Something Sensible

17

Something Sensible

    “See?” beamed the burly entrepreneur at the conclusion of his narrative.

    “Clear ash muh,” noted Pete indistinctly through a mouthful of quiche. Strangely enough, Jake had returned to Taupo Shores Ecolodge from the permaculture nuts’ place in time for lunch—well, late lunch with the workers in the kitchen. Could have had something to do with Bettany’s cooking—yeah.

    “Have some more potato salad, Jake,” sighed Jan.

    “Ta,” he agreed happily. “Works out best for all parties,” he added, as Jan scooped potato salad onto his plate.

    “I could do with some of that,” noted Pete.

    “Finish it,” sighed Jan, shoving the bowl at him.

    Kindly Jake picked up his very own can and filled Jan’s empty water glass.

    “The guests’ll smell beer on my br— Oh, too bad,” she sighed, drinking it.

    “It’ll work!” said Jake robustly.

    “Well, if it doesn’t, Throgmorton’s got pots, I got it out of Max that retired generals get huge super pay-outs in Blighty—well, probably here, too,” conceded Pete. “He can afford to run the dump at a loss.”

    “Not that,” sighed Jan. “Well, that, too,” she admitted. “No, what if he gets fed up with the whole bit: fed up with pigging it in scruffy little EnZed, fed up with flaming permaculture, and fed up with our bloody winters? Last year Pete’s ruddy kumaras all went mushy and revolting—slimy,” she noted bitterly. “Give him a bit of that, and what’s the betting he’ll chuck it in?”

    “Ballsh,” replied Jake indistinctly through the potato salad. He swallowed, not without difficulty. “The bloke’s not a quitter: written all over ’im. And Bettany’s keen, too: it’ll work, you’ll see!”

    “To those of incurably optimistic temperament,” retorted Jan evilly, “the world does appear—apparently—through rose-coloured spectacles, but just try and be realistic, Jake!”

    “I am! Look, the place wouldn’t be turning a decent profit under present conditions, but we’ve worked out the most efficient—”

    “Not the ruddy finances, Jake!” she cried.

    After a few moments’ ringing silence Pete noted: “Just as well flaming Janet’s pushed off to give that useless bugger she’s divorced from ’is lunch, eh?” He gave Jake a hard look. “Pity Polly didn’t come down again, she mighta made you two high management ning-nongs get yer flaming priorities right.”

    “Upper management or top management, love,” corrected Jan weakly. “Well, yes. We get it that the pair of you have rationalized the dump’s finances and forward planning and etcetera to your satisfaction, Jake, and actually we weren’t expecting anything else, to tell you the truth—”

    Pete gave a sniff worthy of Janet herself. “Right.”

    “Right,” Jan agreed. “But what about the poor little kids? Not to mention poor Sabrina!”

    “Yeah. Tim’s story was she’s gonna buy a nice little flat. With air, we concluded,” added Pete evilly.

    “No! If you could just listen! I’m trying to tell you! –Any more of that ham off the bone, Jan?”

    “No,” said Pete instantly. “What about them? And before you start, just lemme add this. Kids are not a disposable commodity!”

    Jan swallowed hard as this highly corporate phrase passed her helpmeet’s lips, but managed to agree: “Exactly.”

    Jake sighed. “Hugh’s gonna buy Terry’s bloody mother out—probate’s gone through, so there’s no problem there. –Shut up,” he warned. “Then the lawyers are gonna take the bitch to court for Sabrina’s and the kids’ share—”

    “Jake, that’ll take ages, and there’s no guarantee they’ll get anything in the end!” cried Jan.

    “Will ya just let me speak?” he groaned. “And kindly don’t mention the word Dickens: had enough of that at home, ta!”

    “Eh?” groped Pete.

    “In a book,” said Jan heavily. “This lawsuit drags on forever and in the end the lawyers end up with the lot and there’s nothing left for the so-called heirs.”

    “Aw—right. Par for the course,” he acknowledged. “Go on, then, yer Corporate Sir-ship.”

    “Soon as the bitch has signed the dump over to Hugh, he lets on to Sabrina that she’s agreed to divvy up the proceeds, and we give her a lump sum, see?”

    Pete and Jan were seen to gulp.

    After an appreciable pause, during which Jake wiped out the bowl that had held one of Jan’s superb tomato salads with the last hunk of baguette, Pete managed: “Your dough or his?”

    “Bit of both,” replied the billionaire airily.

    “Yeah, right. Come clean, ya bugger.”

    “Hugh’s gonna pitch in with fifty thou’—he wanted it to be a hundred, but I won that one—and I’ll make up the rest, enough to buy her a nice little home unit in Sandringham, and a small annuity.”

    Jan wasn’t entirely surprised by this, but nevertheless said weakly: “Jake, the woman isn’t bright, but is she ever gonna believe Terry’s dump cut up that warm?”

    “Yeah—that,” agreed Pete.

    “Thought o’ that,” he said smugly. “We’re gonna tell her Terry had a fair bit put by in one of his bank accounts.”

    “He probably could of done, if he hadn’t of waltzed off on all those ruddy overseas jaunts of his,” noted Pete fairly. “God knows he never spent a brass razzoo on them women, or his own kids!”

    “Yeah,” Jake agreed simply.

    “Uh—it may work,” Jan admitted dubiously.

    “Jan, love, not everyone’s as savvy as you,” said the entrepreneur kindly. “And besides, she’s had it, ya know: tuckered out emotionally. Psychologically, if ya like. We’re pretty sure she’ll be just so relieved to have it all settled that she won’t ask questions.”

    “No, you’re right!” said Jan, sagging. “Well, I won’t ask if you can afford it, Jake, because I know you can, but I will say, it’s very generous of you.”

    “Yeah: good on ya, matey, ya done good,” agreed Pete.

    Jake looked wry. “Thanks. But there is the point that if I hadn't coughed up Polly woulda killed me and then divorced me, in that order.”

    “Well, yeah, except that she wouldn’t have married you in the first place if you’d been the other sort, ya dill!” replied Jan with a laugh.

    “Right!” grinned Pete. “Come on, let’s drink to— Bugger, ’nother dead man,” he discovered as nothing came out of the can he up-ended. He got up and investigated a fridge. “There is more ham, here,” he admitted. “I think he deserves it, Jan, love.”

    “Eh? Oh! Yes, haul it out, Pete.”

