Sean's Saga

14

Sean’s Saga

    Nokomis volunteered to come up to Auckland with Sean. Since the alternative seemed to be to let her stay her and pester Alex, because Ghillywaine, much livelier since the worming recommended by Sir Jake Carrano, had gone off to play with a friend, and the boys were victimising her because she was a girl, he let her.

    Sean had discovered that the permaculture nuts owned a decrepit little lorry as well as the 4WD that bloody Terry had left at the airport and that Jake had had to get the cops to break into. At the moment of discovery the lorry had been sitting in a shed with a couple of bloody ducks nesting under it and a couple of bloody hens nesting in it, but he’d booted them out and, with a bit of help from Ben Reilly from the recycling yard, who was quite human in the odd moments he managed to spend out from under his father’s thumb, and quite a lot of help from Ben’s cousin Greg, who was a bit of genius with engines, got ’er going again. He’d slapped a lick of paint on ’er: fire engine red, Ben had slipped it to him on the quiet because nobody wanted it. Looked real good, and so what if it wasn’t the permaculture nuts’ colour? Then he’d had an inspiration and used one of the stencils they did their cartons with to put the name and logo on the doors. Looked real good. Almost professional. The seats were still pretty horrible but that didn’t matter so much. Ben would have given him a couple of old seatbelts but after Alex’s experience Sean thought twice about that and got new ones put in. And once Ken Roberts down the service station had given her a bit of a once-over and done a bit of fine-tuning, not to mention throwing in some new spark plugs with the obscure remark “What the eye doesn’t see, eh?” she was even ready for her warrant of fitness!

    Old Tim thought he oughta take the 4WD instead but Sean cut that one short before it had taken its first feeble breath. Could Tim drive the lorry? –No. Could Alex drive the lorry? –No. And leave Shannon out of it, she only thought she could, her feet wouldn’t even reach the flaming pedals, for Chrissakes! So what would happen if they had an emergency while he was away with the 4WD? –Yeah.

    “They’re dords, eh?” concluded Nokomis as they drove away with the back of the lorry neatly piled with organic produce and carefully shrouded in the new tarp that Sean had got ’er. Newish, Ben had found it chucked over the recycling yard’s fence. Properly hooked on, yeah! What did they think he was, hopeless? He’d put the hooks round the tray himself. Well, she wasn’t much bigger than a ute, if you were being strictly honest, but a handy little job nonetheless.

    “Yep, Nokomis, dords are what they are!” Sean agreed happily.

    They had an ice cream in Taupo, why not? Sean also had a Coke and she wanted one, too, and he let her, why not? Only that was a bit of a mistake, because they were scarcely five K out of the town before she wanted to go to the toilet.

    “Um, you’ll have to hang on, we’ll be in Wairakei in no time, you can go at a service station.”

    “But I wanna go now!” she wailed.

    “You can’t, there’s no toilet. This is the country, Nokomis, see? No houses.”

    “Where’d the ecolod’?” she asked, peering.

    Uh—oh, cripes. Bloody Terry had never taken them anywhere, of course. Nokomis’s sole experience of geography was going over illicitly to Pete and Jan’s place and going to school, period. “Um, it’s way back in the direction we came from, love. This is a big trip, see? We’re gonna go lots of new places. This is the big main road.”

    After moment she produced: “I’m noddallowed to go on it.”

    “Uh—oh! Right: not allowed to walk on it by yourself, quite right. Good girl. There’ll be another service station in a bit, you look out for one, eh? With petrol pumps.”

    “Yeah! I know!”

    Well, maybe. The first time she’d seen Alex filling up she’d wanted to know what he was doing, but—

    Nokomis looked out for service stations. Sean kept his foot down, kept his eyes on the road, and sweated slightly.

    “THERE!” she bellowed.

    Yeah. On the wrong side of the road, and Dad always said only a moron did a U-ie on the main north highway when he didn’t have to, but— Sean checked the road fore and aft, waited until a truck hauling a giant frozen load of Wattie’s peas had lumbered past him, waited until a tanker hauling hazardous gas of some kind—so anonymous the tank didn’t say—had shot past on the other side, far too fast, waited as the five assorted family saloons behind it went past, and finally got across.

    There was no-one serving on the forecourt so, clutching her hot, sticky hand tight, he went inside.

    “Can she use the Ladies’?” he asked feebly. The lady behind the counter was even more made-up than Ma Roberts, though about that age.

    “She’s a bit small to go by herself, dear.”

    “I’m NOT!” she bellowed.

    The lady produced a key with an enormous wooden tag attached. “I’ll take her, dear. Can you keep an eye on the counter?”

    “Ta,” said Sean feebly. Feebly he kept an eye on the counter. Jesus, he coulda been anyone! A hold-up man that was gonna nab their takings, a terrorist that was gonna blow their pumps sky-high— Did he look honest, or was it being in charge of a little girl that automatically classed him as safe and reliable? For that matter, he coulda been a bloody paedophile kidnapping the kid!

    The lady came back looking a bit uncertain. Heck, had the kid pissed on the seat?

    “Um, she was saying her dad’s, um, D,E,A,D.”

    “My dad, ’e was drow’d udder the big wave,” said Nokomis.

    Sean winced. “Yeah. We hadda tell them, once it was definite,” he said to the lady. “The tsunami. He was in Thailand.”

    “My mum, she was drow’d udder the big wave, too, and Babette, she’s gone away with that ole man an’ lady, only I got Sabrina, she’s my other mum.”

    “Um, yeah,” said Sean, writhing, as the lady looked at him in astonishment. “Um, the thing is, it was like a commune. Not that far from my parents’ place, down Taupo. Um, well, she doesn’t understand how, um, O,D,D it all was, ya see. Organic produce: permaculture, they call it. Her dad ran the place; it’s gonna go to pieces now. Me and my sister and a couple of mates, we’re just pitching in until the lawyers sort it all out. There were three, um, so-called wives.” He swallowed.

    “Ye-es… Good heavens!” she gulped. “Ya don’t mean they were all his?”

    “Yeah,” said Sean, grimacing. “Um, ya had three mums, eh, Nokomis?”

    “Yeah!” she said fiercely. “Sabrina an’ Babette an’ Kamala, she’s my mum! An ole Miss Carter, she’s a LIAR!”

    “Yeah. –Don’t shout, you won’t be in her class this year. –Her teacher. Didn’t believe her, poor little sprat. Though the other kids go there, too.”

    “How many are there?” she croaked, her eyes bolting from her head.

    Sean passed his hand through his thick fair hair. “Kids? Cripes; lemme see. Well, the oldest boy’s left home: him and his brother and sister, they’re the oldest mum’s; and then Kamala had four, Nokomis is the youngest of that lot—seven; and Babette, she had three,” he said, omitting the specifics. “Ten kids all up.”

