19
A Perfect Day For A Picnic
“This is the life!” grinned Max, leaning back at his ease on the Jacksons’ age-old rug by the lake shore up at the far end of Taupo Shores Ecolodge’s Rewarewa Trail—the one that cunningly looped round the property for about 5 K, so that by the quicker way they were actually an easy walk from the main building.
“A perfect day for a picnic,” agreed Ran.
“I’ll say,” sighed Dan, leaning back in a battered deckchair that had come from the recesses of Pete’s shed, so it had probably belonged to his grandfather. Well, it had a wooden frame and a very faded canvas seat, so—yeah. A real deckchair, in other words. “Beats work, any day.”
Moyra had generously been offered its twin but she’d preferred the modern folding medal-framed, plastic fabric-adorned, smart-looking upright chair version that was one of Livia’s. Its stripes, orange, blue, black and white, didn’t quite look Mexican, but very nearly, as several eyes had registered. “You should retire, Dan, dear!”
And live off what? Oh, well, they always had known Moyra lived on another planet. Never mind: she’d bitten on the bullet, she’d sold up in Pongo and she’d settled, more or less, down here. That was, in the house Max had, in the end, redesigned for her, since Pete had determined the original structure was perfectly sound and in fact kauri, and dated from his grandfather’s day, though back then it hadn't had the crap that some cretins musta stuck in it in the Sixties and Seventies… Suffice it to say, it now had all mod-cons, including French doors, a picture window in the sitting-room, central heating throughout, air-conditioning throughout, and double glazing throughout. Cost a packet: yeah. She hadn’t yet had a winter in the place, of course—it was only late November and she’d moved in last week—but never mind, her intentions were good and she was being a bloody good grandmother to little Tomkins. Which considering she was technically his dad’s ex, was ruddy good going.
“He likes work, Moyra,” explained Katy placidly from her pile of cushions on a more respectable rug which Jan had produced. “Some people do.”
Dan eyed her drily. She oughta know. She’d been immured in that bloody shed of hers fourteen hours a day, minimum, ever since he’d got back from Canada. All winter: right. Usually they went for a bit of a drive in spring, to take a look at the new lambs and the odd Jersey calf or so, complete with any of the kids that happened to be around, but this year they hadn’t gone. Added to which, the kids had all left home, hadn’t they? Though Dan didn’t imagine for an instant that that had been a factor in her not realising it was spring.
“Yeah. And I might add I’m not actually at retirement age yet, Moyra,” he noted.
“Of course, not, Dan, dear! Well, if you enjoy the work, that’s the important thing, I always say!” Moyra plunged into the full bit. Nobody listened, but at intervals Livia and Bettany nodded brightly and agreed with her, Max smiled and nodded kindly, Katy smiled and nodded vaguely, and Jan and Hugh smiled and nodded tolerantly.
Pete and Wal ignored the whole bit: in fact any minute now, by Dan’s calculations, they’d get into that battered aluminium runabout of Pete’s and get out on the lake for some coarse fishing; in other words, beer and peace and quiet.
That left Ran, Molly and Sean, if anybody was counting, but they were all fully occupied in keeping an eye on Tomkins, Harry and Nokomis. Ghillywaine and her friend Nicole didn’t need keeping an eye on: they had pointedly placed themselves at a distance from the smaller kids, not to mention from the older boys, and were conferring over a book. Dan had sneaked a look at it when everyone was sorting themselves out: an ancient Bobbsey twins epic with Jan’s and Ghillywaine’s names on the flyleaf and another, much shakier name, in very faint ink. Plus a smudged circular stamp which read, if you peered, “Smudge Circulating Lib Smudge”.
Krish and Bryce had simply disappeared into the nearest bit of native bush to build a hut the minute they got here and were now doubtless employed in ravishing the sacred Environment.
“Oy, Dan!”
Dan jumped. “What?” he said feebly to Pete.
“Me and Wal are gonna get out for a bit of coarse fishing before lunch. You coming?”
