Gourds, Guests And Goodbyes

 18

Gourds, Guests And Goodbyes

    Katy had come over to Fern Gully this morning with her camera.

    “George Braithwaite wants some more photos of those pieces,” she explained clearly to her daughter.

    Shannon goggled at her. “Who on earth is George Braithwaite?”

    “He’s the man who works for Alex’s publishers that’s ordered some wall hangings. He saw the pictures on Fern Gully’s website. He’s bought a new house on Long Island and he wants some for it. He sent me some pictures of it, it’s very modern. He thought some in these shades and some bluish. He’s very interested in indigo. –It’s a plant.”

    “He lives on Long Island? Mum, do you mean he’s an American?”

    “Yes, of course. The publishers are: I thought you knew.”

    Shannon was now very flushed. “No. Are you telling me you’re getting orders from America?”

    “Yes. The times are all different, so if you send him an email—”

    “Yes! Never mind that! Why on earth didn’t you say something before?”

    Katy looked vague. “Well, you’ve been very busy, dear. –Dan was very disappointed that you didn’t want a proper twenty-first.”

    “Never mind that! Just stick to the point, Mum!”

    “Um, yes. Well, if I could just take some photos—”

    “What? Of course you can! Look, if you’re getting custom from the U.S., you need to have a website!”

    “George Braithwaite said that’d be a good idea, too,” she agreed vaguely. “Indigo grows in America, did you know that?”

    “Never mind the flaming indigo, Mum! You need a proper website where you can post your stuff!”

    “Post?”

    “Put it online!” she snapped.

    “I don’t know how,” said Katy simply.

    “You don’t need to know how, Mum, you just need to have a decent web designer, and I’ve found an excellent firm that are doing ours,” replied Shannon grimly. “That lot that Jim Thompson was using were a load of nongs that couldn’t pull their fingers out. I’ll get them to email— No, I’ll contact them for you. They’ve got copies of the pics of your stuff here, and you can send me any digital photos you’ve got of your other work, okay?”

    “Um, send, dear?”

    Breathing hard, Shannon produced a business card. “Here. Email them to me here; see?”

    “Ooh, this is nice!” she said admiringly. “It’s got your name on it, too! I thought this sort of thing took ages to do?”

    “Not if you’ve got the right firm of graphic designers on the job, and that’s what our lot do, see? Digital Graphic Solutions, they specialise in business requirements: the whole bit, from go to whoa. Well, Fern Gully already had the logo, the Head Office types chose that fern, but this card design’s miles nicer than the old one.”

    “Ye-es… Wasn’t it a waste of money, though, dear?” she ventured.

    “No: the old ones all had flaming Simon Basildon-Pugh’s name on them,” replied Shannon drily. “You could have business cards, too, Mum: Digital Graphic Solutions will design them, no sweat, and Mark Spence in Taupo’ll print them any time you like.”

    “Mark that was at school with Ran?” replied Katy with interest. “He’s a nice boy. So he’s doing printing stuff, now, dear?”

    “Yeah: well, took over that photo processing dump of his dad’s and dragged it into the 21st century. He’ll print anything, one-offs or in bulk: all you have to do is email him a digital copy. Business cards, whole documents—choice of binding; photo albums, posters; blow up anything any size you like— You name it.” Her mother was looking puzzled, so she repeated: “Just email him the file.”

    Katy was beginning to feel that if Shannon said “email” once more her head would explode. True, Shannon often made her feel like that. “I see. That’s nice.”

    Shannon could see she wasn’t gonna do it. “I’ll set it up for you with Digital Graphic Solutions: they’ll send you some design suggestions and we’ll look at them together, eh?” she said, deciding grimly that she’d get them to copy everything to her: no way was she gonna let Mum let an opportunity to get a market in America slip through her fingers!

    “Well, if you’ve got the time, Shannon.”

    “Yes. I can come over in the evenings,” said Shannon grimly.

    “Okay, dear.” She brightened. “I can show you my new ideas!”

    “Yes, lovely. –Did this Braithwaite guy say why he wants more photos, exactly?”

    “George,” corrected Katy. “Yes, he knows a lady that might want to buy some.”

    “In America?” she asked eagerly.

    “Yes, of course, that’s where he lives.”

    “Come on!” Shannon had been sitting at the reception desk during the entire exchange. Now she bounded up, grabbed her mother’s arm in a grip of steel, and led her to the nearest wall hanging.

    “Um, I think he’s seen this, dear: didn’t Max say they’d taken a photo of it for the whatsit?”

    “Never mind, take a new one. Mind ya do them all,” she ordered in a steely voice.

    “Righto,” agreed Katy obediently.

    Shannon would have stayed to supervise her but at that moment the phone rang and she shot back to the reception desk to answer it. She sat down again, but she didn’t fail to glue her eyes to her mother’s person.

    Katy had been standing before the big one with the brownish streaks in it for some time, wondering if the light was right, it was coming in at a funny angle through one of those funny long glass slits of Max’s, and the recycled glass was producing a sort of mottled effect, when a foreign voice said: “Vairy attractive, is it not? We admire it vairy meush.”

    “Um, thank you,” she replied, going bright red. “It turned out quite well.”

    “Beut you are the artist, then?” the foreign lady cried. “This is weunderful!”

    “Um, yes. See that nice little notice they’ve put beside it? Katy Jackson: that’s me. It says 2004 because I finished most of the set last year, but actually this one wasn’t properly stretched and framed until January, but Max said it wouldn’t matter. You can’t see the frame, of course, it’s behind it.”

    “Yes, of course, one would not frame them as a painting!” the lady beamed. “It’s a privilege to meet you, Ms Jackson! I weunder, do you take private orders?”

    She said all her R’s funny, but it was quite easy to understand her. “Private?” replied Katy dubiously.

    “Yes: for a private owner, you understand, not a commercial commeession.”

    “Oh! Yes, of course. I mean, I have sold quite a lot of pieces to people who just want to hang them in their houses, is that what you mean?”

    “Beut yes, naturally! I am so sorry if I do not make it clear!” she said quickly, smiling nicely.

    “No, you did, really, it’s just that these pieces are very big. I mean, out here, most people don’t have walls this high.”

    The lady looked up into the echoing spaces of Fern Gully Ecolodge’s main lounge area and smiled. “Pair’aps not laike this, no! One does so admire the way the architect ’andles space.”

    “Yes. And light,” agreed Katy seriously, nodding.