    “The mind boggles,” she admitted. “Well, I mean—!”

    “Yeah,” agreed Sean leaning on the counter and, since she didn’t seem all that shocked, more like avidly interested, grinning at her. “We dunno how he worked it, but the big main bedroom seems to’ve been his. We concluded he sort of summoned them like a bloody sultan.”

    “Ugh! Well, I suppose it takes all sorts, and at least it isn’t as bad as being a wife-beater—but why did they put up with it? In this day and age?”

    Sean sniffed. “He must’ve had something, I s’pose, but he always struck me as a slimy piece of work. Well, ya see,” he said with a cautious eye on Nokomis, “they were all pretty much the groupie type.”

    “I see,” she said grimly. “If you ask me, they’re—” She stopped. “B,E,T,T,E,R  O,F,F,” she spelled laboriously.

    “Too right. Well, in some ways he done good: they had a really healthy diet—she’s not asking for anything because she doesn’t know what they all are, and what’s more they never had a TV—but he went too far in that direction, too. Ya better give us a Crunchie Bar each, ta, and let’s see, a packet of chips—plain, I don’t think she’ll like the salt and vinegar ones. What does that come to?”

    “Good heavens, the poor little soul, I’ll give her one! –Here you are, dear, this is for you!”

    “Um, thanks very much. And thanks for taking her to the toilet: she is only six.”

    “I’m BIG!” she shouted.

    “Yes, you’re a big girl. –She went very nicely,” admitted the lady, smiling at him.

    “That was the oldest mum, I think. Trained them all up nicely, her home musta been quite decent, so how she ended up— Oh, well. Say thank you to the nice lady, Nokomis.”

    “Thank you,” she said, looking admiringly at the Crunchie Bar. “It’s like a Chr’mas tree!” she hissed at Sean.

    “Uh—oh! –’Nother thing that was verboten,” he said to the lady, making a face. “They had to go next-door, to look at their tree. –Yeah, ’tis all shiny, eh, Nokomis? But it’s more like a parcel, ’cos ya can unwrap it, and it’s like a sweetie inside. Didn’t Alex buy you one that time he got Sabrina a Milkybar?”

    “Neh.” Nokomis’s short, fat fingers fumbled with the wrapping. “I can DO it!” she shouted, fending him off.

    “Oh, no, right,” Sean remembered with a little smile. “The lady at our dairy, she gave her a Mars Bar. She’s been really decent, taking up a collection for them, too. Said everyone else was collecting for the Indonesians and so on, but she believes in doing the thing that’s closest.”

    “Right! Charity begins at home!” she approved. She told him a long, involved story about the local effort to raise money to send someone’s kid to the Paralympics. Sean didn’t get whether the kid actually lived in the town or was a relation of someone who did: he just nodded and grinned, in the intervals of watching Nokomis’s struggles with the Crunchie Bar.

    Finally she tore the end with her teeth, and that did it. “LOOK!” she shouted. “It’s a Mard Bar!”

    “Bit like one, but it’s different inside. Lovely crunchy stuff: they call it hokey-pokey, Nokomis.”

    “How do you spell that name?” said the lady weakly.

    Sean winked at her. “’Tis a real name, they got it out of some mad poem about Red Indians. N,O,K,O,M,I,S.”

    “Spelled Nokomis,” said the little girl with satisfaction.

    The service station lady gasped. “Isn’t she clever! Six! –Very good, dear!”

    “I c’n count up to five million!” she boasted.

    Sean cleared his throat. “Well, seven. Just eat ya lovely Crunchie Bar, eh?”

    “One, two, free, four, fi-ive, si-ux, seven, leventy, ten, twenny, FIVE MILLION!” she shouted.

    “Getting above herself,” he diagnosed with a grin. “We better get going.” Embarrassingly, the woman refused to let him pay for the other Crunchie Bar or the crisps. “Thanks again for everything,” he said weakly. “Say bye-bye to the nice lady, Nokomis.”

    “Bye-bye,” she agreed obediently.

    They went out to a coo of: “Bye-bye, dear!”

    “She wasn’t Mrs Roberts,” announced Nokomis as they headed for the lorry.

    Sean gulped. “No, that’s right, lovey, this is a different service station.”

    “Mrs Roberts, she gimme a strawb’y sweetie, only it wasn’t strawb’y,” she reported.

    Cripes. Sean scratched his head. “Artificial strawberry flavour is what they put in sweeties. Um, think they call it that because it’s pink, that’s all.”

    “Strawb’ies are red,” she stated definitely.

    “Uh—yeah. Um, ’member when you mix them up with cream or yoghurt, though, it goes all pink?” he offered desperately.

    “Aw, yeah,” she conceded.

    They got back into the lorry with Nokomis gagged on a chunk of Crunchie Bar and Sean sweating slightly.

    On second thoughts, though the lorry didn’t need filling up yet, he got out and topped ’er up: he felt he owed the woman that much.

    He had been going to stop in Hamilton and take Nokomis to a pizza place or a McDonald’s for lunch but somehow his nerve failed him and he just took the by-pass. Well, shit, as they headed into the Waikato the fields were, of course, full of Jerseys, and she burst into tears and shouted: “They’ve pinched our cows!” So he had to explain there were other cows in the world, lots and lots: yeah, probably five million, and— Shit. So he just got fish and chips in Ngaruawahia. He didn’t think she’d better have any more Coke, looking at the size of a small bottle or a can and the size of Nokomis, and calculating the amount of caffeine involved, so he got them both flavoured milk. Explaining that the strawberry one would only be pink and, very weakly—he thought she woulda got what chocolate was by now—that the chocolate one was brown like the outside of her Crunchie B— Yeah, righto: chocolate for them both.

    Of course she had to go to the toilet again: this made the third time. Last time it had been another lady—younger, but pretty much the same performance had been gone through, except that Nokomis had scored a packet of Smarties. She’d examined them solemnly and decided: “Beau-ti-ful,” so, given the warmth of the day and the thought of melting Smarties getting squashed all over the cab of his lorry, Sean had hardened his heart and explained they were to eat.

    This time it was a bloke in a black singlet, looking hot and bored in his roadside petrol station with nothing else in sight for miles. He handed over the key with the huge tag attached like a lamb. Sean tottered off with it wondering madly how they ever caught any paedophiles at all. He hadn’t even asked if he was the kid’s dad! Astoundingly, the Ladies’ was, though only a tiny cabinet, painted pale pink, drenched in air freshener, and spanking clean. With almost a full toilet roll plus extra rolls on the sill of the minute window, plus an actual hand-towel. And, as Nokomis pointed out, pink soap, ya pushed like this, see? They always had them, she noted with satisfaction.

    “Thanks very much,” said Sean, returning the key. “It’s nice and clean, even my Aunty Rosalie’d give it the Good Housekeeping seal of approval.”