Presumably with the womenfolk right here it would just be beer, not disappearing up a handy little stream to poach trout, Pete’s other preferred occupation on the lake. “Might as well,” Dan conceded, joining them.
After a few moments Katy noted thoughtfully: “I expect they’ll be drinking beer.”
“Absolutely, Katy, dear!” squeaked Livia, collapsing in giggles.
“Only if Pete and Wal are on form,” noted Jan drily.
“When aren’t they, Jan?” squeaked Livia, this time going into a positive paroxysm.
Jan grinned. “Right. Well, it’s too early for lunch, but, uh—” She looked at her watch. “Oh. Well, there’s a couple of thermoses of tea and coffee, if anyone fancies them.”
No-one immediately put their hand up, though Hugh looked uncertainly at his nephew and Max shook his head very slightly.
“Oh, look, the Hell with it! They’re out there knocking it back, I’ll open the white wine!” decided Jan.
“Good idea, Jan, dear!” gurgled Livia. “And there’s lots more in our boat, Wallace put a whole lot of bottles in the hamper with those funny ice bags and I said to him, isn’t that too heavy to lift, dear, so of course he immediately did: aren’t men silly?”
“Very,” agreed Jan drily, while the two Throgmorton men were still trying not to laugh. “Good; well, let’s start on this Australian thing, Pete found it at the wholesalers’. It’s a bit odd, but at least it doesn’t taste like fortified fruit juice like that last lot of Hawke’s Bay whites we had.”
“Australian what, Jan?” asked Hugh.
“Yellow Glen,” replied Jan succinctly.
Hugh swallowed. “Right.”
“You could have a beer instead, Hugh,” noted Ran kindly.
“Uh—a bit early for me, thanks, Ran. Look, why don’t Max and I take the kids for a run in the boat to see the bottle cabin?’”
“Liddle boddle house!” cried Nokomis immediately.
“Yes; want to see it, sweetheart?” he asked cunningly.
“Yeah!”
Hugh got up and took her hand. “Come on,” he said brutally to his nephew.
Max got up slowly. “I have seen it, actually.”
“Very funny. Come on,” said Hugh brutally. “Take Tomkins’s hand.”
“I wanna see a boddle house!” piped Tomkins.
“I wanna see a boddle house!” cried Harry immediately.
Molly scrambled up, very pink. “Um, actually I wouldn’t mind having a look at it, either.”
“Thought you and Sean had a look round Fern Gully just a couple of months back?” said Ran.
Molly swallowed hard. “Um, we didn’t get that far.” She gave Sean an anguished look.
“Ruddy Shannon started making noises about how Molly could help with the waiting at lunchtime now that Harry’s at school.”—“I’m FIVE!” he bellowed.—“Yeah, we know that, Harry, good on ya. –Improving her look came into it, too,” Sean reported sourly. “Then she got going about those web designer people she’s made Mum go with.”—“They’re all right, dear. They don’t pester me.”—“Yeah, we know that, Mum, but Molly’s got enough on her plate at the moment: she doesn’t wanna have to change her website and get ruddy business cards designed with twenny different designs that ya have to waste time choosing one from. Anyway, it came on to pour, so we gave the whole bit away and came home.”
“Shannon suggested that Sean could help Norm Pohaka with the grounds, too,” added Molly sadly.
“Yeah. Told ’er I’ve got more than enough to do, but she didn’t listen. Blahed on about career paths.”
“The last thing you want to hear about on a pouring wet day,” agreed Max sympathetically. “Of course you can come, Molly! Any more takers?”
Sean and Ran exchanged glances and she admitted: “We were thinking of a bit of a W,A,L,K down the trail, unless ya need us to help keep an eye on the kids.”