    “Beut certainly!” she agreed. She was a very well-dressed lady, but her clothes were what you might call discreet, decided Katy, looking at her admiringly. They toned very well with the colours Max had chosen for the ecolodge, too: smartly-cut slacks in a warm tan shade that had a tangerine hint to it, a matching light-weight cardy just slung over her shoulders, and a cotton tee, tucked into the slacks, in a very pale fawn that just managed not to be oatmeal. With a nice tan belt. Some people looked very shabby in tee-shirts but this lady looked very smart, it must be new. And it was tight, not loose, that helped. She only had little gold keepers in her ears, but round one wrist she had a big greenstone bangle. Coral Kenny’s souvenir shop in downtown Taupo had those for sale, but Coral, who was a very cluey lady indeed, didn’t have hers on display where they might have been nicked, they were locked in a big safe out the back. Katy knew because she’d asked her: she had a big notice in the shop saying to ask about their “New Zealand jade”. The bangles were beautiful, but they cost a fortune.

    “That’s a lovely bangle,” she said admiringly. “Did you buy it here?”

    “Yes, certainly! It’s your famous New Zealand greenstone! I am so glad you laike it, Ms Jackson. Indeed, I had thought that pair’aps you might ’ave something available with this green shade in it? Or to—eugh—tone?”

    “I’ve got a few greenish things. I’ve been working on sort of indigo shades just lately… Um, well, you could come over to the studio and have a look, if you like. But I could always do you one anyway,” concluded Katy happily, smiling at her.

    The would-be customer’s jaw dropped. “I see! That’s weunderful, Ms Jackson! And I should adore to come to your studio!”

    “Good. Well, I’m usually there. Or you could come back with me today, if you like. Only how would you get back?” she realised, frowning over it.

    “That is not a problem! I ’ave a car: I follow you, okay?” she said quickly. “If it's convenient, naturally!”

    “Yes, of course…” Katy’s gaze returned to the hanging. “The light from the window’s giving it a mottled effect, isn’t it?”

    “Eugh… I’m sorry: mottled?”

    “Spotted,” she said simply.

    “Oh! I see! Mottled! Yes—oh, you think it will spoil the photo?” she realised.

    “Mm.”

    “Beut it could be so effective!” she urged,

    “Well, I’ll try it. I can always come back at a different time of day. It’s for a man in America. You see…” Happily Katy plunged into the whole bit.

    From the reception desk Shannon had seen the lot, but she hadn’t been able to shoot over there and stop Mum from shoving her great foot in her mouth in front of the wealthy Mme Cartier—whether the family was the same as the famous jewellers she didn’t know, but judging by the dame’s clothes and shoes, that wouldn’t have surprised her. The phone call had been about a complicated booking and then a supplier rang, and by that time two of the resident guests had turned up wanting directions to different tourist attractions, and then a new couple arrived.

    By the time she managed to get over there Katy had moved on two hangings further and Mme Cartier had disappeared.

    “Mum! What in God’s name did you say to Mme Cartier?” she hissed.

    “Geneviève: it’s quite hard to say in French, isn’t it?” beamed Katy. “She’s just gone to get her purse and car keys.”

    “What?”

    “She wants to see the studio. She thinks greenish might be nice. They’ve got two houses in France as well as a flat, and one of them’s very traditional, but she hated the flat, so now she’s got it all modern and she wants some green shades in that. The other house is only a holiday home and she’s thinking of blue for that because it’s near the sea. The Mediterranean, France has got a lot of shore on the Mediterranean, she said.”

    “Ya mean she’s gonna buy your stuff?” she gasped.

    “Yes, if she likes anything, but she said I could do her something if there’s nothing that’s right.”

    “Cripes,” said Shannon numbly. “Well, good on ya, Mum!”

    “I told her it might take a while. It’ll keep me busy while Dan’s in Canada.”

    “Y— It’s only for a conference, Mum, he won’t be away that long. Um, I should think Aunty Moyra would come and stay if you feel lonely.”

    “Mm? Oh—yes. No, I was just thinking there’ll be fewer distractions… I’ve got to do the stuff for George, as well. I explained that to her. She knows someone that lives on Long Island, too, isn’t that a coincidence?” she beamed.

    Not in that dame’s socio-economic bracket, no! “Mm,” Shannon agreed mildly. “Um, how did this George type get to hear of your stuff in the first place, Mum? Did Alex tell him about Fern Gully, or what?”

    “I don’t know. I suppose he must have. You could ask him, I don’t think he’ll be taking off for Northland for a little while yet.”

    “What?”

    “Northland: to see the people with the pumpkins and gourds.”

    “What are you talking about, Mum?”

    “Alex’s new idea, of course. Gourds and vines. Watercolours, they should look good. Chokos are gourds, too, did you know that?”

    “Shut up about ruddy gourds, Mum! When is he planning to take off for Northland? And does Hugh Throgmorton know?”

    “It’s no use asking me, Shannon. That’s all I know. Um, except for the chokos,” she remembered.

    “I don’t wanna hear about flaming chokos!”

    Katy was silent, looking at her sadly.

    Shannon scowled angrily.

    After a few moments Katy ventured: “Well, you’d better talk to him, dear.”

    “That or forget about the bugger entirely, yeah,” she said sourly.

    Katy sighed. Dan’d be pleased, if she did. “Yes, well, I like him, but I can see he's not the sort that wants to settle down.”

    ‘You can say that again. The point that I never asked him to settle down is irrelevant, I suppose?”

    Katy just looked at her sadly.

    Shannon took a deep breath. “Never mind that. Now, just mind you don’t tell Mme Cartier you can’t manage stuff for her, okay?”

    “Geneviève. She understands that craftspeople can’t always produce stuff at the drop of a hat, she knows lots of artists and craftspeople in Europe.”

    No doubt all only too eager to sell her their stuff, instead: yeah! “I dare say. Just don’t put her off.”

    “I won’t, don’t be silly,” replied Katy tranquilly.

    Shannon swallowed a sigh. Mme Cartier, under the wonderful manners, had the personality of a tank; she'd either bully Mum into promising far too much, or drop the idea entirely. “See ya don’t. Now, you’d better snap that last piece, over there.”

    “Oh, yes.” Obediently Katy went off to do so.

    Shannon returned to the reception desk, looking grim. Bloody Alex was not worth bothering about! He’d brought a load of organic veges over just the other day and hadn’t breathed a word about clearing out to flaming Northland! She watched grimly as Mme Cartier returned, complete with Hermès “fourre-tout”—tan to match the belt and shoes, probably pigskin, they had that look—competently collected Mum, and went out with her. If the woman went ahead with it, she promised herself grimly, anything she bought was gonna go on Mum’s website with her name attached as buyer, no “Private clients” need apply!