    “Eh? Aw, yeah. The wife looks after it. Gonna fill ’er up, are you?” he said with a hard look.

    “Given the state of that bog, yeah, I am, ta, mate.”

    He sniffed slightly but didn’t appear displeased, so Sean did fill ’er up.

    Nokomis drowsed off on the last haul to Auckland so instead of nipping over to the glass-blower’s place first he drove straight on into the city and dropped the fruit and veges off.

    Aw, gee, Dave Churton was willing to pay three times the price if they could supply zucchini flowers by the beginning of next week, was ’e? As many as they could let him have? Sean didn’t ask what poncy celebration might be coming up at the nearby governor-general’s mansion—occupied approximately two weeks of the year at the taxpayers’ expense, please note—he just said they were his if there were any but getting them to him would depend on the air-freight situation, though at a pinch they could come up on the truck with the rest of the regular delivery. Mr Churton agreed meekly to this, so Sean realized he coulda bumped the bastard up to five times the usual price.

    He didn’t think the lady’s fingers were ripe yet, but he’d check with Tim and let him know. Passionfruit? Well, yeah, oodles, if he wanted org— He wanted organic passionfruit. Sean made a note of it. Wouldn’t fancy some artichokes, would he? Mr Churton leapt at the offer, so Sean racked his brains for something else that was visibly going to waste around the place. Greengages? My God, did they have greengages? They were like hen’s teeth! There was a short silence as Mr Churton realized he’d given himself away good and proper. Then he caved in and asked how much? So Sean told him he’d consult Taupo Organic Produce’s new financial advisor. Gee, he bit and asked who that was, then. Oh, dear, when Sean said “Jake Carrano” he reacted quite viciously! Relenting slightly, Sean admitted Jake was mates with the types next-door, but he had been giving them some good advice, yeah.

    There were two more drop-offs, mostly fairly basic stuff, and then it was Andy Chong. Desperate for more organic cucumbers, and red and green nectarines. Eh? Oh, the real ones, not “those yellow peacharine things that they call nectarines these days”: goddit. Sean lied about the scarcity of cucumbers and the competition from their other customers, why not, so Andy offered him double the price if he could guarantee supply. Which he thought he could. Genuine nectarines really were like hen’s teeth these days so he waited for Mr Chong to make an offer and said it wouldn’t be worth their while at that price, so Mr Chong doubled it. So Sean added on another fifty percent and they had a deal.

    Blackberries? Didn’t all the places round Auckland— Oh. Real blackberries, not those tasteless hybrid ones, eh? Several of his best customers, eh? (Gee, how many kilos would he like? Those bloody hedges were smothered in them and so was half a vege patch that had been supposed to be growing green manure or some such! Blackberries rioting madly over flowering lupins looked really pretty, actually.) Well, the thing was, it was very labour-intensive (specially if ya had half a dozen kids on deck—right), and if he wanted them packed in punnets like his other berries— He did. Packed and covered in cellophane: oh, really? Three dollars a punnet, take it or leave it. He shouted a bit but he took it, so Sean calculated that his guess that the bugger was gonna charge the customers something like seven dollars per wasn’t far out.

    Then it was could they manage triple the order of rockmelons next week? Sean wasn’t sure, he’d check with Tim, but rockmelons were very popular, the rest of their supply might be promised to other customers. Oh, dear, Mr Chong offered him half as much again! Feebly Sean said he’d see what he could do.

    He’d had some French ladies asking for what?—Never heard of it.—Kind of a root vegetable?—Never heard of it.—The French ladies swore there was nowhere at all in New Zealand you could buy it, and you couldn’t even buy the tins! Well, that was interesting. Andy wrote it down for him: S,A,L,S,I,F,I,S. He’d talk to Tim—yeah. An exclusive contract? Oh-ho! He was just getting all excited when he remembered.

    “Um, Andy, the whole place is up in the air, because bloody Terry owned it outright and he didn’t leave it to the others, he left it to his mum. Um, well, dunno if you know he had three de factos at the same time—yeah,” he said to Andy’s dropped jaw. “One of them was drowned with him—that’s one of her kids in the lorry—but that still leaves two women and ten kids with a claim on the estate, so we think there’ll be a court case: the property’ll probably have to be sold.”

    Andy was completely horrified, not only, to his credit, because he’d be losing an excellent supplier, and insisted on giving Sean a bag of macadamia nuts and a carton of lychees “for the little kids.” Sean didn’t say that none of them would have a clue what either of these exotic offerings were, and he himself had only ever had tinned lychees once, at a Chinese restaurant: he just thanked him very much and, since Andy was holding out his hand, wrung it hard.

    After that it was Ho! for the southern motorway and the glass-blower’s directions to— Shit. Half the city was also heading for the southern motorway. But he wasn’t too sure he could get there by the Great South Road. He took the motorway. About halfway to their off-ramp Nokomis woke up and wanted to go to the toilet again, Hell!

    “Ya can’t: this is the motorway, I’m not allowed to stop and there aren’t any service stations, it’s not that sort of road.”

    “But I wanna go-oo!” she wailed.

    Oh, heck. If he took the next off-ramp would he ever be able to get back onto the thing again? Uh—scrap that, that was it that just flashed by. Okay, the next— Scrap that, he’d never get over into the left-hand lane—

    They drove on, Nokomis spotting service stations that they couldn’t reach and Sean looking desperately for a gap in the traffic that would allow him to edge into the left-hand lane and sweating.

    “Right, get out,” he said grimly at long last in the middle of God-knew-where. God-knew-where and out of sight of a motorway on-ramp: yeah.

    She began to scramble down and he came to with a jump and rushed round to help her. It was all self-serve on the forecourt—well, yeah, this was the Big Smoke. They went into the giant spaces of the huge shop that was part of it. Cripes; eat ya heart out, Ma Roberts, this wasn’t just a service station, this was the best part of a bloody supermarket! Was there anything they didn’t sell? …Clean bogs, right. Though they did have a Gents’: it was for the truckies. Sean blenched. However, just as he was deciding desperately it’d have to do, a steely middle-aged female voice from somewhere well below his left shoulder said: “Where do you go?” and it was all over bar the shouting.

    The lump at the counter went off to ask, returning with a Daphne Cummings, Mrs, who squashed flat his faintest pretensions to anything, up to and including membership of the human race, and after the obligatory exchange of compliments—or possibly recognition-signals—with the Aunty Rosalie clone at Sean’s left elbow, led Sean and Nokomis through to the staff Ladies’. Very nice indeed. All pale yellow Formica with liquid soap of the real, or Aunty-Rosalie’s-bathroom variety, rather than the service-station variety. Nokomis had never encountered it before but she got the point very quickly and they returned to the shop amidst violent wafts of carnation.