“We’ll be fine, Ran,” said Hugh cheerfully. “Come along, then, children.” He shepherded the three of them carefully onto the only slightly used launch that he’d got at a reduced price from one, Mike Short, who ran a launch-hire cum lake-trip business for the tourists. The price had been reduced even further after Pete had ascertained the thing’s motor was shot and had a word with the said Mr Short. The boat was, however, a good size, and the entire household at Taupo Organic Produce could fit into it: in the well, was it? The place at the back in the lee of the wheel and the small cabin: Hugh wasn’t a sailor. However, he could drive anything that had a motor. Surprisingly, Bettany had also found it very easy to manage and was now quite confident on the water. She had hit their new jetty too hard a few times, likewise Pete’s two jetties, but fortunately they were all well padded with old tyres.
Once aboard certain persons immediately shot to the side, preparatory to drowning themselves, but Hugh and Max were on the lookout for that and within two shakes of a lamb’s tail the three kids were wearing lifejackets.
Molly sat down on the padded seat with a sigh. “Thanks, Hugh. –It’s a lifejacket, Harry. Kids have to wear them when they go out on the lake in a boat.”
“Don’t explain precisely why!” warned Max with a laugh in his voice.
“I can swim!” piped Tomkins, apropos.
“Well, yes, but the lake’s not like the sea, Tomkins,” he explained. “It doesn’t, um, hold you up so well. It’s easier to sink. Um, and it’s cold, not like the sea at all.”
“And it’s very, um, D,E,E,P,” added Molly anxiously. “Sean says it’s the crater of an ancient volcano that blew its top thousands of years ago.”
“I thought that was just a popular myth,” said Max weakly.
“What? No, you imbecile!” cried his uncle. “It was created by a huge eruption seventy thousand years ago! Then there was another big one eighteen or nineteen hundred years ago: early in the Christian era: the whole of the central North Island was inundated by thirty cubic kilometres of muck that the thing spewed out; everything was drowned for miles around: only Mount Ruapehu was tall enough to stick out above the flood of burning muck.”
“Lava?” quavered Molly.
“Lava, ash, mud, rocks: yes. It’s called a pyroclastic flow, Molly.”
“Uncle Hugh, for God’s sake,” groaned Max.
“Mm? Oh, Lor’: sorry, Molly,” he said feebly, looking at the girl’s appalled face.
“He gets involved in the technicalities of anything he reads,” sighed Max. “Takes it for granted that everyone else will look at it—whatever it is—with the same sort of intellectual detachment he does.”
Molly looked out over the peaceful expanse of the lake, glorious lapis lazuli under an early summer sky: little white clouds dotted the forget-me-not blue, and the peak of Ruapehu glimmered white in the far distance.
“Thirty cubic kilometres?” she quavered.
Max glared at Hugh. “It was a long time ago. They say that the things go up with a bang, and that’s it.”
Hugh opened his mouth indignantly. He thought better of it.
“Ruapehu’s a bit different; smokes away, grumbles occasionally: acts like a safety valve, you see,” added Max soothingly.
“I see. It does look very peaceful,” Molly admitted.
“Of course it does! –Steer in towards the shore, Uncle Hugh, or you’ll go straight past the bottle cabin!”
The amateur volcanologist had forgotten the object of the exercise. Hurriedly he steered in towards the shore.
“YAY” screamed the kids. “Boddle house!”
“I seen it loads of times,” boasted Nokomis.
“Well, some,” conceded Max temperately, hugging her. “Have you ever seen the old bottle house, the one that’s only partly built, that moan—uh, whistles?”
“Neh. Houses can’t whistle!”
“Well, it makes a funny noise when the wind blows, ’cos the man that built it didn’t put the bottles in right.”
“Aw.”
“C’n we see it next?” demanded Harry.
“Uh—well, we’d have to drive there in the car, Harry. But I dare say we could go over there after lunch, eh? Let the ladies have a gossip and a nap!” said Max with a chuckle.
“Yeah, good-oh,” he agreed solemnly.
“I can come, too!” said Tomkins anxiously.
“Yes, of course.” Max gave him a bit of a hug, too. “Look, see the blue bottles? It took us ages to find all of those. We had lots of green ones and white ones, though.”
“And brown ones, I bet!” said Molly with smile.
Very relieved to see this smile, Max beamed at her and agreed: “Millions, I rather think! But we wanted the pretty ones: see, children?”