    “First things first.” Pete set three rapidly frosting-over cans of beer on the table.

    “Why on earth Sandringham?” asked Jan, the toast having been drunk and Jake having embarked on a generous helping of the ham.

    Pete took an overlooked slice of ham and added an overlooked spoonful of Jan’s miraculous peach chutney to it. “Had a peach explosion last year; ’course, this year they’re making up for it: hardly had a thing off the buggers,” he noted by the by. “Yum! –Yeah: never heard of it.”

    “Um, hasn’t the Queen got a house there, or something?” groped Jan. “But why on earth would Sabrina want to go to England?”

    “No, ya dill!” replied Jake cordially. “Sandringham, Auckland! It’s a suburb. Not Grammar Zone, but not far away. Know Mt Albert?”

    Pete was Taupo born and bred, and Jan had grown up in Wellington, so they shook their heads.

    “Oh. Well, anyway, near there. Nice big supermarket quite handy: St Luke’s, ya see their full-page ads in the— No, all right. Well, it’s an oldish suburb, pleasant old bungalows, few restored villas, quite a few nice little home units, these days. She grew up there, ya see.”

    “Shoulda said that in the first place,” grunted Pete.

    “Yeah,” agreed Jan drily. “Well, that sounds nice. And what about the kids?”

    “Ten to one the bloody government interferers’ll kick up, whatever you and Hugh might of decided,” noted Pete. “Social Bloody Welfare or something. Like them useless lot that young Sean’s Aunty Rosalie hadda tell what was what before they’d lift a finger to help that poor Molly girl.”

    “Uh—yeah, he’s not wrong, Jake,” said Jan anxiously.

    “Yeah. Well, the two older ones, Jonathan and Jay, they’re Sabrina’s, they’ll go with her, of course. Mt Albert Grammar, I should think, that area,” the father of three teenagers added thoughtfully. “Not a bad school.”

    “Just when poor little Jay had made friends with the little Kaha girl—Ngaio, that’s it,” noted Jan heavily.

    Jake scratched his chin. “Ye-ah… Well, few scholarships for Maori kids? Boarding scholarships; Mt Albert’s not a boarding school, but approved private board?” He raised his eyebrows at them.

    “Jake, the Kahas are quite comfortably off,” replied Jan uneasily.

    “Yeah—well, ordinary. Just like anyone,” agreed Pete. “Not charity cases.”

    “Not necessarily kids in need of charity—well, them, too, of course,” returned Jake.

    “Right: so the criterion’ll just be, as Polly would put it, the brown?” asked Jan drily.

    “I’m brown meself,” replied the billionaire calmly.

    “Yeah: that’s it, actually, Jan! Good one: these days no-one’ll dare to question it!” choked Pete, suddenly going into a painful paroxysm.

    When the fit was over and he was rinsing his throat, Jake noted mildly: “Yeah, well, even if this little Kaha kid’s mum and dad don’t want her to go and board in Auckland, a few scholarships can’t be bad, eh?”

    “No,” agreed Jan somewhat weakly. “Polly’ll be pleased.”

    “Yeah—well, prolly make me endow a lot more for kids that are in need, regardless of whether they’re sky-blue-pink or how’s-yer-father, but yeah,” Jake admitted with a twinkle in his eye.

    “Gee, it’s easy when you’re a billionaire,” sighed Jan, forgetting herself, rather.

    “Some things are, yeah,” Jake acknowledged drily. “Ya shoulda been round our house when we were trying to talk ruddy Davey into Grammar!”

    “Uh—yes, so we heard,” Jan admitted, smiling at him. “Sorry, Jake.”

    “Just thank God he has got so much of the stuff he can throw it away with both hands and never notice it,” advised Pete.

    “I am!” replied Jan fervently. “What about the other kids, Jake? The four of them are Kamala’s.”

    “Yeah. Well, my lawyers have checked the family out and there are no relatives left on the mum’s side. The nearest’d be their ruddy grandmother,” he noted drily.

    After moment the penny dropped and they looked at him in horror.

    “She’ll never claim them: in fact she’s already done the ‘poor elderly me that can barely cope on me tod’ bit for the benefit of our legal bloke that went to see her—they thought it might be better than getting her in to the office; well, think they were saving that one up in case they needed to throw a scare into the cow, actually. He was only a young bloke, they were saving up the big guns, too, but even he wasn’t took in for an instant. Evidently came back to the office and rang his own mum and gave her an earful!” Jake revealed, shaking slightly. “The woman’s as fit as a flea: just came back before Christmas from ruddy Surfers Paradise, if ya please—got in early to avoid the school holiday crowds—and last winter she treated herself to flaming Honolulu!”

    “Honolulu?” echoed Jan weakly.

    Jake looked dry. “Yeah: tried Rarotonga a couple of years before that, didn’t like it.”

    “Jesus,” she said limply.

    “Mm. Be where that bugger Terry got it from, eh? Anyway, she’s out. So the kids are on their tod. Hugh and Bettany are gonna get married and adopt them. And before you say they’re too old, yours truly is gonna pull a few strings down in Wellington to make sure that the flaming Ministry keeps its head well down. Likewise the family court or whatever the fuck it is that might shove its oar in. There’s a half-dozen judges just begging to— Never mind. But if you can steer Polly off that one, I’d be grateful.”

    Jan licked her lips. “Um, yeah. ’Course. Well, you couldn’t get a better cause.”

    “Uh—aw! Good cause? Yep, and a half. In this case,” said Jake grimly, “the end fucking well does justify the means.”

    “Mm.” Jan swallowed hard.

    “Come on, love, don’t bawl!” gasped Pete.

    She wiped her eyes, sniffing. “I’m not. Well, bless you, Jake!”

    Pete got up. “And so say all of us.” He headed for the fridge again.

    Jan came to. “Not more, Pete! It’s only early afternoon and we’ve got the flaming afternoon teas to think about, not to mention the dinners!”

    “Get Janet to make a couple of batches of scones; I’ll say this for her, she can make bonzer— Aw, there you are, Janet,” he said with complete insouciance. “Just saying your scones are bonzer, wouldja fancy rustling some up for their afternoon teas?”