    Her mouth firmed. She picked up the phone, found Digital Graphic Solutions’ Auckland number, and called them. Katyjacksonartist.co.nz was gonna be up by this time next week, or she’d know the reason why!

    It had just gone two-thirty that day when Jan Harper sustained what had to rank as one of the biggest shocks of her life. Certainly one of the biggest since they’d started Taupo Shores Ecolodge. The restaurant had emptied—your average middle-class ecolodger turned up on the dot for its meals, ate like a hungry horse, and was out of there in half an hour unless absorbed in gossip with its peers—and she was blessedly alone in the kitchen, since Janet, having put in her usual solid 9 to 1 stint, was having the afternoon off to go to the dentist, poor soul. Pete was out on the lake with the done-up Tallulah Tub, pardon, Taupo Shores Tallulah, with a load of keen ones of the middle-aged fluttery sort who thought he was “lovely” if EnZeders or Aussies, and “just dorrling!” if from the far side of the Pacific, and didn’t hesitate to say so to his face, poor old Pete! Plus in the case of those who weren’t actually widows, their escorts, but they didn’t count—well under the matriarchal thumb.

    She was just about to make a pot of real coffee for herself and was eyeing the remaining slice of tomato tart—one of Jane Grigson’s recipes—without much enthusiasm and wondering if she could settle for cheese and piccalilli instead; though the stuff was a bit strong: did she want to breathe— No, scrub that. Should she breathe piccalilli fumes all over the guests for the rest of the day?—when it happened.

    “This is it,” said Katy Jackson’s voice happily as the door to the back porch opened. “Come in, Jan won’t mind. There’s sure to be something going!”

    And in Katy came, accompanied by— Jan staggered to her feet, goggling.

    “Hullo, Jan!” said Katy cheerfully. “This is Geneviève. Could you manage a snack or something for us? We forgot to have lunch, I mean we lost track of the time. We looked in the restaurant, but it looked closed.”

    “Yeah, sure,” croaked Jan, goggling. “Uh—come on in, uh, Geneviève. Um, I’m Jan Harper,” she added feebly.

    “Geneviève Cartier. How do you do, Ms Harper?” replied one of the most smartly-dressed dames Jan had ever laid eyes on. Casual but elegant? Something like that. The sort of thing Polly Carrano got round in when she wasn't in daggy jeans and a baggy tee of Jake’s, or possibly of hers, Jan’s. Very casual lunch wear when one was roughing it in the country, kind of thing. She didn’t have Polly’s gorgeous figure, she was a slight woman, but with those clothes and that immaculate bobbed hair, about the shade of the tan accessories, it scarcely mattered. Not to the distaff or Vogue-reading side, anyway.

    Katy by contrast was in pretty much what you might have expected. The washed-out greenish cotton trou’ had been new in the ’90s, they had that cut: pleated into the tight waist, rather baggy in the hips, very narrow round the lower leg. The blouse was bluish, sleeveless and came just to the waist and Jan was pretty sure it had once been Felicity’s. Dacron, it had that rubbed, greyish look that old Dacron got.

    “Geneviève’s staying at Fern Gully, and she’s bought one of my small hangings, and she’s commissioned two whole sets of new ones!” beamed Katy. “Some greenish and some blue. She knows all about indigo, don’t you, Geneviève?”

    “Yes, a vairy interesting plant,” agreed the dame—cripes, the name hadn’t belied her: she was French, all right, Jan recognised—“which intriguingly, grows well in North America, although we of course associate it with India and Central Asia. It came to the southeastern states by way of West Africa with the slave trade, alas.”

    “I see. So your new blue things are gonna use indigo, are they, Katy?”

    “Well, if I can get any.”

    “Beut I ’ave assured you, Katy, I can source it for you!” cried the up-market Geneviève vivaciously.

    “Well, if you can, that’d be really good, but you mustn’t go to too much trouble. That commercial blue isn’t bad, is it?”

    “But the use of indigo will open up the organic market to you, my dear!” she cred.

    “Yes, it’d be one of those, um, selling points, is that right?”

    “Indeed! And in a niche market, you know!”

    ‘Yes, that was the other one,” agreed Katy happily.

    “Great,” said Jan feebly. “Um, well, why don’t you come through to the restaurant—”

    “Heck, no, it’s all cleared up. We’ll be okay in here,” said Katy quickly.

    Jan looked weakly at Geneviève.

    “She’s French: she like kitchens,” said Katy simply.

    “Beut of course, Jan!” agreed Geneviève with a laugh. “Katy tells me of a delicious ratatouille that her son eats, so I give her my grandmother’s recipe; n’est-ce pas, Katy?”

    “Yes. Only I’ve told her, mine’ll never turn out right. Here it is, Jan,” said Katy, suddenly producing a crumpled piece of paper from her back pocket.

    Jan took it numbly.

    “My grandmother, she is the superb cook: it has her—eugh—secret treecks, I think is the expression!” said Geneviève gaily.

    “Yes, I see. It looks really good,” said Jan numbly, attempting to hand the paper back to Katy.

    “No, it’s for you, Jan!” she beamed.

    “Uh—”

    “Beut yes, Jan!”

    “Well, thank you very much,” said Jan numbly. ”I’ve got a couple of recipes, but they’re a bit ordinary, actually.”

    “Yes: one needs the—eugh—tips, yes? From one who makes it all her life. My grandmother, she was Méridionale, you see!”

    May— Light dawned. “Really? Gee, straight from the horse’s mouth, then!” grinned Jan. “Uh—sorry, Geneviève: that means—”

    But Geneviève was nodding hard and smiling. “I understand! It’s seuch an interesting English idiom, no?” Her eye fell on the book on the big old scrubbed kitchen table. “Ah! You use this cookbook, then?”

    “Yes—well, sometimes. Her recipes tend to be full of cream and butter—dairy fats. She was the post-War generation. –Sorry: sit down, both of you. I was just gonna have lunch myself. –Janet’s got the dentist this arvo, poor thing,” she said to Katy. “So I told her whatever the outcome just go home straight after, don’t come back to work.”

    “Will you be shorthanded, then, Jan? I could help chop stuff for the dinners,” she offered.

    “I, too!” said Geneviève immediately.

    Jan gulped. “I couldn’t possibly ask you.”

    “But you do not ask, Jan, we offer!” said Geneviève gaily. “So, what do you plan for leunsh?”

    “Well, nothing, really. I mean, I hadn't decided.”