    Daphne Cummings then gave Sean exact directions to the motorway on-ramp and Nokomis a Milkybar. He topped ’er up again, Mrs Cummings more than deserved it.

    “White,” discovered Nokomis, very puzzled.

    “Yeah, Alex got one for Sabrina, remember? It tastes a bit like chocolate. Milkybars are, um”—very fattening, yeah—“special.”

    Daphne’s directions were spot-on but Sean hadn’t expected anything else. As they shot past the next off-ramp he realised that in fact they were within spitting distance of Aunty Rosalie’s place and he could have taken her there. Oh, well. He’d never have got away without being forced to stay for tea and then he’d have been hellishly late for the glass-blower.

    Okay, this was the right off-ramp and then you headed, um, east? Yeah, east, which’d be this direction, and then you… Got hopelessly lost and drove round and round in circles, finally having to ask at a dairy. Clevedon? That was way over there and he should’ve come through Howick and blah, blah, but she finally gave him directions and he drove off, musing. What did all the husbands of the ladies that worked in dairies do? Because these days you hardly ever saw a bloke serving in one. Maybe the ladies were all divorced? Um, got their share of the house and put it into the business? Or were the actual owners blokes that lurked behind the scenes doing another job entirely and only checked the books? Like bloody Miser Ron Reilly, Ben’s dad: it was him that owned their local dairy, the lady that worked in it (and gave Nokomis free Mars Bars, yeah) was only his employee. –Shit, would that mean she’d have to pay him back?

    “Black cows!” cried Nokomis.

    “Uh—yeah.” Looked like a hobby farm: Angus cattle. They drove on…

    “Ooh, black and white cows!”

    Right. They’d be town milk cows. They drove on…

    “A horse!”

    Yeah. Unfortunately it wasn’t wearing polo socks and there was no bloke on its back done up poncy like bloody Prince Charles, so that wasn’t the polo ground. They drove on…

    Nope: sign for a potter, but not Britten. They drove on…

    Buggeration, where the Hell were they? He did have a map but it was an old one of Alex’s and dated back to approximately 1900. Parts of the motorway weren’t even on it! He got out, spread it out on the bonnet and glared at it. The trouble with maps was, they were only of use if you knew where you were or if there were road signs.

    “Big birds!” gasped Nokomis. “Look!”

    Pink-legged pukekos. “Yeah, pukekos. That probably proves this was once a swamp, or there was a creek nearby, or— Well, don’t ask me, they seem to have adopted the side of the motorway as their habitat, so much for Progress decimating the native bird life. Um, well, we haven’t passed it, so we better drive on, eh?”

    “Yeah,” she agreed.

    In the circs, the word of a six-year-old was probably as good as anyone’s. Sean lifted her up into the cab and went round to his side, grinning.

    Goats’ milk! He braked.

    “Are we there?”

    “No, but if the people that raise goats round these parts are anything like the ones down home they’ll be into the arty stuff—well, except for Jan and Pete, of course—and they’ll know where to find the glass lady. Come on.”

    It was a middle-aged woman in jeans and gumboots, with an ordinary tee-shirt, not an artistic smock like that mate of Mum’s usually wore, but she did know where to find Molly Molloy. Warning: “He’s gone.”

    “Yeah, so we’d heard, eh, Nokomis? It’s the glass-blower we want.”

    “Well, that’s Molly,” she said, smiling at Nokomis. “Nokomis? That’s a very pretty name! That’s out of a poem about Red Indians, did you know that?”

    “Yeah,” she said stolidly.

    “Would she like a drink of milk?” she asked Sean.

    Instantly Nokomis gave her usual response: “Neh. Goad’ milk is sicko.”

    “Um, sorry, their neighbours have got goats,” he said weakly.

    “That’s okay, lots of people don’t like it. Well, like I say, just keep on going and you’ll see the turnoff to your left.”

    And they retreated with thanks, Nokomis having to be stopped forcibly from picking the blackberries in a tangle of weeds up near the gate.

    “Those are theirs, geddit? They’re inside their gate: see?”

    “Aw. Yeah.”

     Yeah. Maybe.

    They headed approximately east again. Well, here was the turning that the goat lady had said, but… It was overhung with scraggy-looking trees, didn’t look as if it led anywhere. They bumped cautiously over the ruts. The trees seemed to be the far end of a hedge that had been let go around, at a guess, 1942. It was the right road, though, because after a bit the terrain rose slightly and here was a sign in the hedge: “Keith Britten, Potter”. Hand-painted, quite big. They drove past it, into a dip, and there at the left was, as the goat lady had said, the driveway with a gate across it and a sign: “Molly Molloy Glassware. Please drive in.”

    He got out and opened the gate, drove through, got out and shut it again.

    “’Cos udderwide the cows’ll get out,” said Nokomis with satisfaction.

    “Um, yeah. Oh, like Tim’s cow paddock! Yeah. Well, I dunno if they’ve got cows, but that’s the idea, yeah. Maybe they’ve got ducks or something.”

    “Or goats.”

    “Mm.” The house was a sagging old wooden bungalow, probably even older than Mum and Dad’s dump. At some stage someone had brightened it up with a coat of paint: sort of an orange… no: tangerine? Or possibly pumpkin? Anyway it had faded to buggery and blistered as well. Probably hadn’t bothered with a proper undercoat. The windowsills and surrounds were a fruity brown, on the reddish side of chocolate, and unfortunately they didn’t seem to have faded at all. The front door had once possibly been lime green. Well, you could see it had once possibly been, yeah, but that was as far as it went.

    The gate was probably to keep in the object that opened the door. Um, fourish? A shock of very black, shiny curls, bit like you saw on lots of little Maori kids, but this kid’s skin was definitely Caucasian and the eyes were wide and very blue. Very beautiful eyes, actually, but the overall effect was distinctly unlovely, what with the sticking-plaster on the forehead, the scratch on the nose, and the mixture of grime and jam on the cheeks.

    “Blackb’y jam,” discerned Nokomis.

    Sean had to clear this throat. “Hullo, your mum in, is she? I’ve come to buy some glass off her.”

    Swallowing the mouthful of, presumably, bread and jam, the kid returned: “She’s in the studio. She’s gonna have it now. Dad’s gone.”

    “Um, yeah, I know,” he said feebly.

    “What’s your name?” demanded Nokomis.

    “Harry,” he said, glaring.

    “I’m six.”

    “Um, yes: this is Nokomis, Harry. She is six,” admitted Sean.

    “How old are you?” asked Nokomis on a sneer.

    “Four.”

    “He’s only four,” she explained.

    “Yeah, um, couldja get ya mum for us, then, Harry?”

    Harry retreated, screeching: “Maa-um!”

    “They only got one verandah,” she reported.

    “Eh? Oh—um, yeah, no side verandah. Their house is smaller than yours.”