    “Of course!” she beamed.—Gee, have a medal, Pete McLeod, thought Pete dazedly.—“Jan, dear,” she added on a gasp: “I’m so sorry I’m late: George was upset, you see—” And blah, blah…

    If you asked Pete, the only reason the woman had divorced him was so as she didn't have to sleep with the poor blighter no more. He got up, jerked his head at Jake, and they retired to the safety of the shed.

    “I suppose Ma Barber means well,” he noted heavily, sitting down.

    Jake looked dry. “Yeah, only wasn’t there some bloke, some tit of a sage or something, that reckoned that’s the most damning thing you can say of a human being? Words to that effect.”

    “Uh—yeah, think maybe Jan said something like that once,” he admitted. “Well, it’s spot-on, as far as ruddy Janet’s concerned.”

    “Good worker, though.”

    “She’d be an even better worker if the work went on past four-thirty p.m.!” returned Pete smartly.

    “Aw, yeah. Forgot that. She's not still getting the bugger’s tea, is she?”

    “Singular or plural?” returned Pete drily. “There’s them louts of sons, too. Well, not all the time, Jake, put it like that.”

    “Right: goddit,” he said drily.

    “Yeah.” Pete stared gloomily at the floor.

    “Well, go on, Pete.”

    “Eh?”

    “Down cellar.’

    “Look, never mind it was you what gimme the stuff in the first place, ya not gonna drink Coonawarra red on top of flaming DB lager!”

    “Not that. Thoughtcha might have a bottle or two of the hard stuff squirreled away down there. I could do with a belt.”

    Ruddy Janet Barber was enough to make any man feel like that, actually, all on her ownsome. But Jake done good today, he more than deserved a belt, if that was what he fancied.

    “Um, yeah, well, only Black Label, not yer ruddy Glen-Fiddled-the-Customs-Again. That do ya?”

    “Lead me to it!”

    Obligingly Pete removed the broken bar stool that sheltered the pile of old Feltex and lifted the sacred trapdoor, and they went down cellar. Just big enough to hold three nicely, it was.

    “Wal still doing his flaming rescue project, is ’e?” Pete asked apropos, pouring.

    Jake looked dry. “Yeah. Gone over there.”

    “Shit! We should’ve asked Livia to stay for lunch!”

    “No, she was real keen to get the gen from Bettany.”

    Pete winced. “Right.”

    “She’s all right, ya know. Very decent woman, under the warpaint—that seems to have toned down, actually.”

    “Yeah: Livia give ’er a makeover.”

    Jake choked.

    “Um, not that, anyway: I was wondering what the lunch was gonna be like, with Bettany and Livia on the job.”

    Jake grinned. “I didn’t wait to find out. When I left Alex had just gone into the kitchen and Bettany and Livia were waving some twigs at him and asking him if they were bay leaves. Different twigs.”

    Pete blenched.

    “Uh—the bloke is a botanist, Pete, he’d of seen they didn’t poison everyone. –You hatching that stuff?”

    Pete came to and handed him the glass. “Bottoms up! And thank God for Jan on the one hand and Polly on the other, and that none of us were mad enough to hare off to a bloody filthy dump like Sri Lanka or Thailand for the ruddy Christmas holidays!”

    “I’ll drink to that,” replied Jake solemnly.

    They drank…

    “The whole thing does make ya count your blessings, eh?” concluded Pete.

    “I’ll say.” Jake held out his glass. Pete refilled it. And his own. They drank…

    It was nearly a week since the great pow-pow and things were going along smoothly at Taupo Organic Produce. Well, fairly smoothly, given that an idiot greengrocer had just rung from Auckland asking if they had cape gooseberries and both Tim and Sabrina had immediately abandoned their appointed tasks and hared off in search of the things. Neither of them in the right direction, actually, if Bettany’s muddled report was right: Alex knew exactly where a patch of them had self-seeded. Lovely, sunny spot, very dry: quite poor soil. Which considering they originated in Mexico, possibly wasn’t surprising.

    “Uh—yeah,” he said, laying down his brush carefully. “I don’t think they’re gonna find any, Bettany. Where’s Hugh got to?”

    “He’s digging up, or I think the word was over, anyway, digging a patch where the zucchinis are all used up, Alex.”

    Technical. Alex smiled. “Got it. How far did Tim get with that moveable run for the ducks before he dashed off madly in all directions?”

    Bettany bit her lip. “Not very far, I’m afraid, Alex. I think it might be that passive stuff. You know: because he doesn’t really like the ducks. Um, subconscious.”

    This was all too likely, alas. In spite of Tim’s undoubted brains he was almost entirely lacking in self-awareness—bad as the kids, really. “Mm. Or the hens. Well, give Hugh time and it’ll dawn that in civvy street you can order a bloke to do something but that doesn’t mean he’ll do it.”

    “Yes, it’s not like the Army at all,” she agreed anxiously.

    “He really needs more help. I mean, Tim’s bloody good at what he does, but there were those two louts, weren’t there, as well as Terry—well, Terry off and on, one gathers—and Kamala and Babette as well.”

    “Yes. Well, Sean’s been wonderful, Alex! He does exactly what he’s told and works like a beaver!”

    “I know,” Alex agreed, smiling at her anxious, flushed face. ‘He's a good kid. But it’s hardly a career, is it? And if this girlfriend of his turns up, complete with little kid and a dozen ducks, he’s going to have responsibilities of his own, isn’t he?”

    She nodded. “Mm. Mind you, Molly is a lovely girl! Hugh and I saw something of her and little Harry when were up in Auckland with Ran and Max: we all liked her very much.”

    “Good.” Alex rubbed his chin. “It’s a Helluva pity that this isn’t a university town: students are always looking for part-time jobs. Well, school-leavers, maybe? Perhaps Hugh ought to get in touch with the guy that runs those Maori carving courses: a lot of the older teenage boys seem to go to those. I don’t know his name, but Pete’ll be sure to know.”

    “Um, yes, we could ask him… Maori carving?” she echoed weakly.

    “Some sort of scheme to keep kids off the streets, Bettany. Uh—it’s traditionally a macho male thing, here,” he added weakly.

    “Oh! I see! That sounds splendid, Alex! And I tell you what: we could make it kind of a training course and Hugh could teach them! I think he’d like that!”

    “You’re right. Well, the carving bloke’d definitely be the one to talk to.”

    “Absolutely! Um, I suppose I’d better tell him that Tim and Sabrina have, um…”

    “Deserted their posts,” said Alex drily. He looked at his watch. “No, I’ll do it, Bettany, it’s nearly time to open the stall, anyway. –What was Sabrina supposed to be doing?”