    “Anything’ll do us. Some of that lovely bread of yours, if you can spare it,” said Katy.

    Mixed wholemeal and rye. Nothing like anything the French ate, Jan was sure. However, it was what there was, it’d have to do. Weakly she got it out. “Um, there’s some ham on the bone that needs to be eaten up,” she offered weakly. “And, um,”—not the piccalilli, no, for a smart Frenchwoman who smelled like the Rue de Chanel Number 5—“well, peach chutney?” she ended weakly. She had an idea that chutney was unknown in France. Well, given that it originated with the British Raj—

    Katy was crying: “Ooh, yum!” with shining eyes.

    All right, peach chutney it’d be. Well, there was enough of it, after that peach explosion down the back last year. Limply Jan set out the meat platter bearing the ham bone, and a jar of peach chutney. And filled the coffee-pot and put it on the stove. On second thoughts getting a bottle of Évian out of the fridge. Well, at least something’d be familiar to the woman!

    It went down a treat.

    And that was more or less it. Geneviève was delighted to meet Pete, she stayed to help with the veges, she insisted on helping with the waiting, and she lapped up a dinner of left over Lamb With Plums (based on Jane Grigson’s recipe, but their own plums were over and Jan had used bottled ones), boiled potatoes with tarragon and butter, and steamed zucchinis with marjoram; followed by a combo of a meringue (Janet’s: left over from yesterday, they kept well in a tightly sealed tin), fruit jelly that Jan wasn’t letting on was largely banana passionfruit juice, and that hadn’t been a hit with the ecolodge’s middle-aged punters, who preferred yer shockingly rich Black-Bottom Pie or Black Forest Cake, though Jan hadn’t yet descended to the level of letting them have Tirami-gulp-su; plus supermarket vanilla ice cream.

    … “What was that?” asked Pete, grinning, as he and Jan crawled into bed at last.

    “Katy’s new client. Rich French dame. Nostalgia for her granny’s kitchen. That or nostalgie de la boue,” sighed Jan.

    “Eh?”

    “Loosely translated, enjoying slumming it for once in her life, Pete. Never mind, just so long as she chucks plenty of moolah Katy’s way!”

    “She looked as if she could do that, all right,” he conceded. “Didja get a load of that junk on ’er fingers?”

    “Yeah. Well, that emerald was about half the size of Polly’s engagement ring, but yeah.”

    “Oh, well, good-oh,” he concluded.

    “Mm. And I’ve got her granny’s genuine South of France recipe for ratatouille!” Jan remembered, beaming.

    Heroically Pete didn't laugh. “Good one, love,” he approved.

    “Mm.” Jan yawned. “Turn the main light off, Pete.”

    Pete turned the main light off and got into bed. He was just about to turn the bedside lamp off as well when she said: “Had you heard that bloody Alex is about to pack his traps and vanish to Northland?”

    “No,” he lied, not mentioning the earful he’d got from Tim over the fence this morning.

    “Well, he is. The subject came up when we were trying to explain to Geneviève what chokos are. Katy seems to have put her foot in it with Shannon: the girl had no idea he was planning to take off so soon.”

    “He’s too old for her—and too unreliable. She’s better off without him, Jan,” he said firmly.

    Jan sighed. “Yeah. –God, I wouldn’t be twenty-one again for anything!”

    “Me, neither,” agreed Pete comfortably. “Talking of chokos, young Sean can have a go at that ruddy vine: it’s starting to creep into the guests’ carpark.”

    “Mm. Good. Not too much, though, Pete: I’ve found a recipe for choko piccalilli,” said Jan sleepily.

    Pete winced. Oh, well, sufficient unto the day, the bloody thing wouldn’t be fruiting until winter, and he’d tell Sean on the quiet to give it a bloody good going-over!

    “Aren’t these a bit misshapen for Fern Gully?” said Alex dubiously, eyeing the large carton of oddly-shaped tomatoes.

    “Not this time, the chef has apparently decided to make tomato relish,” replied Hugh with a grin. “We gather it entails cooking them up into mush; something of the sort, eh, Bettany?”

    “Yes—well, actually it sounded a bit like dear Jan’s wonderful tomato chutney recipe! He was terrifically pleased that we could supply enough!” she beamed.

    Yeah, well, they could supply ten times this amount without noticing it, actually. “Right, goddit,” Alex agreed mildly. “I expect it’ll end up in little smears on giant white plates and their clients’ll treat it as decoration, but no skin off our noses, eh?”

    “No… We went to a restaurant in Auckland where they served it in little white pots,” Bettany offered. “Well, it was a relish, but it called itself tomato jam and it had chilli in it, didn’t it, Hugh?”

    “Yes: tasted quite sweet and then you got the bite in the aftertaste,” he agreed. “I think the white pots in question might have been small ramekins, Alex.”

    Alex grinned. “I see! Okay, I’ll haul this lot over there for Dwayne; anything else to go?”

    There was quite a lot, including a huge amount of sweetcorn. Alex didn’t ask if they knew what Dwayne was gonna do with that, he had a feeling it was better not to know. Apparently he had also asked for baby sweetcorn—well, that was par for the up-market kweezine course.

    “He says you can freeze it,” offered Bettany dubiously.

    “Yes, of course: the big freezers in the supermarkets are full of frozen sweetcorn,” replied Alex. “I think there’ll be room in the white monster from Sir Jake!”

    Obligingly Bettany giggled: the huge white chest freezer had arrived without warning some time back and so far no-one had had the time, let alone the know-how, to prepare anything to put in it.

    “I suppose I’ll have to ask Jan again: oh, dear,” she noted, apropos.

    “She won’t mind: she loves sharing her expertise! That the lot, then? Okay: see you later!” Alex departed, looking a lot more cheerful than he actually felt. Shannon was going to be really pissed off when he told her he was moving on—never mind that she knew he wasn’t a permanent fixture. Could chicken out? Er… no, he’d already done that last week and it now was almost the end of March, and he’d planned, more or less, to get going in early April.

    It was still quite early when he got there and Dwayne was in the kitchen serving the two hefty Maori boys who did the wood carving with pancakes at his bosses’ expense: good on him! Alex had had his breakfast but in view of that hour he’d spent packing cartons of vegetables he was very happy to accept another.

    “Yum!” he approved, grinning at the chef.

    “Yeah, good, eh?” agreed Rewi. “Not like usual pancakes.”

    No, yer genuine crêpes tended not to be. “Superb!” Alex agreed.

    “The sauce is good, too,” contributed Nelson.

