t face the physical contact.

    Marianne was remembering how Maurice had got her onto the little launch: sitting on his shoulders, he was a lot stronger than he looked... Her ears burned and her heart beat fast with remembered pleasure. She stared at the side of the boat and didn’t dare look up into Micky’s hazel eyes.

    Micky swallowed. “Shall we swim back to shore?”

    Marianne replied sheepishly: “I’m a bit tired, actually.”

    “Why on earth did you come out here, then?” he replied crossly. He’d had a vision of them lying side-by-side in the sun on the boat...

    “I didn’t realize how out of practice I was. I’ll be all right when I’ve had a rest.”

    Micky looked down at her dark, sleek head. “I suppose you were working right up to Christmas?”

    “Just about,” she murmured.

    He was suddenly filled with pity. “And when did you go back to work?”

    “The second week in January.”

    “It wouldn’t give you much time to get in training,” he acknowledged.

    “No; I do try to get in some swimming in the weekends; but there’s always lots to do around the flat. I sometimes go down to the beach after work, but...”

    “But?” he prompted gently.

    “Well, I’m usually rather tired—and awfully hungry!” she confessed, looking up at him, laughing a little.

    Micky ached to take her in his arms. “Yes,” he said huskily, with a wobbly smile.

    Silence fell.

    Marianne looked at the distance from the yacht to the shore. The more she looked the more she got a sinking feeling in her middle. Finally she said sheepishly: “Micky—”

    “What?” said Micky eagerly. It was absurd that his heart should beat so fast just because she said his name.

    Marianne swallowed. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it back to shore after all,” she admitted in a small voice.

    Micky replied huskily: “I’ll tow you.” He was aware that this was the wrong tone entirely.

    Marianne looked up. “You’ll have to; I’ll never make it otherwise.” She smiled apologetically.

    Micky stood up abruptly. Marianne looked up at him doubtfully. He walked a little way away from her, and raised his arms above his head. Marianne’s body was filled with a rush of heat.

    “Look out,” he said, and dived cleanly off the boat.

    “Come on,” he said, surfacing beside her, breathing deeply. “On your back.”

    He towed her most of the way in to shore. At first she was flooded with embarrassment. After a while the embarrassment wore off and she found she was enjoying the whole thing far too much.

    Micky had towed exhausted daughters often enough—not to mention Pat, who was a rotten swimmer but wouldn’t admit it, in the days of their marriage. He tried to persuade himself that it was no different than with Susan or Allyson. It was a lot different.

    “I think I can manage now,” she said when they were about two-thirds of the way in.

    Micky released her; she rolled over and faced him, paddling gently to keep afloat. “Thank you,” she said.

    He was very excited by the whole business—mentally as well as physically. Panting a little, he grinned into her face and said without thinking about it: “My pleasure!”

    Her mouth opened a little; the brown eyes widened, and a deep flush darkened her cheeks.

    “Marianne—”

    “Come on,” she said, looking quickly away. She swam off, doing a very splashy crawl.

    Blood racing, heart going nineteen to the dozen, Micky thrashed after her. That reaction had been quite unmistakeable; he was far too experienced to think he might have misinterpreted it. On the other hand, he was neither stupid nor besotted enough to read too much into it; he was quite aware that many women found him attractive without necessarily wishing to have any sort of relationship with him. But at least, he thought, slowing and allowing her to get ahead, it showed that the basic tug of sexual attraction was there; thank God! He let her get quite a long way ahead before throwing himself forward and overtaking her with little effort.

    “Come on, tortoise!” he cried.

    Marianne laughed breathlessly and splashed more than ever. Micky let her almost catch him up; then he drew ahead and beat her by several yards.

    “Oof!” cried Marianne, collapsing in the froth of the breaking waves and laughing. “I’m bushed!”

    Micky lay on his side and laughed, too, panting rather more than was strictly necessary.

    Suddenly she shivered.

    “Come on, you’re getting cold.” He got up quickly and held out his hands to her.

    She sat up and reached out her hands. Micky pulled her to her feet and allowed himself the delicious luxury of standing very close, holding her hands for a moment. An uncertain expression appeared on her face.

    “Come on,” he said, releasing her quickly: “run; it’ll warm you up.” He ran up to their towels.

    Marianne trotted heavily after him; she felt too tired to run. Micky grabbed a towel, and turned. He went back for her. “Here, you’re practically blue!” he said in alarm. He enveloped her in the towel, and rubbed her arms and back roughly. Her teeth chattered a little. “You were in too long,” he said, rubbing her thighs briskly, determinedly keeping his mind off what he was doing. “Come on; rub yourself a bit,” he urged.

    She rubbed her chest and midriff in a vague way.

    “Better sit in the sun,” said Micky.

    “Yes...”