    “Gladwrapping fruit for the stall, I’m afraid, Alex.”

    Alex raised his eyebrows slightly. “The phrase ‘unable to prioritise tasks’ does come forcibly to mind, but on the other hand, some of us would rather just be human and fallible.”

    Bettany bit her lip. “Mm.” She watched as he carefully washed his brush and put it and his paints away. “May I look, Alex?” she ventured.

    ‘Of course. It’s not quite finished,” he warned.

    Bettany came and looked. “Ooh, it’s lovely!”

    “Mm, coming along quite well. What are you supposed to be doing, this morning, by the way?”

    “Just household tasks, Alex, dear.”

    Verbatim, off Hugh’s fucking timetable. Alex repressed a wince. “Right. Well, I suppose you could do a bit of Gladwrapping instead.”

    “Yes, I thought I would,” she agreed in relief.

    Alex went off in search of Hugh in the former zucchini patch reflecting that somewhere in the world there must be some sort of an automatic Gladwrap dispenser, or at least semiautomatic, that would allow one to wrap small cartons of fruit—or, indeed, vegetables—quickly, easily and painlessly, and if the worst came to the worst he’d ring Sir Jake Carrano himself and ask him to get someone onto it!

    “Corporal Burton come to report, General, sir,” he said drily to the back bent over a spade.

    Hugh straightened, and swiped his hand across his forehead. “Yes, Alex?” he said  mildly.

    Alex made a face. “Hard to know where to start, actually. Well, first off, the ruddy Gladwrap. What about sussing out some sort of wrapping machine for those cartons? Uh—semiautomatic, maybe. Doing them by hand’s a Helluva time-waster.”

    Hugh rubbed his chin. “Mm. If all else fails there’ll be an American machine, I’m sure. But, uh, well, I was looking on the task as therapy more than anything, Alex—just for the time being.”

    “Therap— Oh. For Sabrina, you mean?”

    “Mm. Bettany and I were hoping she'd want to take over the cooking—Jan told us she was always keen to—but after the disastrous time she came into the kitchen when Lady Carrano was showing Bettany how to make her mother’s infallible quiche, we decided it was much too soon.”

    “Jesus, what happened?”

    “She wailed: ‘Terry would never have let us use white flour!’, burst into sobs, and went back to bed.”

    “Oh, Lor’.”

    “Mm,” agreed Hugh drily. “She has seemed quite happy to do the Gladwrapping, Alex.”

    “Uh—yeah. Until today, apparently. I didn’t see it myself, but when Bettany took a call from some pest of a greengrocer in Auckland who wanted cape gooseberries, both Sabrina and Tim immediately rushed off in search of them. Ten minutes or so back, I gather.”

    “I see. So Tim’s a problem, too,” he said calmly.

    “Uh—yeah. Well, my diagnosis’d be that the poor bloke lives in a permanent state of shell-shock—you’d probably call it post-traumatic stress disorder these days, or PTSD, abbreviations are more military, aren’t they?” he added drily, “and he isn’t actually capable of looking at his own actions and asking himself why the Hell he's doing them. Or not doing them.”

    “Mm, I see…” said Hugh slowly. Not reacting in any way, as far as Alex could see, to his feeble PTSD hit. Not even betraying the fact that he thought it was feeble!

    “He doesn’t like poultry,” Alex added. “Um, make that he doesn’t like poultry.”

    “Uh-huh. I get it that he likes cows,” said Hugh mildly. “What about the gardening, though? He seems to do that very competently.”

    “Yes. I’d say he does quite like it but it comes a long way after the cows. I mean, if one of the bloody creatures had got her head stuck again—sorry: Pete was going on about it the other day,” he admitted, as General Throgmorton was seen to blink. “They become obsessive, I believe. Anyway, if they needed him Tim’d rush off to them, no matter how urgent his other tasks were.”

    “Right. So what, exactly, is the lure of these cape gooseberries?” he asked slowly.

    Alex swallowed. “Seriously?” he croaked.

    “Yes, of course. I hope I didn’t seem to be mocking you.”

    “No, you didn’t. But I don’t think you’ve quite grasped it, Hugh. It wasn’t the cape gooseberries as such.”

    “Both dissatisfied with their current tasks?” he asked, frowning.

    “Certainly in Tim’s case. Not Sabrina’s, I don’t think. No, I think it was—uh—habit. Or conditioned responses, if you like. Terry had them jumping to it, as far as I can make out, whenever an order came in—however daft.”

    “Right, got it: thanks, Alex. Now, talking of daft, at the risk of seeming so, what in God’s name are cape gooseberries?” he asked, with a smile in his eyes.

    Handsome bloke, in his way, Alex reflected. No wonder Bettany had been unable to resist him. “Uh—fruiting plant of the sprawling variety. Central American, closely related to the tomatillo. Physalis peruviana, whereas tomatillos are Physalis ixocarpa. They’re Solanaceae, the same family as tomatoes, potatoes, and so on; there are lots of Physalis species, known as groundcherries in North America, where they grow wild. Uh—sorry. They’re all typified by having small round berries, more or less yellow, enclosed in a calyx that forms a sort of gauzy cape. Another species is the decorative plant the Chinese lantern.”

    “Oh, good Lord!” said Hugh with a startled laugh. “Granny used to have those!”

    Alex smiled. “Yes, they’re an old-fashioned garden plant, and cape gooseberries are an old-fashioned fruit. Not grown commercially, certainly not here. You occasionally see them in older gardens. They tend to die down with the frosts, like tomatoes. There are some on the property, undoubtedly self-sown, but from what Bettany said I don’t think Tim and Sabrina are looking in the right place.”

    “Got that,” he noted drily. “Know who this greengrocer was?”

    “Uh—no.”

    “No, well, not worth bothering about if it’s a one-off, but we don’t want to alienate possible clients at this juncture.”

    “No, I suppose not,” Alex admitted. “What would you have said if you’d taken the call?”

    “I’d have said we can’t supply at the moment but we’ll definitely consider it in the future and was there anything else, as we do have a range of unusual fruits and vegetables.”

    “Right. Before or after you’d forcibly stopped Tim and Sabrina in their tracks?”

    Hugh’s mouth twitched. “Possibly simultaneously with, Alex.”