“I can see a blue one!” boasted Harry.
“There’s lots of blue ones!” said Nokomis scornfully.
“Quite a few, mm,” agreed Max mildly.
“Look, there’s a dear little balcony!” urged Molly. “I do love it, Max!” she beamed. “I know it’s a bit silly, but it’s funny as well, and, um, well, I can’t really describe it, but it makes you feel good!”
He laughed. “Thank you, Molly! It’s supposed to!”
“A folly,” said Hugh solemnly.
Molly looked at him in surprise.
“Think about it,” he said, his lips twitching.
Molly thought about it. Slowly she smiled. “I see! I never really thought about the idea before, but you mean you’d be walking through the grounds of an English country mansion, and it’d be all formal, and suddenly you’d walk round a clump of trees and there would be a funny little Greek temple or something?”
“Absolutely,” Hugh agreed. “There’s a couple at Wenderholme—that’s our old family home. One’s sort of Greek—white with pillars—and the other’s sort of Chinese.”
“Very sort of,” said Max. “I think those ridiculous but adorable exaggeratedly turned-up corners of the roof are more Burmese, or perhaps Thai.” He grinned at Molly. “I have to admit the family’s never used it for anything but storing ancient deckchairs, like those ones of Pete’s, but follies aren’t meant to be utilitarian, are they?”
“No,” said the glass artist, her eyes shining. “Thank goodness the world doesn’t have to be all utilitarian!”
As might have been foreseen, the kids all wanted to get out of the boat and get closer to the bottle house. Looking wry, Max turned his mobile phone on—ooh, gee, a message from YDI’s Sir Maurice Bishop? That could wait—and rang Shannon.
Phew! No guests in it at the moment, but a new lot expected tomorrow. Not asking why they were arriving on a Sunday—or how—he reported happily that they could come and have a closer look at it, just for once.
“I’d love to see inside it,” admitted Molly on a wistful note.
Max cleared his throat. “I have still got a key: I don’t think Shannon’s realised. Come on, why not?”
The ridiculous but charming bottle cabin was duly viewed to the satisfaction of all parties, the splendid view over the lake from the little balcony being much admired by Molly and Hugh, and other delights such as “funny little windows” (Harry) and “liddle steps that go rou’d and rou’d” (Nokomis) and “lots an’ lots of boddles!” (Tomkins) by others. True, Hugh took one look at the incredibly eco-friendly environmental décor of the two bedrooms—the giant floor rugs in natural brown sheep’s fleece being the least of it—and collapsed in horrible sniggers, but all parties were able to overlook that.
“I could just live here!” sighed Molly, her elbows on the balcony.
“Yes: Helluva pity it has to be wasted on Fern Gully’s rich so-called greenies,” said Hugh. “Well, you and Sean are planning to build on Pete and Jan’s place, aren’t you? Max can sketch out a few ideas for you: no reason you shouldn’t have a little balcony.”
“Um, it’s only going to be a small bungalow,” she said, biting her lip.
“Not generally known to sport balconies,” agreed Max. “I could sketch out a verandah or two, though, Molly.”
“No, you mustn’t! It’s your work!” she gasped.
“Well, if you like the result,” he said with his nice smile, “make me a lovely glass bowl.”
She brightened. “Really? Okay, done!”
“This is only a bit of cold baked chicken; I did some for the last of the punters yesterday, so I bunged some in for us,” said Jan modestly, proffering a large Tupperware container.
“Only!” cried Livia vividly. “She puts lemon and crumbs on it, dears, it’s to die for!”
“All Jan’s grub is,” acknowledged Sean, grinning.
“Them cheese straws the other day were a bit odd,” Pete objected.
“No, they weren’t!” he cried in amaze.
Jan sighed. “They were different from the usual ones, I added a bit of thyme and chilli. Conservative is Pete’s middle name. –The chicken’s got thyme on it as well: you’d better not have any,” she noted.