    He took her towel, spread it for her, and pushed gently at her smooth shoulder.

    She lay down obediently on the towel, on her back.

    Micky said in a strangled voice: “I’ll just get my towel.” He retreated up the beach, grabbed his towel, and rubbed his head and shoulders ferociously. Water ran out of his shorts and down his legs and he wished he could take the bloody things off. He squeezed a bit of water out of them, and went back to Marianne.

    “Are you warming up?” Her eyes were closed.

    She opened her eyes, smiling slowly. “Yes; it’s lovely in the sun.”

    Micky grunted. He spread his towel, and lay down on his front. It was extremely uncomfortable: the zip of his shorts was pressing against his stiff prick, but it was a damn sight better than lying on his back letting her see what a state he’d got himself into.

    “The sun’s really hot,” she murmured after a while.

    “Mm.”

    Marianne turned over onto her front. “We ought to put some suntan lotion on.”

    “Mm.”

    After a little while she sighed, and sat up.

    “I’ll get it,” muttered Micky into his folded arms.

    “No, it’s okay; I think I’ll get a drink, too; do you want one?”

    “Yes, please,” he mumbled.

    She walked slowly up the beach towards the pohutukawa tree. Micky rolled onto his side and watched. The view was wonderful; he was stiffer than ever. The view as she came back wasn’t bad, either—not that he approved of what girls had to do to themselves to wear those ridiculous cut-away styles.

    “There isn’t any orange juice left,” she said, sitting down beside him. “I don’t know if you want to open this?” She was holding the third bottle of fizz.

    “Would you like some?” asked Micky, sitting up.

    “Well... Yes, I would, actually,” admitted Marianne. “If you don’t mind opening it.”

    “That’s what it’s for,” he replied, grinning, operating on the bottle.

    Marianne smoothed lotion onto her chest and midriff. “Susan was funny, wasn’t she?”

    “What? Oh, over the champagne!” Micky chuckled. “Yes; she doesn’t really like it, but you’d never get her to admit it.” He looked sideways at her. “It was very good of you to join her in that orange juice muck she mixed up.”

    Marianne laughed. “It was rather a waste of good champagne!”

    “Here,” he said, handing her a brimming mug. “Consolation prize for being a good girl!”

    Marianne laughed again. She took a good mouthful of champagne. Her nostrils flared; her head went back a little and her eyes closed as she swallowed. “Mm-mm,” she said.

    Micky was quite taken aback by this sensual performance. He stared.

    Her eyes opened. She sighed. “That’s better.” She drank some more. “I do love good champagne,” she confessed.

    “I can see that,” said Micky weakly. He raised his own mug. “Cheers.”

    “Cheers,” she agreed, touching it with hers. She sipped, and smiled. “Mind you, when I first tasted it I was as bad as Susan—worse. I thought it was awfully sour!” She laughed. “Mr Carrano gave me half a dozen cases when I left the Group. –Did I tell you I used to work for him?”

    “Yes.” Hitherto it had always been the girlfriends who hung breathlessly on Micky’s every word. He experienced a very odd sensation, a kind of chagrined disorientation, at perceiving that Marianne was no more aware of what she might or might not have mentioned to him than he had bothered to be with Kerrie, Jillyan, Sheila, et al.

    “Well, as I was saying,” said Marianne, in blissful unconsciousness of her companion’s disturbance, “he gave me some cases of Veuve Cliquot and I didn’t touch it for months because I thought it was horrible!”

    “What changed your mind?” he asked—he had a pretty good idea, already.

    Sure enough, she flushed a little and replied: “Oh... You learn, don’t you?” And buried her nose in her plastic mug.

    Micky was shaken by a wave of acid jealousy. Telling himself he’d asked for it didn’t help. He drank his champagne quickly and tried not to think of all the other things she must have learned from bloody Maurice Black.

    Marianne stared vaguely out to sea. She did love champagne; she was lost in the pleasure of the moment. When Micky refilled her mug she murmured dreamily “Ta,” without even looking at him and raised it to her lips again.

    Micky swigged half his second mug of fizz and said abruptly: “Shall I put some lotion on your back?”

    She jumped. “Ooh! I’d forgotten! Yes; thank you.”

    Micky put down his mug carefully. He picked up the suntan lotion. He squeezed some onto her brown back, just above the narrow string of the bikini bra. Marianne jumped and gasped.

    “Cold?” he murmured, beginning to stroke it into her skin.

    “Yes,” she replied, taking a gulp of the wine.

    Behind her back Micky smiled a little. He massaged suntan cream into the honey-brown skin.

    No man had done that for Marianne since she and Maurice had spent that warm Labour Day up at Carter’s Bay. Under the influence of the champagne she didn’t even try to persuade herself that she wasn’t thoroughly enjoying it. When he stopped she gave a deep sigh.