    “Yes,” he acknowledged sheepishly. “Sorry. Well, I think I would have, too, more or less, but Bettany seems to have believed those two when they assured her there were some.”

    “Mm. I’ll have a word with her, but that’s hardly the main problem, is it?”

    “No,” replied Alex, eyeing him cautiously.

    “I’ll take Tim off the ducks’ run, it’d be pointless to persevere. But in the longer term,” he said slowly, “we need more manpower, don’t we?”

    “Yes, exactly.” Alex told him about the school-leavers idea and the wood carver.

    “Thanks, Alex. I’ll get onto Pete. And as well”—his eyes narrowed—“I believe there is some scheme whereby young people from Britain can take short-term jobs out here—fruit picking, that sort of thing. I’m about to look into that, but also… I thought some sort of apprenticeship scheme that would appeal to young greenies—or perhaps those with greenie parents.”

    “Comfortably-off middle-class greenies, these’d all be, would they?”

    “I think that’s more or less inevitable. But Britain’s full of them, and many of them are very keen to dash off around the world doing their bit for the environment.”

    Alex’s jaw sagged. “Recruit them from Britain, too?”

    “Why not? Naturally I’ll advertise here as well, I'd like to be able to give the locals some employment, but why not? At least they’d be motivated.”

    “Yeah,” Alex agreed limply. “Great. And I suppose, statistically speaking, you might get one or two permanent converts.”

    “Exactly,” replied General Throgmorton tranquilly.

    Alex tried to smile, failed, said weakly: “Well, good. I’d better get off and open up the stall,” and tottered off to it.

    Hugh looked after him with a very wry expression indeed on his lean, handsome face.

    “Oh, dear,” said Bettany in dismay. “I did it all wrong, didn't I?’

    Hugh put his arm round her. “Nonsense, darling: you couldn't have known that those two idiots were talking through their hats.”

    “I might have guessed, though!” she admitted with a weak laugh. “Even so, I don’t think I could have stopped them, Hugh.”

    Hugh kissed her cheek. “No. Not a tragedy, sweetheart. In fact, in that it showed me I’d taken the wrong tack entirely with Tim, it was a good thing. But in future if you don’t recognise the name of the produce as something you know that we grow, just tell them what I said.”

    “Mm. Um, I think you’d better write it down for me,” she admitted in a small voice.

    “Of course.” Hugh produced a notebook and pen, and wrote carefully. “There you are, darling,” he said, tearing out the page for her.

    Bettany looked at it and gave a startled giggle. ‘I don’t think I should end by saying  ‘I love you’, though, Hugh!”

    “No, you certainly shouldn’t: extraneous greengrocers need not apply. Give me a great big kiss, mm?”

    Bettany obliged.

    “Yes...” said Hugh dreamily, hugging her. “Um, thought about lunch?”

    “Yes: I’ve done a zucchini and cheese quiche with that marvellous fake pastry of Polly’s mum’s!” she said happily.

    “Uh—fake pastry?”

    Bettany plunged into it. The quiche being very easy, not real pastry, and baking powder or ‘self-raising’ flour—was that even a word?—seemed to be the main concepts. An additional point was that you could use the pastry for a sweet tart—like a flan, dear—and Polly said it was delicious with peaches and all you had to do was put them on top and it did the rest itself!

    “Jolly good,” he grinned.

    “Mm! Um, there is one thing, though: poor Sabrina might cry, if she recognises— Oh, no, she never saw it cooked!” Bettany remembered in relief. “Um, it has got white flour in it, though.”

    Light dawned: that bloody recipe! “Darling, she's been lapping up white bread sandwiches, I’m sure it’ll be okay. And if it’s the wonderful smell that’s pervading the kitchen, she can’t fail to like it.”

    “Good!” she beamed. “The oven’s off, of course, that’s why the door’s partly open, and it’s just keeping warm. That new stove’s a breeze, darling!”

    “Great,” said Hugh, not mentioning the fact that the elderly Mr Garber at Taupo Hardware & Electrical had been very happy to get rid of it and had allowed himself to be beaten down by a couple of hundred dollars.

    The quiche with the fake pastry went down a treat, as did Hugh’s assurance that  Tim needn’t bother with the ducks any more, and his further assurance that it didn’t matter that they hadn’t been able to find any cape gooseberries, he’d ring and tell the fellow that they’d sold out.

    “That was great, Bettany,” concluded Sean, who’d been relieving Alex at the stall, and so was the last to have lunch. He ate the last crumb from the quiche dish, and sighed.

    “It’s really easy, Sean. I mean, I can’t do real pastry at all, and Polly said she’s just the same, but this is her mum’s special cheater’s recipe, you see!” she beamed.

    “Ooh, good, maybe Mum could manage it, then. She used to let Ran do the quiches, ya see. Tell ya what, I’ll take a copy of it for her, and one for Molly as well! –Any more salad?”

    Bettany bit her lip: she still hadn’t adjusted to Sean’s young man’s appetite. Well, he was usually only here for lunch, of course, and sometimes not that: he was trying to spend a bit of time helping Pete out, as well.

    “I’ll cut up a few more tomatoes, goodness knows there’s enough of them! And would you like some basil on it, dear?”

    “That’d be good: ta,” he agreed.

    Bettany duly made him some more salad and thoughtfully got out a loaf of bread for him. Vast quantities of the bread then accompanied the salad down Sean’s gullet. Ooh, dear, did that nice Molly of his have any idea what she’d be taking on?

    “I’ve picked all those zucchinis and capsicums Hugh wanted, and packed them,” he reported at last.

    “Yes, you said, Sean, dear.”

    “Well, do ya reckon it’d be okay if I get on over to Fern Gully this arvo? They’re real short-handed, and Maurie can’t be in three places at once.”

    Oh, dear. Bettany looked at him in dismay. “Um, well, what’s on the timetable for you, Sean?”

    “Pack z and c,” he replied succinctly.

    “Zed and— Oh! I see, you’ve done it all! I think it would be okay, but you’d better just check with Hugh.”

    “Righto. Ta for the bonzer lunch, Bettany,” he said, getting up.

    “That quite all right, dear! My pleasure!” she beamed.

    Sean went over to the timetable on the wall, swallowing a grin. She was a really decent type, Bettany. Just showed, first impressions were bloody silly, eh? “Hugh’s way down yonder in the pawpaw patch,” he discovered.