“Hah, hah,” Pete replied, grabbing the huge square Tupperware pot. “Come on, Moyra, nice bit of breast here!” he urged.
“Give her a fork and a serviette, Pete, at least,” sighed Jan.
Giggling, Moyra allowed Pete to give her a fork and a paper napkin and to put the piece of chicken on her plate. –And if much more of that white plonk went down her gullet, Jan acknowledged silently, she’d be calling the poor bugger “lovely!”
“Um, this is only a bacon-and-egg pie,” said Molly shyly, producing another plastic container.
“It’ll be corker,” Sean assured them.
The pie was duly shared out, as was Jan’s cold ratatouille: made a big lot yesterday, since she was making some for the— Right.
And Bettany’s egg salad: it was an American recipe and the children liked it—and Ghillywaine and Nokomis had helped her peel the eggs, hadn’t they? It had a little bit of spring onion in it, not too much, and guess who had chopped that for her? Nobody dared to guess for fear of getting it wrong and hurting feelings, but it didn’t matter, because Krish said proudly: “Me!” Yes, he was getting to be such a handy boy around the house, and he loved helping Hugh outside, too—and she always added a little bit of paprika, this was the new smoky sort, it was lovely, and Bryce had put that on for her! Gamely everyone accepted helpings of egg salad that the permaculture nuts’ kids’ paws had been in. Oh, well, everyone had to eat their peck of dirt, and at least Hugh and Bettany seemed hygienic enough, reflected Dan Jackson, tasting it and since Nokomis’ steely eye was on him, approving loudly: “Mm, yum!”
“Yeah: ace. You could do it, Mum, it sounds really easy,” said Ran.
“Don’t encourage her: remember the time she burnt that pot of eggs, and they went all black and smoke started coming out the windows and ole Pa Young called the fire brigade?” said Sean.
“Yes: for spite, the old bastard,” noted Dan sourly. “Uh—sorry, everyone: language,” he realised. “He didn’t even bother to investigate first, you see.”
“Him all over,” agreed Ran. “All right, Mum, sorry: anything with hard-boiled eggs is out. But you could give me the recipe, Bettany!” she added eagerly. “Email it to me, okay?”
“But it’s just written out by hand, Ran. In my exercise book. I mean, Krish suggested an exercise book, you see,”—Krish beamed proudly again—“and it’s so good, because if I cut one out from a magazine I can stick it in, and it’s got lines to write on!”
“I’ll email it to you, Ran,” said Hugh, trying not to laugh. “Want a scanned copy or shall I transcribe it for you?”
“Transcribe it for her, Uncle Hugh,” said Max heavily. “—Literal mind: thinks out all the angles, prepares his strategy, then follows it through with all guns blazing,” he explained to the company.
“Put a pickle in it, Max,” sighed Pete, passing him a giant jar.
“Er—thanks. Oh, I see: rather like dill pickles!” he smiled. “But what are they, may I ask?”
Pete cleared his throat, glancing uneasily at Jan. Given the glut the bloody vine had produced this winter, she’d made this stuff, she’d made jars of piccalilli as well, which admittedly was bonzer, and she’d done these stuffed things, baked in the oven with a bit of chopped salami and their own goats’ cheese, they were good, but then she’d said, when he’d remarked they were a useful vege, really, and wasn’t there some scheme that Alex was gonna paint them, not to mention that word again in her hearing. He wasn’t too sure if she’d meant “Alex” or “choko”, but he’d been a bit leery of mentioning the bloody things ever since.
“Chokos,” said Jan heavily. “It’s all right, Pete, love, I’m over it. The blighter never came back, some of us never expected him to, end of story.”
“Yeah,” he agreed gratefully.
“So this is what one does with them?” discovered Hugh, beaming. “We’ve only managed to pop them in stir-fries or soups, I’m afraid!”
“Yes; they’re quite useful, because they’re not too strong,” agreed Bettany. “But they’re so slimy to peel!”
“Well, yeah, that’s the things’ big disadvantage,” Pete admitted, cheering up. “You wanna try baking them in the oven: then you only have to cut them in half.”