    Micky didn’t dare to ask her if that had been nice. Silently he refilled her mug.

    “Turn round,” she said. “I’ll do your back.” Micky turned obediently. “Oh, dear,” said Marianne, “you do look a bit red.” She had put her sunglasses on; she took them off and said uncertainly: “It’s not so bad if I take my sunglasses off.”

    “No; that’s because they cut the glare; you’d better hurry up and slap some of that muck on me.”

    “Yes,” she agreed. “Hold my mug.” She passed it to him. Then she squeezed a bit of lotion onto his back. Micky gasped. “Cold, isn’t it?” she said in a pleased voice.

    “Mm.”

    Marianne began to massage sunscreen lotion into him. Without thinking she did it the way Maurice always liked it: with both hands, working together. After a little she became aware that Micky was breathing rather deeply. She stopped uncertainly.

    Micky drank a lot of champagne blindly without noticing it was her mug, not his. “Go on,” he said hoarsely. “Put some more on.”

    Marianne looked down at where the band of his shorts gaped a little. “You’re awfully red down here, just above your shorts; it must’ve been the way you were sitting.” Consciously looking at him now, she didn’t fail to notice that his figure was very like Maurice’s, only a little more solid. She squeezed suntan lotion onto her hand and applied it delicately to Micky’s lower back, just over his kidneys. He made a funny little noise.

    “Did I hurt you? Is it tender?”

    “Just a bit,” he croaked. The denim shorts, drying on him now, were agony.

    “I’ll do it very gently.”

    “Yes,” he croaked.

    Marianne stroked suntan lotion very delicately into Micky’s lower back. It was quite unbelievably wonderful. He drank more champagne blindly.

    “There!” she said.

    “I could put up with hours of that.”

    “Oh,” said Marianne in a tiny voice. She screwed the top back onto the plastic flask with fingers that shook and lay down on her front.

    Micky turned towards her. “Here; you haven’t finished your drink.” He’d found to his surprise that both mugs were empty, so he’d refilled them. The bottle was now empty.

    She raised herself on her elbow. “Thank you.”

    Micky lay down on his side, facing her. He sipped champagne slowly and looked at her over the rim of the mug.

    Marianne’s eyelids fluttered. She looked down at her drink. “I wonder where the others have got to?” she said in a small voice.

    “Who cares?” he replied blatantly.

    Marianne blushed.

    Micky watched as she drank the rest of her wine and put the mug down. “Marianne—”

    “What?” said Marianne, looking shyly into his eyes.

    Micky’s nostrils flared. Breathing heavily, he said: “Would you have dinner with me one night next week?”

    Marianne blushed again. She looked away. “I— It’s very kind of you, but— Well, I have got Judith staying with me at the moment.”

    “Can’t she look after herself for one night?” said Micky in a voice harsh with disappointment.

    “Yes...”

    “Well, then?”

    Suddenly she looked back into his face. “It’s not that. Do you know that Maurice has gone to Canada?”

    “Yes,” said Micky hoarsely.

    “Yes, well... Just at the moment, I don’t know how I feel,” she explained.

    He  reddened. “It would only be a dinner.”

    Marianne looked him in the eye. “Would it?”

    “Yes, of course!” he blustered.

    She sighed. “I don’t think you’re being entirely honest, Micky; either with me or yourself.”

    Micky was silent for some moments, half startled, half... resentful, he discovered with considerable unease. Her tone had been kind, but—too patient? A little... tired, almost? As if she’d hoped for but not quite expected better from him? A slow tide of red burnt its way painfully up his neck. He felt obscurely that her plain-speaking had driven him into a corner; eventually he stumbled: “I didn’t mean— I mean, it need only be a dinner; I wouldn’t ask you to commit yourself in any way.”

    “Perhaps not,” replied honest Marianne, “but it would be another step, wouldn’t it?”

    “Another step?” Micky retorted bitterly. “It doesn’t seem to me that you’ve allowed me to take any steps, yet!”

    “I’m here, aren’t I?” she returned softly.

    He swallowed convulsively. “Yes.”

    Marianne looked down at her hands, and didn’t register that her last remark had driven away his hostility and that Micky now looked as if he was holding back tears. She frowned a little. “You can’t have a relationship with a person for a whole year and then—then just expect your feelings to vanish overnight.” Her voice shook a little.

    “No,” he agreed hoarsely.

    She was silent.

    “I do understand that,” he said. “Only I—” He stopped. “If I could just see you from time to time,” he said with difficulty.

    She looked up quickly. “I’m sorry, Micky; I don’t want to hurt you; it’s just— I don’t want to rush into anything, you see.”

    Sourly he replied: “No, I don’t see. If you don’t give a damn about anyone except bloody Maurice Black, what the Hell’s wrong with coming out to dinner with me?”