    “What?” said Bettany weakly.

    Sean raised his eyebrows at her. “It's a mad thing that Dad sings—well, croaks, can’t sing. ‘Pickin’ up pawpaws, puttin’ ’em in your pocket, Pickin’ up pawpaws, puttin’ ’em in your pocket, Way down yonder in the pawpaw patch!’” he croaked.

    She laughed weakly. “But what are they, Sean?”

    “Uh—well, out here pawpaw usually means a big yellow tropical fruit, but Alex reckons that song’s about some North American species that aren’t even related. The tropical ones won’t grow here, the winters are too cold for them. These ones’ll be hill pawpaws, they’re different again, but they are related: taste really sour and sort of sicky. God knows why that Terry planted them, never met anyone that can stand them. I’ll tell Hugh he might as well plough them in: they’re only good for chutney.” He went over to the door, but paused. “There’s another name for them, I think, but I can’t remember it. See ya!” He went out.

    “Pawpaws,” said Bettany dazedly. She sat down suddenly. “It’s so foreign, isn’t it?” she said to herself. “Well, maybe Livia— Um, no, I know, I’ll ask Jan!”

    Five minutes later she was saying dazedly: “Papayas? But Jan, they’re delicious! A great delicacy! Wal took us to a beautiful hotel in Auckland and we had that as a starter, it cost the earth!”

    “Yeah, well, hotel prices, but they’re not cheap, no. Dunno whether the ones we get are Australian or from the Cook Islands, or what. But if these are those hill ones, they’ll be revolting.”

    “Mm. Um, Sean mentioned chutney,” she said cautiously.

    “Well, yeah, enough vinegar and sugar and a load of spices and anything’ll taste good!” replied Jan with a laugh. “Um, scrub that: not feijoas.”

    Bettany’s shudder sizzled down the line. “Ugh! No! The smell! Sickly sweet! I was supposed to help pack some of those but honestly, Jan, darling, I felt positively queasy, I just couldn’t!”

    “Shit, ya mean there are fancy greengrocers that want the things?” croaked Jan.

    “Apparently, yes.”

    “Ugh! No, well, them apart, almost anything’ll go into chutney, and I should say hill pawpaws’d cook up quite well—minus the seeds, of course. Skins and all. Well, minced or chopped, I’d say. Add a good cupful of sultanas, and Bob’s your uncle!”

    “You—you mean one makes one’s own?” she ventured.

    In Taupo Shores Ecolodge’s kitchen, Jan might have been seen to blink. “Uh, yes, of course, lots of people still make their own chutney, Bettany, didn’t you realise?”

    Janet was at the bench; she swung round and stared at her in amazement.

    Jan made a face. Janet nodded in fierce agreement.

    “Uh—well, no, it’s not hard, Bettany, but chutney’s one of those things that you really need to watch someone else do, what with having to make sure the jars are sterile and the mixture’s the right texture and so forth. Look, I always make loads of it at this time of year. Let’s see… well, strike while the iron’s hot, we are into March, now, and those tomatoes need to be picked. Day after tomorrow? After the kids have gone to school?”

    “Really, Jan, dear? Are you sure? That would be wonderful! Thank you so much!” she gasped.

    Jan hung up, looking wry. “Accepted with rapture,” she reported to Janet.

    “I should think so!”

    Jan sat down suddenly . “I suppose he’s the same,” she noted in a weak, faraway voice.

    “What, dear?”

    “Hugh Throgmorton: the same as her. Only ever had bought chutney.” She swallowed. “Never mind they’re from opposite ends of the socio-economic scale.”

    Janet sniffed. “Bought chutney! Honestly! Mum used to make it every year without fail. Tomato and plum. And if we ran out she’d make rhubarb chutney in winter, too!”

    “Ooh, rhubarb chutney: yum!” beamed Jan. “That ruddy rhubarb plant of Pete’s is sulking,” she noted.

    “I know. He’s doing the wrong things to it, dear,” she said on a piously smug note that at most other times would have got right up Jan’s nose.

    “Mm… Bought chutney. They’re soulmates after all!” said Jan wildly.

    Janet gave a delighted neigh. “They must be, Jan!”

    The notice was on the reception desk at Fern Gully and there was no sign of Shannon. Sean gave the lovely old restored kauri desk a longing look, and went out to the back. She was in the manager’s office, head in her computer, what else?

    “Gidday. Whatcha wamme to do?”

    “Oh, there you are!” replied his little sister in relief. “Couldja give Maurie a hand outside for a bit? He's been watering the ruddy lawns too much, they need mowing.”

    “Yeah, sure. Um, if ya want a noisy mower disturbing your punters, Shannon,” he added dubiously.

    “No, that’s the thing, ya see. Ruddy Sir Maurice has told us off to use a hand-mower.”

    “Eh?”

    “Yeah. More environmental,” she said sourly.

    “No wonder Maurie doesn’t wanna do it!”

    “He does, ya cretin, but he’s cleaning the flaming guests’ ruddy cars!” she cried.

    “Ssh,” said Sean with a grin, hurriedly shoving the door to behind him.

    Shannon swallowed hard. “Sorry. Didn't mean to call you that.”

    “Eh?” he said blankly. “Oh! Forget it. I see, no-one at mighty YDI, fount of all flash hospitality wisdom, bothered to mention that one.”

    “No. Well, to be fair,” she admitted sourly, “I think Head Office’s idea was they’d all be chauffeured in, in the flaming SUV.”

    “That one with them camouflage splodges on it: yep. Ya realise the whole of Taupo’s laughing itself sick over— Um, yeah. Sorry. So these ones drove themselves, eh? Ya not telling me they’re Kiwis, are ya?” he croaked, as the implications penetrated.

    Shannon sighed. “No. Two lots—two couples—are Aussies, and they’ve got rental cars. That they haven’t stopped complaining about since they got here.”

    “Right: recycled Jap jobs,” he acknowledged. “I make that two cars.”

    “No, there’s the French ones as well,” she sighed.

    “Aw, right, they got here, eh? Thought they were together? One more car.”

    “No, one giant campervan that they imagine they’re gonna drive round the South Island and one huge Merc that they borrowed off someone they know in Auckland.”

    “Jake Carrano, most prob’ly,” he noted.

    “That income bracket, anyway,” replied Shannon heavily. “The thing is, it’s not just a carwash job, they all want them thoroughly cleaned inside and out, including the flaming campervan.”