    Yes, orange sauce with pancakes was generally adjudged a winner, even when it didn’t incorporate flambéed brandy. “I’ll say! Congratulations, Dwayne, worthy of the Tour d’Argent or Maxim’s!”

    “Thanks, but it was easy, y’know?”

    “Not,” noted Rewi stolidly.

    “What he said,” agreed Alex. “Great coffee, too.”

    “He reckons those Italian coffee-pots, they’re the best,” explained Nelson. “Them expresso machines, they’re dumb, see: they cost a bomb and the only reason you’d buy one is to make cappuccino, and not everyone wants their milk all frothy.”

    “Nah, dumb, eh?” agreed his brother.

    Okay, Dwayne was indoctrinating the locals with the rudiments of good taste in matters gastronomic! Heroically Alex didn’t laugh, agreed quite sincerely that bloody frothy milk in your coffee was dumb, and having thanked Dwayne fervently, forced himself to get going.

    There was a blonde at the Fern Gully Reception desk, but it wasn’t Shannon!

    Who the—? And where the Hell had they got her from? She was very young, but she looked… casually smart. Cripes.

    “Good morning; may I help you?” she greeted him.

    Good grief! New Zealanders never said “may”, in fact he’d heretofore been under the impression that the word had vanished from the Antipodean vernacular. “Good morning” instead of an inane “Hullo” was bloody rare, too, come to think of it. But that was definitely the local accent—well, a toned-down variety, she sounded quite intelligent, it wasn’t the usual high-pitched but muddied nasal tone that gave the impression that the speaker (a) never closed her mouth entirely and (b) was a moron aged approximately seventeen. The frightful female on the so-called classical music station being a case in point. Alex had given up listening to it some time back: his ears didn’t need that, not to mention the middle-of-the-road pabulum that was all they seemed to broadcast these days.

    “Hullo,” he said mildly. “All right if go out the back to see Shannon?”

    “I’ll just check if she’s free,” she said nicely. “What name, please?”

    Managing not to roll his eyes madly, Alex gave her his name, and waited.

    “Yes, please just go on through,” was the answer, so he tottered off.

    “Shannon,” he croaked at her open door, “who the Hell is that kid on the reception desk? And where did she spring from? Never tell me she’s a Taupo-ite!”

    “Lyndall Thompson. She’s Maurie’s daughter,” replied Shannon succinctly.

    Alex’s jaw dropped. “Eh?” She couldn’t be! He’d known Maurie at Oxford! Admittedly he was a few years older than him, he’d finished his doctorate by then and was there on some visiting fellowship arrangement, but—

    “Time flies,” said Shannon unpleasantly, eyeing him unpleasantly.

    “But how old is she?” he croaked.

    “Eighteen. She’s having a gap year.”

    “Huh?”

    “Boy, you live in a world of your own, Alex, don’t you?” she said unpleasantly. “She finished school last year and she’s having a gap year because she can’t decide whether to go to varsity or not. Lots of kids have them, just to get a break from swot.”

    Kids whose family could support them, presumably. “I see,” he said limply. “Well, she seems suitable, but will she stay out the year?”

    “That remains to be seen.”

    “Yeah.” –For God’s sake, how old was Maurie, then? “Look, just so as to reassure me that I haven’t actually fallen down the rabbit hole—though I have to admit at this precise moment I do feel as I’m walking with my head downwards—how old is bloody Maurie, do you know?”

    Shannon gave him an unpleasant look. “That sort of information about our employees is confidential.”

    “All right, don’t tell me,” he sighed. “I’ll ask him. I have known him for years. –More years than I thought,” he muttered sourly.

    “Forty-one next month,” she said, horribly dry.

    Alex swallowed hard. “Right.”

    “They got married when they were twenty-one. He admits himself it was a mistake, they’ve been divorced for ages. She remarried, and moved to Perth two years back, but Lyndall didn’t want to change schools, so she decided to live with Maurie. He was lecturing at Auckland, which presumably is how you know him,” said Shannon in a hard voice. The whole volcanologist thing had burst on her like a thunderclap when the artless Lyndall had innocently told her the lot. The more so as Maurie was apparently taking over a very senior position indeed at the DOC in Turangi.

    “Uh—no, known him since Oxford,” said Alex weakly, passing a hand through his hair. Gee, it hadn’t all fallen out after all!

    “Right, that woulda been just after they split up. Lyndall said her mum didn’t wanna go with him. One of those barmy women that see themselves as little homemakers: can’t imagine how she forced herself to go to Perth.”

    “I suppose that explains why I never knew he had a kid, back then,” he said weakly.

    “Three. Tony and Trevor are twins. She refused to go on the Pill, apparently.”

    “I get the full picture,” he acknowledged, wincing. “Uh—except where are these twins?”

    Shannon shrugged. “Perth. How was she, on the desk?”

    “What?” he said dazedly.

    “How was she, on the desk? Or didn’t you notice?”

    “Oh! The kid! Very polite, seemed extremely competent, um, completely suited to the chaste ambience, that what you wanted to hear?”

    She glared. “Yes, but is it the truth?”

    “Yes,” sad Alex flatly.

    “Good,” she replied grimly. “That it, then?”

    “No. I wanted to tell you I’ll be moving on in a week or so.”

    “Good. Don’t bother to come over here if you happen to float back,” Shannon replied grimly.

    Alex tried for a light tone. “What if Hugh wants me to bring over some lovely organic winter veg—chokos, for instance?”

    “Deliver them to the kitchen, thanks. Goodbye.”

    “Look, Shannon, I know we were good in bed that time, but it would never have worked out!” said Alex desperately.

    “You said it. And it wasn’t bed, was it? It was a ruddy unzipped sleeping-bag. Just go.”

    Alex went.

    “Chokos!” said Shannon fiercely to her empty office. “Well, good riddance!”

    “Where’d Alex going?” demanded Nokomis aggrievedly as Hugh, Bettany and the kids stood on the newly gravelled sweep in front of the house to wave him off.

    “Up north, dirt-brain!” snarled Bryce. “He toleja, he’s gonna paint pumpkins an’ things. –I’m gonna build a fort!”

    Hugh grabbed him by the scruffy jumper just as he was heading off. “You can build a fort after you’ve apologised to your little sister for calling her a dirt-brain. We don’t use that sort of language at home, thanks.”

    Bryce glared, but as it had now dawned that Hugh’s will was stronger than his and that Hugh wasn’t swayed by crocodile tears, he growled: “Sorry.”

    “Good. Off you go,” said Hugh mildly.