    After her experience with Maurice’s capacity for jealousy Marianne was quite able to see that Micky was both extremely jealous and bitterly disappointed. So instead of replying in kind she said bravely, going rather red: “But I do give a damn; I thought you understood; I like you a lot; that’s why I—” She broke off, and looked helplessly at him. “I just feel we shouldn’t, yet,” she said in a low voice.

    “Out of some sort of respect for his memory?” said Micky acidly.

    “No, of course not.”

    “What, then?”

    Her fists clenched. “I don’t want to get involved in anything until I’m more sure of what I feel; don’t you understand? It wouldn’t be fair to you—can’t you see?”

    “Yes,” admitted Micky. His throat tightened. He sat up abruptly and hugged his knees.

    “If we could just—just keep it casual for a while.”

    “I don’t feel casual,” said Micky in a choked voice.

    There was quite a long silence.

    “Would it be easier if we didn’t see each other at all for a bit?” she suggested timidly.

    “No,” said Micky honestly. “I’ve tried that; it’s nearly killed me.”

    “Then—then if we could just go sailing from time to time, or, um, have lunch with the girls: that sort of thing?”

    “All right,” he said tiredly. “Only don’t blame me if I lose control of myself and bloody well throw myself at you –I am only human!”

    There was another silence.

    “You do at least like me, don’t you?” he asked, unable to help himself.

    “Yes; I said: I like you very much.”

    “I suppose that’s something,” he said bitterly.

    “It depends on what you want,” she replied, on a thoughtful and discernibly impersonal note.

    Micky stared at her.

    “Well,” said Marianne, pink but valiant, “if one’s only interested in a sex thing, it doesn’t really matter whether you like each other, does it? It only matters if—”

    “Look, girl,” he said grimly and furiously: “if I only wanted ‘a sex thing’ I’d’ve had that fancy bikini of yours off you half an hour since!”

    “That’s what I thought,” replied Marianne composedly.

    “What?” he gasped.

    “I’m not blind, Micky; and I’m not particularly innocent, either.”

    “So it would appear,” he said in a stunned voice.

    Marianne felt very strongly that there was far too much hypocrisy between men and women over this sort of thing, but she knew she couldn’t put this into words in a way that Micky would understand and not take offence at. “I’m sorry if that shocks you,” she murmured.

    He gave a strange laugh. “No; it doesn’t shock me; in fact I think it’s given me considerable respect for you!”

    “Oh.” She looked at him dubiously.

    “I’m going for another swim; and for God’s sake don’t follow me!”

    “No,” she murmured.

    He scrambled up and ran down the beach without looking at her again.

    Marianne knew she wanted him; at the same time she knew she wasn’t over Maurice, and suspected that perhaps part of the reason why she wanted Micky was that physically he was rather the same type as Maurice, and that she was quite simply missing the sex. She felt sure that she’d made the right decision—it would be silly to rush into anything.

    Susan hadn’t been looking forward to having to tack all the way back to Kowhai Bay to deliver Marianne and Judith, so she was glad when her father decided to sail straight back to their city mooring and drive them up instead.

    “Well?” she demanded eagerly, as the two young women got into Marianne’s car at the foot of Kowhai Bay Road.

    “Well, what?” said Micky in a depressed voice. He shot a glance over his shoulder and pulled out cautiously.

    “How did it go?” asked Susan, suddenly very subdued.

    Micky had the grace not to reply nastily: “How did what go?” He sighed. “All right, I suppose.”

    “Oh,” she said, sounding squashed.

    Micky drove carefully up to the main road. He looked sourly at the stream of weekend traffic heading south towards Puriri. “How the Hell are we going to get into that lot?’

    “I’ll drive, if you like.”

    They’d taken the Land Rover, the Porsche wouldn’t hold four. “Don’t be silly, you can’t handle this thing.”

    “Da-ad!” she cried indignantly. “I can! Allyson’s the one who can’t!”

    “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he croaked. “I wasn’t thinking, I mean— Yes,” he finished weakly, “I think you’d better drive.”

    She got out without further ado and walked round to his door. Micky moved over.

    Susan waited without impatience for the traffic to thin, and when it did, swung out smoothly and joined the stream of cars moving south.

    They were halfway home before Micky admitted: “She won’t have dinner with me.”

    “I’m really sorry, Dad,” said his daughter in a shaken voice.

    Micky sighed. “She wants to keep it casual; she said she wouldn’t mind coming out on the boat, like today...  She’s still in love with that old bastard,” he admitted sourly.

    “You said yourself it hasn’t been all that long since he went,” she ventured after a while. “You’ve got to give her time.”

    “I know.”

    Neither of them spoke the rest of the way home.

Next chapter:

https://themembersoftheinstitute.blogspot.com/2023/01/the-institute-entertains.html