“I’ll give you the recipe, Bettany,” promised Jan.
“Uh—not goats’ cheese, Jan,” warned Pete, glancing at the kids.
Sure enough, Nokomis immediately gave with: “Goad cheese is sicko!”
“Yes, not everyone likes it,” agreed Hugh on a firm note. “But say ‘goats’, not ‘goad’, Nokomis.”
“Goats,” she said obligingly.
“It’s the possessives, I think, Hugh,” murmured Jan. “No: ricotta or cottage cheese, Pete.”
Hugh was frowning over the “possessives” bit. “But she can say her S’s”!
“Darling, she’ll grow out of it,” murmured Bettany. “Have some of this delicious sliced ham with your pickle.”
Had Hugh been going to try the choko pickles? Well, he did, anyway, certain people noted.
“No, thanks,” said Dan firmly as he was offered the jar. “Been trying to tell myself the ruddy choko vine down the back of our place hasn’t come back, for the last six months.”
“Dig it out, Dad,” said Sean.
“They’ve got roots to Spain and giant tubers!”
“Mm, the tubers are supposed to be edible, too,” murmured Jan.
“These ones aren’t gonna be: they’re gonna get a dose of Roundup,” said Dan sourly.
“Poisonous muck,” noted Pete. “Supposed to be bad for anything you care to name. Ole Norm Pohaka was telling me they had a memo from their Head Office about the muck. –Norm! He’s doing groundsman over at Fern Gully!” he said loudly to the blank faces.
“Yeah,” agreed Sean mildly. “We know. First job the poor bloke’s had since the wife put her foot down after that accident at the forestry.”
“Shut up, ya drongo,” sighed Pete.
“Eh? Norm was all right: it was the other jokers that—”
“Yes! Just be thankful ’e’s got a job, at fifty-odd!”
“I am,” said Sean without animus. “Couldja pass me the ham, please? –Ta.” He added two huge slices of ham to his plate, which already held a slice of bacon-and-egg pie, a heaping helping of Jan’s miraculous potato salad—he wasn’t alone in that—a goodly portion of Bettany’s egg salad, a slice of bought quiche from Livia, and a slice of Jan’s left-over tomato tart that she’d warned really needed to be eaten hot but was quite tasty, decorated with a large spoonful of her cold ratatouille. Plus three dolmades, and a helping of Greek baked beans, likewise tinned, contributed by Livia—as, indeed, was the ham. And a partly eaten chicken leg. He looked around for more sustenance and helped himself to Jan's carrot salad, since it looked cooked: not like ordinary carrot salad, barely fit for rabbits, let alone humans. And two large pieces of choko pickle.
“Got enough?” asked Dan in friendly tones.
“Dunno. Shee how I go,” replied Sean somewhat indistinctly through the carrot thing. A surprised look came over his face, but he got it down him.
“Middle Eastern,” said Jan in explanation.
“Aw—right. It’ll go good with these little vine-leaf things, then!” he realised.
“Greek, dear, said Livia. “Dolmades.”
“Yeff,” he agreed indistinctly.
Dan sighed, gave his only son up as a bad job, and said kindly to his wife: “There’s some chutney over here, wouldja like that on your ham?”
“Peach, Katy,” said Jan smiling at her. “Like we had with your French mate Geneviève, that time!”
“Ooh, yum! Yes, please.”
Several other people opting for the chutney, too, the jar was passed, and people got down to serious eating.
… “Best picnic ever!” declared Max, loosening his belt, as the last of Jan’s cheesecake vanished down Sean’s gullet and the last of the bought sponge cake contributed by Livia vanished down Krish’s.
Pete rinsed his throat with the last of his can of DB lager—his third, but who was counting? “Nobbad, eh? Wish we could do this every day.”
“Er—yes,” agreed Hugh. “Did you just strike it lucky, with no guests, this weekend?”