    Harry reappeared. “You can come in.”

    Sean and Nokomis followed him in, perforce.

    As in most New Zealand houses, certainly those of its vintage, the two front rooms were being used as bedrooms. The open door to their left revealed a single bed, brightly painted bedroom furniture and a clutter of toys, while the room at their right contained an old-fashioned dressing-table and a sagging stretcher with a couple of pillows and some blankets on it. Shit, had the husband taken the marital bed, then? The second door to the right was the sitting-room: pretty dingy, the furniture obviously second-hand. That looked like the sort of fold-up sofa that was basically only three slabs of foam. Normally the door at the back of the passage would lead into the original lean-to kitchen, but here it didn’t. Someone must have built on: perhaps it had originally been intended as a family-room. It was a large room, lined with shelves that were almost empty. The floor was polyurethaned chipboard, which, whatever might’ve been the claim back in the Seventies when this sort of renovation was carried out, didn’t actually look like cork flooring, no. Looked like polyurethaned chipboard.

    The room was empty. Sean looked around feebly. It must be the studio: where was she?

    “No lady,” discerned the percipient Nokomis.

    “No.”

    “She’s bringing stuff in,” said Harry. “See?” He pointed to the row of shelves that did contain wares.

    “I see,” said Sean mildly. “Let’s take a dekko. –Now, don’t touch anything, Nokomis: this is like the lady’s shop, geddit?’

    “’Course!” she retorted scornfully.

    Yeah. Maybe. They went over and looked at the glassware. It was decorative stuff, not the sort of tableware Ran wanted. A big shallow bowl, clear glass with a swirl of pale blue and a few bubbles in it. Very pretty. Maybe Shannon would like it for her birthday? Several splodgy objects… Um, free-form vases? Basically white glass—not clear, but white—with splashes of colours in it. Orangish. Um, that one was pinker. Well, those shades. A cube. Made of six flat sheets stuck together? Dark blue, semi-transparent, quite nice, with little bubbles in it; only what was it for? Um, just a decorative object? Would anybody want a blue cube as an ornament? Then there was a set of starfish: also blue, about the circumference of a small dinner plate. Um, stick ’em on your bathroom wall? They were quite realistic, only more, um, flexible? curved? than starfish arms actually were. Everything seemed to be quite well crafted, but, um, without direction. A mishmash of styles. Well, maybe these were just the things she hadn’t managed to sell.

    He picked up a starfish and was wondering dubiously if it was the sort of thing Aunty Rosalie’d go for when a voice said shyly: “Hullo. Do you want to buy some glass?”

    Sean turned round. Cripes, this was where Harry’s huge blue eyes and black curls came from, all right! Molloy was an Irish name, wasn’t it, so maybe Molly Molloy was of Irish descent, ’cos weren’t those what they called traditional Irish looks? She wasn’t wearing any make-up and you could see she’d been bawling fairly recently, but nevertheless she was one of the prettiest young women he had ever seen.

    “Yeah, that’s right,” he said with his easy grin. “I’m Sean Jackson: my sister Ran spoke to you on the phone this morning. Looking for stuff for Fern Gully Ecolodge, down in Taupo.”

    “Already?” she said, her jaw dropping.

    “Yeah, sure, didn’t Ran say someone’d be up pretty soon?”

    “Um, yes, but I didn’t expect it to be today. Um, we’re at sixes and sevens: most of the stuff’s still in the shed.”

    “See, Mum’s gonna have the studio, now,” explained Harry.

    Molly put the carton she was carrying on a table and thrust a hand through her hair. “Yeah, if I can afford to keep the place on at all! Now he’s saying it was his money went into it and I didn’t contribute anything! And there’s a huge mortgage on it, anyway.”

    “Right. Took the bed, did ’e?” said Sean baldly.

    “Mm,” she admitted, biting her lip.

    “He put it on a gray big trailer,” explained Harry.

    “Anyway, I don’t want it, ’cos his bloody mother gave it to him,” said Molly sourly.

    “She hates us,” added Harry informatively.

    “Dad’s mum, she hates us!” said Nokomis immediately.

    “I dunno where she got that one from,” said Sean weakly.

    “I’m sorry,” faltered Molly, going very red. “It’s hard not to say things in front of him. Um, your dad’s mum doesn’t hate you, dear, just because Harry’s dad’s mum does,” she said kindly to Nokomis.

    “Yeah, she does. She’d a dord.”

    “Um, she means dork. Um, actually it’s true. Long story,” said Sean feebly.

    “My dad, ’e was drow’d udder the big wave,” added Nokomis helpfully.

    “Um, yeah. The tsunami,” said Sean.

    “So—so she’s not yours?” faltered Molly.

    “Eh? Oh, Hell, no!” said Sean, inexplicably going very red. “Um, sorry: this is Nokomis. This nice lady is Harry’s mum—”

    “I know!” she said scornfully.

    “Um, yeah. Her name’s Mrs Molloy.”

    “Just Molly,” said Molly firmly. “If that’s all right with you.”

    “Yeah, sure: call her Molly, Nokomis. Um, dunno which S,U,R,N,A,M,E she uses: that’s part of the long story,” he said limply to Molly Molloy.

    “I see,” she said uncertainly. “And how old are you, Nokomis?”

    “I’m six!”

    “Older than Harry, then,” said Molly, smiling at her.

    “Yeah! He’s only four!”

    “So—so who are you?” asked Molly uncertainly.

    “Didn’t I say? Sean Jackson.”

    “Yes, um, your sister, she’s the lady who rang up. Um, no, I mean, um—” She looked from him to Nokomis. “Sorry: it’s none of my business!” she gulped.

    “Hell, I don’t mind telling you, only it’s so bloody complicated! Um, well, her dad owned an organic produce business not far from where my parents live, down Taupo.”

    “I see; near Fern Gully Ecolodge?”

    “Fairly near, mm. Um, the thing is, there were several of them that worked there—have ya heard of permaculture? –No. Well, it’s an organic method of horticulture that involves creating a whole mini-ecosystem. There was a clutch of them in it: bit like a commune. Terry, her dad, Tim, he’s an older bloke, couple of younger types that were helping, and three women. All his de factos, if ya see what I mean.”

    “Um, yes,” said Molly Molloy, her big blue eyes very round and her cheeks very pink.

    “Nokomis’s muh—um, M,O,T,H,E,R, um, D,R,O,W,N,E,D, too.”

    “My mum, she was drow’d udder the big wave,” said Nokomis. “Kamala, she was my mum. But Sabrina, she’s my mum too!”

    “I see, Nokomis: of course she is,” said Molly kindly. “And—and is there another mum?”

    “Nah: Babette, she’s gone. She went with that ole man an’ lady. She’s a dord.”