    “Aw, right, poor ole Maurie,” he acknowledged. “Well, I don’t mind doing the lawns, but has anyone checked this ruddy hand-mower’s blades?”

    Shannon looked blank. “Um, no. Blades?”

    Sean eyed her drily. “See, an old mower, it's a mechanical device with blades that go round and round as ya shove it along, and after they’ve cut that rough muck that passes for a lawn in these highly eco-friendly parts once, they go blunt.”

    “Shit,” she said, staring at him in dismay. “Is there any way of sharpening them?”

    Sean ran his hand through his short hair. “Yeah, ’course, if ya’ve got the tools, or even a grindstone, but if there’s anything like a decent shed round here, I’ve yet to see it!”

    “Um, there’s the garages, over the back,” she offered uncertainly. “But they’re full because me and Gillian decided Dwayne could have a permanent slot there, and Sir Maurice could take a running. Um, how do mean, a shed? What for?”

    “A shed, like what every Kiwi bloke has in his back yard,” he sighed. “A shed, Shannon. Like Pete’s shed!” he offered desperately.

    “I’ve never been in it… Jan thinks it’s a joke.”

    “A joke until something breaks down and good ole Pete’s got’s the right tools to fix it for her, yeah!”

    “Do you mean it’s full of tools?” said his little sister dazedly.

    “Yeah!” the driven young man cried. “For cripes’ sakes, Shannon! That’s what blokes keep in their sheds! Tools!”

    “Dad’s are in the garage,” she pointed out dubiously.

    Sean sniffed slightly. “What there are of them, yeah. This dump needs a proper shed with decent tools in it, and if the flaming mower hasn’t been kept under cover it could ruddy well go in in there, too!”

    “Um, it was behind the garages, there’s a strip of concrete there. Um, well, under the overhang, I suppose.”

    “Eaves,” corrected Sean drily. “All right, you’re a whizz on the computer and ya can do accounts and manage the crap this dump goes in for, but you’re no handyman. Which is what you need, just incidentally, on deck fulltime.”

    Shannon was now looking very crestfallen. “Mm.”

    “Their ecolodge in Queensland is up and running, isn’t it? I’d give them a bell,” he said kindly.

    “I did, but it’s completely different, they’re encouraging all the native growth to come back, they want a rainforest effect. Well, they’ve got some organic mango trees and banana palms, but they haven’t got lawns. Um, it’s being run by a couple. I spoke to her but, um, actually it sounded as if he is a pretty handy bloke, he was fixing one of their Jacuzzis when I rang. Um, like a spa bath, Sean.”

    “I geddit. Look, I’ll have a word with Maurie, and we’ll work out what ya need, and then we’ll nip into Mitre 10 and buy a shed: no point in getting a load of tools with nowhere to put them. Ya better gimme your credit card.”

    “But it’s not on the plan: Sir Maurice’ll go spare,” she said weakly.

    “Not if he never sees it, he won’t. We’ll bung it behind the garages—here, I tell ya what! Add a bit of trellis, train a couple of choko vines up it, and if the old nit ever comes back tell ’im they’re a native plant!”

    “Um, the trellis is a good idea… Why chokos?”

    “Because they go mad before ya can turn round. Thought it was more cucumbers the permaculture nuts had let run wild—they climb the trees, ya see—but Alex said no, it was choko vines gone mad like that one of Pete’s. You might not have seen it, it's off to the side, not the lake side, the other side, it’s smothering the hedge that runs along behind the guests’ carpark and the end of the accommodation wing. Looks very ecological!” He collapsed in sniggers.

    “Hah, hah,” said Shannon weakly. “Is that even a word?”

    Sean wiped his eyes. “Dunno. Jan says it a lot. More so since this dump went up,” he added drily.

    “Mm. –Oh, dear, what’ll Max say, though?”

    “Eh? Oh! Not about the ecological bit, about the shed? Nothing—well, he might say ‘Aw, gee, what a tit I was not to realise that an ecolodge up the flaming boo-eye needs a shed’, but he won’t mind. He’s the type that works like stink at one project, then it’s on to the next. Well, goes with the territory, eh?”

    “Um, yes, architecture would be like that,” she recognised in relief. “Well, yeah, you better do that, then, Sean. Thanks.” She handed over the company credit card and told him the PIN. Sean wrote it carefully on his arm with a felt-tip pen, not asking why an up-market corporate exec like her had a green felt-tip pen in her highly corporately executive pen holder.

    Out the back in front of the garages Maurie eyed him drily, though with a certain approval. “Right. Well, since you’re asking, Sean, I have been compiling a list, actually.” He felt in the back pocket of his jeans—ordinary jeans, not, Sean registered with considerable enjoyment, them poncy so-called “natural denim” things provided by flaming YDI under the impression that outside work wasn’t dirty.

    He raised his eyebrows slightly over the list but conceded: “Right. Well, add a whipper-snipper to this, no way am I up for doing them edges along the drive by hand, and it’s ho for ole Steve Garber’s and Mitre 10. Coming? –I’ve got the little lorry, brought over some organic stuff for Dwayne, thought I might as well kill two birds with one stone while I was at it.”

    “I trust you made him pay,” replied Maurie drily.

    “Yeah—well, not for that carton of crooked veges that we couldn’t get through ourselves. And personally I don’t care if he stews them up and serves them to yer fancy customers as cordong how’s-yer-father or makes soup out of them or turns them into chutney like Jan does, because we’ve proved empirically that today’s blimmin’ organic vege fanciers won’t have a bar of crooked cucumbers and eggplants—curled-up ones, not just slightly bent—or tomatoes with weird blobs all over them, or peaches that have gone weird because they got stuck next to a branch or something, or anything with one worm hole or caterpillar bite in it!”

    “No. It must be bloody difficult making organic produce pay in that sort of market,” replied Maurie thoughtfully, with no sign of the Mick-taking about him.

    “Yeah,” Sean admitted, sagging slightly. “It is.”

    Over at Taupo Hardware & Electrical old Steve Garber just about blew a gasket when it dawned how much they were after and for who; apparently he hadn’t had any custom from blasted Fern Gully apart from the housekeeper buying a few odd bits of cutlery and an electric jug off him, and the chef buying an old-fashioned brown teapot that he didn’t really keep in stock any more, there was no demand, only he had a few out the back.