“Nah. Decided to give ourselves a weekend off, for once: we only had four enquiries anyway: it’s not the holiday season yet and the dim retirees still seem to take their holidays at the same time of year: hasn’t dawned they could get away whenever they please. Told ’em we were closed for refurbishment,” he said with relish. “Good word, eh? Jan thought it up, I’d of just said repairs, and then the buggers would of spread the word we had a leaky roof or something!”
“Got it,” General Throgmorton conceded, grinning.
“Yes, well, we’ve got the summer season to look forward to,” said Jan. “Fully booked from the week before Christmas right up to the end of January, and most of the main rooms are taken for February, as well.”
“Well, that’s good, Jan, dear!” Livia encouraged her.
“Good for the bank balance, yeah,” she conceded on a rueful note.
“Sean can bloody well stop mucking about with that dump of Miser Ron’s and knuckle down to it, then,” noted Dan grimly.
“I’m gonna, Dad!”
“You can do the waiting for them, matey,” he informed him. “Save them hiring another useless waitress that’ll take off with the boyfriend for the fleshpots of Taumaranui.”
“Eh?”
“Wendy Pohaka’s latest, Sean: thought Norm might’ve mentioned it ,” sighed Jan.
“No—well, think ’e’s forgotten ’e ever had ’er, Jan, the family doesn’t see much of her these days.”
“Nor do we,” said Jan wryly.
“Well, I don't mind doing the waiting, if that’s what you want,” he said mildly.
Jan bit her lip. “Sean, you and Molly have got a little boy: if you’re working all hours of the day and half the night for us, you’re not gonna see much of him, are you?”
“He can get him up in the morning, Jan,” decided Molly. “We’ll all start a bit earlier: have some quality time then, instead of in the evening. It’ll be no problem: Harry and me usually go to bed quite early anyway, we’re not night owls.”
“Sounds good to me, love!” approved Sean.
“Good!” she beamed.
It seemed to be settled. Whether the two of them were gonna manage any sort of a sex life under this régime— Oh, well, they were young, reflected Jan, taking a mental vow to let the kid go home the minute the bloody punters had got their mains, Pete and her could manage the ruddy desserts. And as for the buggers that hung round the guests’ lounge all evening drinking revolting sweet liqueurs and gossiping—mostly boasting about the grandkids, the upwardly mobile kids, the new kitchen, and the mileage they got out of their flaming shiny Jap vehicles—they could wait until Pete had time to serve them, or go without!
“That’s it,” said Max, grinning, about half an hour later, as he drew up beside the section adorned by Ian Haskell’s abandoned bottle house. “Gosh, it hasn’t improved, has it?” he said to Ran.
“No. Either it’s got worse or I’d forgotten how bad it is,” she admitted.
“Is it windy enough?” he wondered, opening the car door. “Yes: listen!” he gurgled.
“Hell’s teeth, the bottles are whistling!” gulped Hugh.
“Oh, yes! –Yes, you can hop out and run over there,” he said to Tomkins and Nokomis, as Sean’s car drew in behind them.
Molly hurried over to them. “Listen!” she gasped.
“We are,” Hugh assured her. “Appalling, isn’t it? What in God’s name must it be like in a storm?”
“The wailing of taniwhas,” said Max, smiling at Ran.
“Yes,” she agreed, very flushed.
“Come on, Harry, let’s go and look at it!” cried Molly. They hurried across the bumpy grass.
“No wonder the adjoining lots haven’t been bought,” noted Hugh.
“Mm, it’d drive you mad in very short order,” his nephew agreed.
Sean hadn’t bothered to hurry: the mad bottle house was nothing new to him. He strolled over to them. “Bloody horrible, eh?” He followed Molly and Harry slowly, grinning to himself.
“That put it well,” croaked Hugh, as a gust of wind blew up and the taniwhas changed pitch. “What was that you called it, Max?”
Max had put his arm round Ran’s shoulders and was smiling dreamily. “Mm? Oh: the wailing of taniwhas. Er—taniwha, plural, more correctly, I suppose. Maori demons, Uncle Hugh.”