    Bryce rushed off, what time Krish said loftily from the height of very nearly twelve: “He’s just a kid. We’re gonna get on with the pruning, eh, Hugh?”

    “That’s right, old man. We did oil the pruning shears before we put them away last time, didn’t we?”

    “Yeah, ’course, ’cos don’tcha remember, Pete said ya gotta look after your tools and they won’t letcha down!” he said eagerly.

    “Of course, yes,” agreed Hugh without a tremor. “You girls be all right if we leave you to it?”

    “Of course!” replied Ghillywaine scornfully before Bettany could open her mouth. “Nicole’s gonna come over and we’re gonna do some baking, eh, Bettany?”

    This was a new name on Hugh. “Nicole?” he said feebly, as Bettany nodded placidly.

    “Nicole Kaha. She’s one of Cherie Kaha’s daughters, Hugh. Jay’s friend Ngaio’s little sister,” Bettany explained. “She’s in Ghillywaine’s class at school.”

    “Yeah,” Ghillywaine agreed. “She’s gonna bike over.”

    The Kahas lived in the township: Hugh looked at her in horror. “Sweetheart, that’s too far for a little girl to bike!”

    “She’s strong, Hugh!” she replied scornfully.

    “I expect her mum’ll bring her,” said Bettany placidly.

    “Darling, did you ring her and check?”

    “No, she’s very sensible, but I will if you like.”

    Hugh was just about to say he did like, and to tell Mrs Kaha that he’d nip over and collect the child, when there was a cheerful toot on a horn and a large SUV came slowly up the drive and pulled in neatly in front of them. And a beaming little Maori girl in jeans, a smart red long-sleeved jumper and a green baseball cap on backwards got out. Which did sort of explain why Ghillywaine was in jeans, a baggy red jumper that had once been Jonathan’s, and a yellow baseball cap that Pete had found abandoned in the bunkhouse at Taupo Shores a day after a clutch of trampers had departed. On backwards, yes.

    Mrs Kaha was duly greeted warmly by Bettany and invited in, but she couldn't stay, she had to pick the boys up from footy practice, but if she could just get some potatoes off them? Hugh admitted she could have as many as she liked, they were inundated with potatoes, and Sir Jake Carrano in person had gone over Tim’s plans for the gardens with the executive fountain pen and crossed out half his potato patches for this year! And would she like some silverbeet? Or put it like this: please do have some silverbeet, the winter crop was already coming on and the cows, the ducks and the hens all put together couldn’t possibly get through the stuff.

    Giggling, and correcting his terminology to “chooks”, with a merry reminder that he was in New Zealand now, Mrs Kaha admitted she wouldn’t mind a bit, she’d do that Greek thingy and tell them it was spinach, they’d never know, and drove carefully down to the shed. Then embarrassingly forcing wads of cash on them, but accepting some free funny-looking zucchinis that were the last of the crop and not acceptable to the trendies that bought organic produce in Auckland. Noting that it took all sorts and, incredibly, actually accepting Hugh’s offer to bring Nicole home, she then departed with a merry toot of her horn. Just as a silver Lexus with “Taupo Shores clients” written all over it drew in, bother!

    At long last the silver-haired couple from the silver Lexus departed, with the assurance that she always used silverbeet in her spanakopita and that this looked wonderfully fresh, and the gratuitous intel that so-called “wild” rocket was hardier and kept better but that the cultivated sort the Americans called arugula was much nicer. No-one had so much as breathed the word “rocket” in front of them— Oh, well. They couldn’t say Pete and Jan hadn’t warned them about the average ecolodge client in these parts!

    “Come on, girls,” said Bettany. “What shall we cook? Biscuits?”

    “Ho’-cross buns!” cried Nokomis.

    “Um, we’ve had Easter, darling. –Oh, why not? Hot-cross buns are always lovely!” declared Bettany with a laugh. “We’ll do Jan’s easy recipe again, shall we?”

    “Yeah.”

    “What about biscuits, though?” said Ghillywaine sadly.

    “We could manage them, too. In fact we could try out that recipe for gingerbread men that Lady Carrano gave us. –That’s a biscuit recipe,” she said quickly to the blank faces. “Um, do you like ginger, Nicole?”

    They vanished up the drive to the sounds of Nicole assuring her that she did, Granny made this ace ginger pudding, and sometimes you could have custard with it, or ice cream—

    “Lock it up and put the ‘Closed’ sign on it,” ordered Krish grimly.

    “Yes.” Hugh locked the big shed and put the “Closed” sign on the door. “Why did they buy all that silverbeet if they only came for the new season’s apples— No, I won’t ask.”

    “They’re all like that,” said Krish sturdily.

    Hugh gave a startled laugh. “They certainly are! Okay, pruning shears, ho!”

    It was fair to say that no-one at Taupo Organic Produce gave Alex another thought that day. On the other hand, it was also fair to say that Alex would never have expected or wanted them to.

    Sean had had an uneasy feeling that bringing Mum up to Auckland airport to see Dad off to his conference in Canada was a ruddy bad idea. And gee, he wasn't wrong.

    She looked pretty tearful when he kissed her goodbye, but held out until he’d actually vanished through the whatsit. Then the floodgates opened.

    “Your granny’s crying,” said Molly’s little Harry to Tomkins.

    “Don’t cry, Granny!” he piped.—Moyra had elected to be “Nanna” so, as the relationships were just too complicated to explain to a little boy, especially one whose English was a bit shaky, Ran and Max had decided Katy had better be Granny.—“Ran, Granny’s crying!”

    “She’ll be all right, Tomkins. –Don’t cry, Mum, Dad’ll be fine.”

    “Not—that!” she sobbed. “Luh—left me!” More sobs.

    Ran rolled her eyes at Max in astonishment. “Mum, he hasn’t left you, he’s gone to a flaming conference! He’ll be back in less than a fortnight!”

    “I don’t think she means that, Ran,” said Molly shyly. “—Yes, I know Tomkins’ granny’s crying, Harry,” she said as he tried to tell her she was. “She means they’ve never been apart before, I think.”

    “Yuh-huh—hes!” sobbed Katy.

    Timidly Molly put a comforting arm around her. “Mm. You’ve been married a long time, haven’t you?”

    “Mm.” She sniffed and gulped, but managed to say: “He’s never just gone off and left me, before. I mean, there was that thingy in Tasmania because they’ve got lots of trout there, too, but he said I could come, we’d get a double room, and it was luh-lovely!”

    “Yes, but it costs an awful lot more to go to Canada, doesn’t it?” she said kindly.