    “Yes: after it happened Babette’s parents collected her and her three kids. She was the youngest,” said Sean on a weak note. “That leaves, um, two of Sabrina’s still at home, and Kamala’s four.”

    “I’m four!” said Harry immediately.

    “I’m SIX!” shouted Nokomis.

    “Yeah, we all know, so shuddup,” retorted Sean. “She is pretty T,O,U,G,H, but of course she doesn’t understand all the implications,” he said to Molly.

    Molly didn’t coo at Nokomis or wax over-sympathetic: she just said simply: “No, of course not.”

    “Anyway, the young blokes pushed off, and poor Sabrina fell apart completely, so the neighbours have been rallying round, and my sister Shannon went over there and needed a hand, so I’ve been helping out. They sell most of their stuff to several fancy grocers up here, you see, so there’s a lot to do at this time of year.”

    “I can pick strawb’ies an’ tomatoes!” boasted Nokomis immediately.

    “Yeah, in fact the place’d go under without child labour,” said Sean to Molly with a sigh.

    “Heck.” She looked from Nokomis to Harry in a kind of horrified awe.

    “I can pick strawb’ies TOO!” he shouted.

    “Eat them, more like,” said his mother heavily.

    Sean smiled a little. “Yeah. Well, the permaculture place grows so much stuff it doesn’t really matter how much the kids eat, but actually Terry had them trained up pretty strict. Too strict, if ya get me. One theory is he had them all because he wanted the free labour.” He looked at Molly’s flushed round face. “He was a real— I won’t say it. But what with the three women—! He made them all work like stink, too. Put it like this: any decent bloke that met him soon developed a strong itch in the big toe, if ya get my drift. Dad couldn’t stand the sight of him.”

    “Mm,” she said, nodding.

    “Uh—” Sean pulled himself together with an effort; she had a round face and wide mouth, and a really lovely complexion. Quite tall, bit plumpish, well, nothing wrong with that! His last three girlfriends, including the latest one, who’d told him about six moths back that she couldn’t envisage a future together unless he mapped out a sensible career-path for himself, before going off to Sydney to further her own career in high-class retailing, had all had the model-girl look. The idea that he’d thought he liked that now vanished from Sean’s mind completely. “Let’s see these glasses Ran wanted, eh?”

    “Yes. They’re all still out in the shed, I’m afraid. Through here.” She led him out what turned out to be the back door of the addition.

    “Where’s the kitchen?” asked Sean, very puzzled.

    “At the back of the studio: there,” she said pointing. There was another bit at the back, yeah, but there was no connecting door! Sean goggled. “It was meant to be a family room, you see: open-plan; but when we bought it Keith decided it’d be ideal for his studio. But he didn’t want the smell of food around when he was showing clients his work, so he blocked off the kitchen end. Um, it’s not that inconvenient,” she said weakly. “Me and Harry pretty much live in the kitchen, don’t we?”

    “Yeah,” he agreed, loyal if not exactly understanding. “I c’n have my trike in there.”

    “It’s one of those plastic ones,” said Molly. “Keith used to get really wild if he rode it in the house. Um, and I can nip over to my shed really easily, you see.”

    Sean did see: at the back of the addition the kitchen’s door opened onto a badly-made crazy-paving path and her shed—one of those corrugated jobs from Mitre 10—was just at the end of it. Hopefully far enough from the house for the latter not to burst into flames if something went wrong with the glass-blowing—yeah. Unlike Mum’s, her shed was the smaller, cheaper type that didn’t have a window: it must be hot as Hell in there when she was blowing, even with the door open!

    “Um, these are the glasses I’ve got left,” she said. “Over here.”

    “Right. These are really nice!” They were the sort of craft glasses he was used to: rather heavy, often with little bubbles in them, and typically featuring coloured rims and feet. Sometimes coloured stems as well.

    “Um, I don’t know what colours might do,” said Molly dubiously. “Your sister’s order was for different shades of green. –Sorry,” she said, pinkening. “I didn’t catch what her name was.”

    “We call her Ran: short for Miranda,” explained Sean. “Nobody gets it first time. But she hates being called Miranda.”

    “It is pretty, but, um, rather a formal sort of name, I’ve always thought,” said Molly on a shy note.

    “Yeah, exactly. Nothing formal about Ran!” said Sean with a laugh. “Um, well, I suppose the Interior Design people ordained the green—or maybe it was Max, Ran’s fiancé, he’s the architect that designed the ecolodge for YDI. See, it’s quite an interesting set-up: YDI’s quite a big international affair, they like to design the whole hotel—or in this case so-called ecolodge,” he said with a grin, “from go to woe. Then they put their own people in to manage it: see, they do the hospitality stuff as well as the building.”

    “I see. It all sounded very up-market,” she offered shyly.

    Sean sniffed slightly. “Yeah. Too right. The ecolodge is aimed at overseas eco-tourists with more money than sense. And Max is up-market, that’s for sure. No, well, actually he’s a very decent joker, but talk about a plum in ’is mouth! Anyway, Ran just said to grab anything you’ve got. Um, maybe not pink,” he added, looking dubiously at some cheery offerings featuring pale pink transparent glass, complete with bubbles, and deep crimson rims. Five.

    “Those were an order and then the lady cancelled it—it was very sad, actually, because they were going to be a wedding present but he ran away with the chief bridesmaid—um, and then Harry broke one,” admitted Molly.

    “It was an ACCIDENT!” he shouted.

    “Yeah, ’course,” said Sean quickly. “Very easy to have an accident with glass.”

    “Yeah,” he said, glaring defiantly.

    “Yes,” agreed Molly, sighing. “Well, I wouldn’t say pink’s my favourite colour, but I rather like the way they turned out: they always make me think of strawberries.”

    “You’re right!” he realized, laughing suddenly. “Hey, look at these, Nokomis! I’m not saying they’re exactly like strawberries,” he added quickly, “but don’t they kinda make you think of strawberries? Um, kinda give you the feeling of strawberries?” he added cautiously, not sure if he was prompting her too much. He lifted her up so as she could have a closer look.

    “Aw, yeah,” discovered Nokomis. “Beau-ti-ful!”

    “Yeah, they are, eh?” he agreed. “—She’s got quite a sense of colour, but permaculture doesn’t seem to’ve included even a smidgen of anything approaching the aesthetic,” he said to Molly.

    “Most people’s lives don’t,” she returned with a little smile. “It’s all TV and football.”

    “Well, yeah, ’tis round our way, too! Only Mum’s an artist: makes fabric wall hangings,” he explained, “so we’re luckier than most!”

    “Oh! Is your mother Katy Jackson?” she cried, her face lighting up.

    Cripes, had Mum’s fame gone before her? “Uh—yeah,” said Sean feebly.

    “Katy, she’d Sean’s mum,” said Nokomis helpfully. “She came over to our place. She gimme a picture!”