“Right.” Hugh looked thoughtfully at Mr Haskell’s legacy to Taupo. “I wonder if it’s merely the combination of the angles of the house itself, and the fact he didn't manage to get a roof on it…” He headed over there, looking determined.
“Gone into analytical mode!” said Max on a fatalistic note.
“Yeah!” agreed Ran with a snigger. After a moment she added: “Him and Bettany seem really suited, don’t they? I’d never have believed it, when I first met him—or her!” she added with a laugh.”
“No,” agreed Max with a grin, recalling that first visit to Livia’s Mexican palace with Pete. “They’re blissfully happy together, sweetheart: no need to worry about them at all.”
“No: good,” she agreed. “And he seems to have settled in here okay, don’t you think?”
“Definitely. Hugh’s always been the type that has to keep busy: so long as he’s got some sort of project to immerse himself in, he’s happy. The daft permaculture project’ll keep him going for the rest of his natural; not to mention the kids!”
“Yes: he was blahing on about universities the other day, wouldja believe?”
“Yes,” replied Max succinctly.
Ran gave a startled laugh. “Well, yeah! Forward planning, eh? Personally I wouldn’t think any of that foul Terry’s kids’ll have the brains to do a degree, but sufficient unto the day.”
“Nokomis strikes me as very bright,” he objected mildly.
“Yes. Jan reckons that that dippy Kamala was totally besotted by Terry: otherwise I’d be asking myself if she really is his,” Ran admitted. “She’s miles brighter than Ghillywaine and the boys. Miles brighter than Sabrina’s kids, too.”
“Mm. –Oh: been meaning to say: when we get back to Auckland we must have Sabrina and the children over for a meal, darling.”
“That’d be nice,” agreed Ran comfortably.
“Good.” He smiled, and tightened his arm round her. “Remember that first time we came over here?”
“Mm, ’course,” said Ran, very flushed indeed.
Max gave a deep sigh. “Thank God we did! I could be shivering in that bloody London office right now—or out in the burning wastes of Saudi Arabia or some such at the mercy of the whims of the mad bosses!”
“Yeah. So you are glad we decided to come out here, Max?” she ventured.
“Hell, yes!” said Max in astonishment. “Never regretted it for an instant, darling! Happy as Larry!”
“Oh, good!” said Ran, sagging a little. “Um, old Sir Maurice is pretty mad, too,” she ventured cautiously.
“Nutty as a fruit cake, and rabid with it,” agreed Max calmly. “But his nuttiness only seems to be extending to sending us to choice spots round the South Pacific at the moment.”
“Mm. Jim said that site in Western Australia was a washout,” she reminded him.
“Yes: degraded farming country, was it? –Mm. But there are plenty of other possible sites there, in fact he and his Caitlin are planning to combine a lovely holiday in the northern part of the state with a bit of site hunting.”
Ran looked at him in horror. “Max, it’ll be cyclone weather in northern Australia over Christmas!”
“Er—no,” he said, his shoulders shaking slightly. “Jim’s too fly for that, sweetheart. Planning it for Easter next year: his mum’s only too happy to look after the kids.”
Ran relaxed. “That sounds all right!”
“Mm. Sir M. is keen on the Cook Islands idea, too, so I dare say that’ll go ahead, if they can negotiate terms with the owners.”
Polynesian land ownership? Good luck with that! thought Ran, not saying it. “Plenty for us to do, then.”
“Yes; without having to go back to cold old Blighty!” said Max with his cheery laugh.
Ran leaned into his side. “Mm. Thank goodness you broke your leg that time!”
Max’s shoulders shook, but he just agreed mildly: “I’ll say.”
The sun shone, the endemic Antipodean wind whistled round the bottles of the absurd abandoned bottle house, now in competition with the children’s shrieks in emulation, and Max Throgmorton, the heir presumptive to one of the most prestigious Adam manor houses in Britain, tightened his arm round his scruffy, untidy-haired, be-jeaned wife, and felt completely and blissfully happy.
THE END
of the story;
but you can read more
about the ecolodges by the lake
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