    “Yes, it does, Mum, you’d have been in hock to the bank for yonks,” said Ran firmly.

    “Have my handkerchief, Katy,” put in Max.

    “Ta.” Katy blew her nose hard. “Sorry. It just came all over me.”

    “It’s her age,” muttered Ran in Sean’s ear.

    “Shut up!” he hissed.

    Molly was saying comfortingly of course it had, and no wonder, and why didn't they all go and get a nice cup of tea? There were lots of little cafés.

    And they set off, necessarily at the pace of a very nearly five-year-old, as Harry had been refusing steadily ever since they got here to let anyone carry him—unfortunately giving Tomkins the idea that he could do likewise.

    Max fell back and ranged alongside Sean, who was grimly bringing up the rear in case any more bags, toys, scarves, books, magazines, woolly hats masquerading as “beanies”—where Harry had got that word from God knew—or etcetera got dropped.

    Very quietly he said: “Breathe the words ‘plane crash,’ Sean, and I’ll deck you.”

    “You’ll try, ya mean! Uh, no, not that dumb. –I told her not to come!” Sean hissed.

    “Uh-huh.”

    “She swore she'd be all right, in fact she told me I was being silly!” he hissed.

    “Uh-huh.”

    Their eyes met. Suddenly they both dissolved in sniggers.

    “Don’t ask me why she decided to stay on with Ran and Max for a bit, after that little do,” sighed Sean, as Pete administered a beer and Jan administered a large slice of fruit-cake. “Goob,” he approved thickly through it.

    “Didn’t want to be at home on her tod?” suggested Pete tactlessly.

    “We’d of come over if she wanted company,” he said heavily. “Only she swore she didn’t: she was gonna work on her ruddy indigo stuff.”

    “Got that stain off her hands, yet?” asked Pete tactlessly.

    “No.”

    Sighing, Jan got up and went to the fridge. “Put another beer in the gob, Pete, it might drown the verbal garbage.”

    “Ta; I don't mind if do!” he said jauntily. “Harry still got that stain on his—”

    “Pete! Just shut up and drink!” said Jan loudly.

    “That’s all right, I’m used to him, Jan,” sad Sean kindly.

    Pete choked over his beer.

    “Serve ya right,” noted Jan evilly.

    “What’ve I done now?” he enquired plaintively.

    “Not much: that’s the point. There’s all those potatoes to be dug, if you want to eat any this winter. –Don’t ask whether it’s the right time of year for them or not,” she added heavily to Sean. “The point is he planted them, they’re ready, and he hasn't done anything about them.”

    “I can dig them for ya, no sweat,” he replied mildly.

    “They’ll be damp,” warned Pete. “And they’re not all ready. Not if anybody was planning on baked potatoes this winter.”

    “Just show me what to do, Pete.”

    “All right,” he agreed. “But if ya do it wrong, it’s yer own fault, geddit?”

    “There’s the drive as well,” warned Jan.

    “Thought it looked as if it was getting away with ya, yeah,” agreed Sean. “Unless ya want a grass drive?”

    Pete gave him a bitter look.

    “Pete, I asked you to ask him to give you a hand with it before he went up to Auckland,” noted Jan heavily. “Several days before.”

    Pete gave her a bitter look.

    “I’ll do it now,” said Sean obligingly.

    “Don’t be an idiot, you’ve just had a four hours’ drive!” replied Jan with feeling.

    “That’s okay, I could do with the fresh air.”

    Pete heaved himself up. “Come on, then.”

    Forthwith the macho men went out, abandoning Jan to the remains of the fruit-cake. Not to say the empties. Small bottles: one of the big liquor outlets had had a special slathered over the local paper in a full-page ad hard for even Pete to miss. No doubt destined for that flaming bottle mountain of his behind the shed: it was building up again, the bugger wasn’t taking them to the tip. One more thing to remember to tell Sean to do. Oh, well: any help’d be a bonus: the bloody place was getting too much for Pete. There were the trails that needed regular trimming and tidying, as well, it wasn’t just the vege garden and the orchard and the flaming drive.

    Sighing, she got up and shoved the roast in the oven. At least Janet had prepared all the veges for tonight: the potatoes, peeled within an inch of their lives, had been drowned in a couple of big bowls of water, ditto the butternut pumpkin, the carrots likewise, still whole—Janet having been stopped just in time from slicing them in eighth of an inch rings—and the broccoli was— Help, she’d put that in water, too! In very nice florets, no stalks need apply, this was Planet Middle-Class EnZed. The woman must have seen her prepare broccoli a million— Oh, too bad. Uh—what the Hell was this? Oh. That swede Pete had brought in. Had Janet imagined the guests were gonna be favoured with mashed carrot and swede, like their mums had used to force down their throats in their youth? Well, Jan’s mum certainly had, and she was bloody sure Janet’s had, too. Um… Okay, it could be steamed, and then she’d just turn it in some olive oil and, um, hard to think what sort of herb, really: thyme? Sage, maybe? There was plenty of dried sage, Bettany had given them several enormous bunches last March, some of it in flower, and Jan had dried it: waste not, want not. Okay, swede and sage, and given they had a dozen guests in the main lodge, only two of whom were vegetarians, possibly they’d have as many as… Uh, one taker? All right, Pete could bloody well eat it!. For the next week, if necessary.

    As for when Sean was ever gonna knuckle down to it and learn something about the ecolodge’s accounts… Jan sighed. Festina lente, she supposed. But she couldn’t honestly see someone to whom the whole notion of bookkeeping was a closed book ever running the ecolodge. Especially when you compared it to the way his little sister had got stuck into the accounts and the management stuff over at Fern Gully…

    She looked at the remains of the cake. What the Hell! She sat down at the table and ate it. She felt she more than deserved it.

    The next day being Saturday, they were favoured with a visit from Nokomis. Around nineish, but that was no guarantee— Jan leapt on the phone and rang Bettany. No idea that was where the kid was—quite.

    “Nokomis, next time you want to come over here you tell Bettany, okay?” she said without hope.

    “I can come by myself!”

    “Yes, but tell Bettany so as she knows where you are,” said Jan heavily.

    “Hasn’t S,U,N,K in,” noted Pete.

    “Thought you were clipping the bloody hedges?” replied Jan evilly, realising too late that that was a pas devant l’enfant: blast!

    “Smoko,” he returned laconically.

    “Where’s Sean?” replied Jan evilly.

    “Working on that dump of Miser Ron Reilly’s he’s staying in.”

    Jan took a very deep breath.