    “Mm. Sort of,” said Sean, awarding her a bit of a hug and grinning at Molly. “It was a try-out for one of her hangings. Like a painter might do a sketch, y’know? She often does that.”

    “I see. That sounds lovely, Nokomis,” said Molly kindly.

    “Yeah. It’s blue,” said Nokomis with satisfaction.

    Perhaps because she was an artist, Molly Molloy didn’t make the mistake of asking, as the well-meaning Mrs Roberts down the service station had done, “Blue what, dear?” Alex had reported that the kid had shouted: “Just BLUE!” and all parties had retired discomforted. Molly just said: “I like blue,” to which Nokomis was able to reply with satisfaction: “Yeah.”

    “These are nice,” said Sean, discovering a clutch in a very faint grey-green: several different sets, none of them with the coloured rims or feet.

    “Um, I sold a few. I was using a lot of recycled glass at that stage. The lady in the boutique that sometimes takes my stuff said that they looked too much like that pressed-glass stuff—um, you might not’ve seen it,” she added as he looked puzzled. “Um, too like it and not enough like it, is what she meant, really. You know, with facets to the bowls of the glasses.”

    “Uh—oh, yeah. That stuff looks really mass-produced, but these are great. I think they might go over big with the ecolodge, Molly: they’re very into recycled glass.” He attempted to put Nokomis down at this point but she resisted and in fact Harry demanded his mother pick him up, too. Watching, smiling, as Molly picked him up, Sean told her about Max’s bottle cabins.

    “They sound like fun!” concluded Molly with her lovely wide smile.

    “Yes: that’s exactly it!” replied Sean happily.

    “I seen a boddle cabin,” said Nokomis solemnly.

    “Yep: we went over in Pete’s boat to look at them, eh? –The older kids thought they were silly but Nokomis really loved them: dunno it if was because she hasn’t been indoctrinated yet, or natural taste!” he said to Molly, grinning.

    “Like a liddle house,” said Nokomis earnestly. “With boddles stuck in the walls.”

    “Yes,” said Sean with a little sigh. He looked at Molly wryly. “I’d say like a play-house, only the swine never let ’em have one.”

    “I got a play-house!” said Harry immediately.

    Sean had noticed it: quite a nice one: a commercial one, but painted up in really original colours. With a sand-pit, too. “Yeah, you’ve got a nice one, eh?”

    “Dad bought it for him,” said Molly. “It was a going-away present, because they’ve retired to Queensland.”

    “The Sunshine Coast, eh?”

    “Not as such, but Queensland, yeah,” she said heavily.

    “Won’t they miss seeing their grandkids, though?”

    “Just the one,” she said hugging him. “Not really, because my brother’s living in Brisbane, now. They’ve got three kids.”

    Sean looked at her sympathetically. “You wouldn’t think of going over there yourself?

    “No, it sounds terribly humid. And I have got clients here. Um, well, a few,” said Molly honestly.

    “Well, yeah, it’s humid, all right. The YDI types have got an ecolodge over there, as well. As a matter of fact Ran’s immediate boss is over there now, looking at sites for a second one. Ran and Max popped over to have a look at the one that’s open, and they said they were just dripping all the time, but the locals didn’t even seem to notice the humidity. So I s’pose ya get used to it. Mind you, they all seem to go in for those huge ceiling fans, and the ecolodge is designed to use the through-draughts. But I don’t think I could hack it, and Ran and Max said they couldn’t.”

    “No, me neither, Auckland in summer’s more than humid enough for me,” said Molly on a wan note. “Mum and Dad have got air conditioning as well as ceiling fans.”

    It was certainly both hot and humid in her shed at the moment: it was getting the westering sun. “Yeah. Must be sweltering in here when you’ve got your fire going.”

    “Mm. I usually work early in the mornings in summer. Um, well, these pieces are all available. Just choose what you like. I’ll get some cartons.”

    He watched numbly as she put the little boy down and went over to a tall steel cabinet and unlocked it with a key attached to the chain round her neck that disappeared into interesting regions under the faded blue tee-shirt and that he’d assumed must be holding a pendant or a cross or something—he was conscious of a feeling of relief it was neither a crucifix nor a bloody crystal.

    Molly turned with an armful of folded packing cartons and caught the expression on his face. “I bought these with my own money,” she said grimly. “He’d have taken them if I hadn’t locked them up.”

    “Right,” he croaked. Well, at least the bastard hadn’t wrenched the key off her by brute force. He began packing glasses somewhat blindly, hindered rather than helped by the armfuls of newspaper Harry and Nokomis thrust upon him.

    Molly was writing down what he’d taken as he packed them. “You’re taking an awful lot,” she said in a weak voice.

    “Well, the ecolodge hasn’t got a thing, and Ran said to grab anything that looked good—and they all look good!” replied Sean with his cheery laugh. “You all right?” he gasped as Molly swayed slightly.

    “Yes,” she said, sitting down on an old kitchen chair that looked as if it hadn’t seen better days for a very long time. “It’s just— I really need the money,” she finished in a low voice.

    “Dad, he’s got money,” stated Harry. “In his wallet.”

    “That’s his money, Harry,” she said dully

    Sean had now gone very red. “What about maintenance?” he said grimly.

    “I suppose they sort that out when the divorce goes through, don’t they?” said Molly limply. “Anyway, if you’re taking all of those we’ll be all right for a bit.”

    “I won’t ask how you define ‘a bit’, but I will say there’s no way you’re gonna wait until the divorce goes through to get maintenance!” replied Sean loudly.

    “Well, how do you?” said Molly limply.

    “Uh—dunno,” he admitted. “Think you might have to speak to a lawyer.”

    “I can’t possibly afford a lawyer!” she gasped.

    “Uh—no. Good point. Um, legal aid, or whatever they call it? Look, blow it, I’ll give Dad a ring,” he said, outing with his mobile.

    “Sean, he’d godda mobile phone,” said Nokomis to Harry with a sneer.

    “Y—Look shut up, Nokomis! Yeah, hi, Dad, it’s me. –Nah: Auckland. –Not at Aunty Rosalie’s, do us a favour! –Um, well, dropped off some fruit and veges, yes. I’m collecting some glasses for Ran from the glassblower. –No, she, Dad. Um, that’s the thing: her husband’s walked out and left her on her tod with a four-year-old and it looks as if the bastard’s not coughing up maintenance or anything: she’s really on her uppers. He’s taken the bed, too.” He held the phone away from his ear, wincing, but put it back and admitted: “Yeah, them were my sentiments, too. Anyway, what does she do next? She can’t afford a lawyer. –Yeah, ta, Dad, I thought you’d know! Her name’s Molly. –He’ll fill you in,” he said, smiling at her and holding the phone out.

    Molly took it, looking stunned, and said into the phone in a shy little voice: “Hullo, this is Molly Molloy.”

    After which it was all hunky-dory.

    “Ta, Dad,” said Sean, taking the phone back at last.

    “That’s okay, but listen. Never mind your bloody Aunty Rosalie’s horror tales of your cousin Naomi’s break-up—yeah, thought ya might’ve overlooked that—dealing with any bloody government department is no bed of roses at the best of times, and when your marriage has just busted up, never mind how rotten a marriage it mighta been, it’s not the best of times. She sounded bloody shell-shocked, to me.”

    “Mm,” admitted Sean. “But now she knows what to—”

    “Will ya just listen, Sean? Don’t leave her to cope with the bloody tits of public servants on her own—well, getting through to anything approaching a human being at all’ll be the first hurdle, if she rings first, and the way I’ve heard it you have to make an appointment with the buggers to do anything at all these days, you can’t just roll up to their doorstep and ask for help.”

    “What the fuck are they for, then?” replied Sean angrily.

    “You may well ask. You better stay up there and help her with it all. Go in and see the bastards with her.”

    “Uh—would this be to the big office downtown, or what?”

    “That’s the first thing to find out, Sean,” replied his father on a nasty note.

    “Aw. Right. Yeah, you’re right, Dad. Hang on, though: if I go with her what’s the betting the buggers’ll try to claim we’re living together and she can’t have the money?”

    “Five thousand to one on. You’re her cousin, okay?”

    “Uh—righto. Yes, that’d be sensible. Suppose I could be her brother—no, the kid’d give us away. Righto, Dad, I’ll do that. And tha—”

    “Don’t ring off just yet! Don’t stay at her place, okay? Get on over to Rosalie’s. Got a pen?”

    “Yeah, but I know—”

    “Will just do as you’re told, Sean?” shouted Dan.

    “Yeah. Sorry, Dad. –Can I borrow your notepad, Molly? Ta. –Okay Dad, shoot.”

    Grimly Dan made him write down the correct name of the government department, a summary of what Molly had to say, a list of things to do, starting with ringing the buggers and finding out which office she had to turn up at, and to boot his Aunty Rosalie’s address and phone number.

    “Thanks, Dad,” said Sean on a sheepish note.

    “That’s all right, but just hang on a mo’. Is she one of those helpless drips that foist themselves on any mug that’s tried to give them a helping hand forever and a day, like that wet female that was the permaculture bastard’s head wife?”

    “No!”

    “That’s good to hear, ’cos if she is you’ll have found a dependent for life, Sean.”

    “Dad, it was you that said I hadda stay up here and help her!” he cried.

    Molly had picked up a fresh pile of newspaper. She dropped it, goggling at him.

    “Lucky that wasn’t a pile of glass plates, eh?” said Sean, winking at her. “—Dad, did she sound like ruddy Sabrina? –No, well, there you are,” he said as Dan admitted that she’d sounded like a nice girl.

    “Just be careful, that’s all I’m saying, Sean. But ya done the right thing ringing me. Give us a bell tomorrow and let us know how it goes, eh?”

    “Yeah; ta, Dad,” said Sean in a very weak voice as his father rang off. “Don’t argue,” he said as Molly opened her mouth. “I’ve been ordered to stay and help you out with the bloody social welfare types. And I’m your cousin, okay? Me and Nokomis’ll get on over to Aunty Rosalie’s for the night soon as we’ve worked out how much Ran owes you for this lot, okay? And I’ll be round first thing tomorrow morning to help you sort it out.”

    “You—you don’t have to— I mean, I know what to do now,” she faltered, bright pink.

    Sean looked at the glowing cheeks and smiled a little. Anything less like Sabrina could hardly be imagined! “Dad reckons that yer average government department’s enough to grind anyone down at the best of times. Come on, let’s get these packed, eh?”

    “But Sean—”

    “It’d be more than me life’s worth not to do as I’m told, ya know! Uh—no, sorry, didn’t mean to be flippant. I’m gonna help you out, and that’s that. And Aunty Rosalie’ll be only too glad to put us up—in fact,” he noted as his phone rang, “this is probably her, now.”

    Aw, gee, it was.

    After that it was all over bar the shouting and Sean, Nokomis, Molly and Harry all went to Aunty Rosalie’s for tea and no arguments. It took Aunty Rosalie about two secs to ascertain that Molly hadn't been eating properly since Keith Britten slung his hook and that she and Harry had been having “practically a vegetarian diet” in any case, and to sort that one out. Then they all sat down to roast lamb, roast potatoes, roast pumpkin and gravy with good old Uncle Murray’s beans from the garden on the side. Uncle Murray didn’t say much, but that was par for the course.

    Astoundingly enough none of Aunty Rosalie’s extended family was undergoing any crisis which needed her personal attendance at this precise moment, so next day she came over to Molly’s, too. And into the correct social welfare office with them, as well, making quite sure that Molly was gonna get everything she should. And into the bargain sorted out legal aid.

    Somewhere in between these activities she managed to force morning tea and lunch at her expense on them, finishing up with afternoon tea at her place, indefatigably whipping up a bunch of scones for it. Pumpkin scones, since Murray hadn’t listened when she said those seeds he’d saved weren’t butternuts, they were those huge orange ones, and the freezer was now full of frozen pumpkin pulp.

    After that Sean was allowed to drive Molly and Harry home—they had no transport, the bastard having taken their only means of getting anywhere without trudging five miles to the nearest bus stop to catch a bus that went once an hour.

    “I—I can’t thank you enough, Sean,” said Molly, going very red but looking him firmly in the eye.

    “Don’t think I did much, really!” replied Sean somewhat ruefully.

    “Yes, you did; thank you,” she said, holding out her hand.

    Sean took it in his. “Look, if you can’t stand the sight of me, just say so now, otherwise this isn’t gonna be goodbye.”

    “Isn’t it? I mean, of course I can stand you!” she gasped, turning purple.

    “That’s good,” admitted Sean, grinning. He had thought she could, but it was bloody nice to be reassured. “Look, think about whether ya wanna stay in this dump, okay? Ya might think about settling in Taupo, ’cos Mum’s got loads of contacts in the district and she knows all the good outlets for crafts stuff: she’d be really glad to put you in touch with the right people. It’s miles cheaper there than in Auckland, too.”

    “He—he is threatening to sell this place,” said Molly faintly.

    “Yeah, you said,” Sean admitted. “Think it over seriously, eh?”

    “Yes,” said Molly faintly, very flushed and a little tearful but smiling. “I will, I promise.”

    “Good. I’ll see ya next weekend.”

    And with that Sean and Nokomis piled into the little red lorry and turned ’er nose for Taupo.

Next chapter:

https://theecolodgesbythelake-anovel.blogspot.com/2021/10/general-throgmorton.html