    “Sean, he’d gone,” reported Nokomis.

    “Uh—up to Auckland, you mean, Nokomis? He came back yesterday, lovey,” Jan explained kindly.

    “Nah. He’d gone. He’s not at our place,” she elaborated.

    “Oh! Uh—no, that was just for a wee while. To help out. Um, until Hugh came and, um, took over,” said Jan weakly. “—Do not spell,” she ordered her helpmeet evilly.

    “Wasn’t gonna. You wanna come and sit on Pete’s knee, lovey? –That’s right,” he agreed as Nokomis, though warning she wasn’t a baby, condescended to do so. “Now, let’s have our smoko, eh?”

    “Whadd that?”

    Pete was seen to blink. “Uh—’nother name for morning tea, Nokomis. Or afternoon tea. When ya knock off work for a bite and a cuppa, see?”

    “Aw. Yeah.”

    “Hop to it, then, kitchen slave,” Pete ordered his helpmeet. “Talking of which, where’s Ma Barber?”

    “One of these days you’ll be saying that and she’ll walk in,” warned Jan heavily. “Shopping.”

    “She’d gone a shops!” elaborated Nokomis helpfully.

    “Yeah,” agreed Pete, hugging her a bit. “Gone to the big supermarkets, eh?”

    “I been there! With Bettany! She can be my mum, now!”

    Pete gulped. “Yeah, ’course she can,” he croaked.

    “Sabrina, she’d gone,” she reported.

    “Um, yeah. Well, got a nice little flat in Auckland, now. I expect Hugh’ll take you to visit her, once she’s got settled.”

    “Jonathan and Jay, they’ve gone.”

    “Yes,” said Jan quickly: “they’re with their mum, because Sabrina’s their mum, isn’t she?”

    “Yeah. –Babette, she’d gone.”

    Pete gulped.

    “Mm, ages ago,” Jan agreed valiantly. “She went to live with her mum and dad, didn’t she? In a big shiny car.”

    “I seen it!”

    “Yes, of course. Would you like a nice biscuit, Nokomis?”

    “Yes, please!” she piped.

    Pete gulped again.

    “S,T,A,G,G,E,R,I, N,G, eh?” agreed Jan.

    “You’re taking it bloody coolly!” he retorted, regaining his breath.

    “Heard it before.”

    “Ya mighta warned me! –That’ll of been Hugh,” he discerned.

    “Hugh, he can be my dad now!”

    “Yeah, sure he can, Nokomis, lovey,” sighed Pete, leaning his chin on her head. “He loves you, eh?”

    “Yes,” she said with satisfaction. “Do you love me, Pete?”

    “Yes, ’course I do, sweetie,” he croaked. “Jan loves you, too, don’tcha?” he added desperately.

    “Yes, Nokomis, we both love you,” said Jan firmly, setting out a platter of biscuits and three mugs.

    “I have to have a plate,” she prompted.

    “Hah, hah,” noted Pete, as it was Jan’s turn to gulp. “Give ya one guess whose that one was. Well, give her a plate, love; in fact we all better have plates,” he realised. “Uh—and a couple of slices of nice healthy brown bread and butter, eh?”

    “Chicken,” replied Jan drily to the subtext, nonetheless getting the wholemeal bread out.

    The smoko had all but vanished, Nokomis not being allowed tea like Pete and Jan were having but allowed the choice of milk or orange juice and choosing the latter—too bad if the ruddy guests asked for it at breakfast tomorrow, it had gone to a better place, as Pete noted—when what some, at least, felt was very near the final blow fell.

    “Alex, he’d gone.”

    Pete looked helplessly at Jan. The more so as it was now nearly two months since the blighter had disappeared into the wild blue yonder.

    Jan took a very deep breath. She let it out again. She looked helplessly at Pete.

    “Uh—yeah,” he croaked, clearing his throat. “’Course he has. Uh—people come and go, Nokomis. They don’t always stay—not like Hugh and Bettany: they’re gonna stay, ’cos they live here now,” he added hurriedly. “Uh—well, Alex was more like a, uh—”

    “S,O,D,” spelled Jan bitterly.

    He swallowed. “Uh…” His eye fell on the tea-towel-covered tray of scones prepared for the flaming ecolodge guests’ morning tea. “More like a guest, Nokomis, lovey. Guests are always going, eh?”

    “Aw. Yeah. In their cars.”

    “Yes,” he said weakly. “In their cars. –Jan, I know those S,C,O,N,S are for them, and you’ve calculated ’em down to the last crumb, but—”

    “Yes,” said Jan quickly, not correcting his spelling. “A piece each, you both deserve it. With strawberry jam.”

    Half a scone with strawberry jam was definitely better than no scone with strawberry jam, so Pete agreed quickly: “Ta, love. Bonzer!”

    After the scone he felt so much better that when Nokomis made the point that Shannon, she’d gone, he was able to reply cheerfully: “No, she hasn’t, ya silly thing, she’s just over at Fern Gully; we could nip over there now and see ’er, if ya like.”

    “Aw. Righto.”

    Jan eyed the pair of them drily. Nokomis would have started off clean, with Bettany and Hugh both on the job. The little pink pirate pants—cute as a bug, as Pete had already remarked in front of the kid—now had distinctly muddy knees, the sneakers also being muddy. The jumper was a little lacy yellow job donated by Livia as “adorable”. It had acquired that black splodge some time back and been washed several times thereafter without result. Indian ink: Alex’s. There was a matching  splodge on the kauri floorboards of Taupo Organic Produce’s dining-room. Round her tousled head, which had undoubtedly been well brushed earlier this morning, she was wearing an elasticised red band with a small light fixed to it. The light didn’t work; the thing was an old one of Pete’s, used for doing close-up work in odd spots, to put it technically, and Jan’s own hands had shortened the headband so that it fitted. Nokomis thought she was Christmas in it, in fact it had become one of her proudest possessions. Pete was just plain horrible: jeans considerably older than the century, and the oldest, daggiest brown jumper in the country. At the moment he was in his socks but the gumboots were due to be resumed any minute— He was pulling them on.

    “Righto, then: see ya later,” she said limply. What was the betting the kid’d be reminding Shannon, probably two seconds after they got there, that Alex, he’d gone?

    Oh, well, such was life. Polly had sent down a new cookbook: Jan had been intending to read it this morning before serving the guests their morning tea. She flipped it open casually…

    Chayote what? Jesus, they were ruddy chokos! She closed the book hurriedly. That was one word she didn’t want to hear again in a hurry.

    That and “gone”: right.

Next Chapter:

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