    “Grinding wheel, eh?” said Sean kindly, looking at it admiringly, since that was what the old boy seemed to expect.

    “Yeah: if you want to keep your mower blades up to scratch this is what you need!” the old joker replied eagerly. “Ever used one, Sean?”

    “Well, no. I can use a grindstone, mind you.”

    “Wasn’t Dan that showed you how, was it?” replied Mr Garber cautiously.

    Heroically Sean didn’t laugh. “No, it was Pete.”

    “That’s all right, then! Well, he can show you how to use the wheel, Sean, no problem!”

    “Look, I don’t wanna throw cold water,” put in Maurie cautiously, “but the shed’ll need electricity if that’s where you’re planning to use this, Sean.”

    “Run a line over from the main building, easy.”

    “In principle, yes. Who will run it and when?”

    “Brook Turner. Mate of mine from school. Registered electrician. He can do it this evening. Bit of pocket money for him. And if Dwayne likes to feed him, so much the better.”

    Maurie eyed him drily. “Six-foot-two with eyes of blue, is ’e?”

    Mr Garber collapsed in sniggers at this point, nodding helplessly.

    “Pretty much, yeah,” replied Sean stolidly.

    Abruptly Maurie also collapsed in sniggers, gasping: “Goodoh!”

    After that it was pretty much all plain sailing and they collected the makings of a small tin shed from Mitre 10, loaded up the little red lorry, and repaired to the back regions of Fern Gully Ecolodge to put it up. Sean into the bargain then sharpening the blades of the antique lawn-mower by hand with a brand-new grindstone and doing the front lawns, and Maurie finishing off the guests’ cars and, since it was there, doing the edges for Sean with the brand-new whipper-snipper. The newer models weren’t all that noisy at all.

    The stunningly good-looking Brook Turner having duly arrived shortly after four-thirty, no-one asking when he’d knocked off work or if his boss knew he’d knocked off, Dwayne was duly overcome, and once the wiring had been done, the workers were treated to the most superb organic ratatouille ever made, in the kitchen itself.

    “For-mi-dable!” concluded Maurie, grinning, as he leaned back his chair loosening his belt.

    “That’s what his mum would say, dears: she’s French, y’know?” Dwayne informed them proudly.

    The very hetero Sean and Brook just eyed him tolerantly, and smiled and nodded.

    “Ya done good,” concluded Dan, grinning.

    “Ta, Dad,” replied Sean simply. “Hey, ya shoulda tasted this ratty-thing what Dwayne made! It had the same veges in it what Bettany put in her stew thing the other day, but you’d never have known it!”

    “Used virginal olive oil in it, did ’e?” replied Dan drily.

    “Eh?”

    Dan shrugged. “That’s what these fancy chefs use, apparently. Virginal olive oil.”

    “Virgin, Dan, dear,” reproved Moyra from the sitting-room doorway.

    Dan jumped, and smiled feebly. “Is it? Didn’t know it could be an adjective, actually, Moyra.”

    “Well, I don’t know that it’s an adjective, Dan, but that’s what they say!” she assured him.

    “Uh—yeah. Right. –Was it?” he asked his son.

    “Heck, I dunno, Dad! It come out a big green bottle.”

    “That sounds right, dear!” beamed Moyra. “You should have asked him for the recipe, Sean.”

    “I did, but he said all he does is put the oil in the pan, add the veges and some herbs, and then finish it off with more herbs. And I’m pretty sure that’s what Bettany does. Well, Polly Carrano’s was bonzer, too, but Dwayne’s ratty-thing was extra.”

    “Ratatouille, dear,” Moyra corrected him kindly. “I must book in for a meal there.”

    “‘Yeah, but Aunty Moyra, he doesn’t serve that sort of thing to the customers!” said Sean in alarm.

    There was a short, stunned silence.

    “Eh?” groped Dan. “If it’s that good—”

    “No. They don’t want solid food—like what the chefs in the fancy restaurants eat themselves all the time, apparently—they want them poncy little piles! And, um, what was the other thing? Aw, yeah: swirls!” he remembered proudly. “Good ole Brook just about had hysterics when he done him one to show him!”

    “Brook, dear?” queried Moyra.

    “Yeah: he’s an electrician, Aunty Moyra. I was at school with him.”

    “So it is a boy’s name?” she said weakly.

    “Yeah, ’course,” replied Sean placidly.

    “That generation, Moyra,” said Dan drily.

    “Well, yes, dear, it must be! Well, one can get silly little piles and fancy swirls everywhere in London, I don’t think I’ll bother, in that case.”

    “No: keep yer dough in yer wallet, Aunty Moyra,” Sean advised kindly. “You’ll need it if ya want Max to build you a nice holiday home.”

    Dan blinked as this last phrase proceeded from his offspring’s mouth but agreed: “Yes, even at mates’ rates it won’t come cheap, Moyra. Especially not if you want central heating and double glazing.”

    “Ya could keep the house that’s already on the site and just do it up,” offered Sean.

    “But the exposure’s all wrong, Sean, dear!” she cried.

    The Jacksons, père et fils, had had that one before, so they just nodded. Livia and Moyra had—inevitably—got together, and had found the ideal site. Someone had bombed or hadn’t bribed the local council enough, or something: anyway, the section was very small, especially in comparison to that flaming estate of Wal Briggs’s, which neighboured it on one side. The very dark brick thing with giant dark tinted windows on the other side of Wal’s Mexican palace was the dump that belonged to the judge from Auckland who’d done his nut when he’d realised he was next to the black sheep of Enzed’s legal fraternity. It was also on a huge section. In fact all the sections along the lake shore were huge, with the exception of this one that Moyra had acquired. It was about your standard EnZed quarter acre—or rather, Max had found out when he’d had it surveyed, just under that. Not plutey enough for the filthy rich—exactly.

    Max and his mother were now, of course, engaged in trying to reconcile what she imagined she wanted—it changed fairly regularly, that didn’t help—with what she could afford. The Jacksons were doing their best to keep right out of it. In fact Dan had decided that this May he’d go to that conference in Canada that the bosses were sort of offering to subsidise—well, the fares and the conference fees, not the accommodation, the mean bastards. Because the kerfuffle was by no means gonna be over by then.

    Dan tried to give Sean a warning look but he was assuring Moyra kindly that he got it, she wanted the sun and the lake view, eh? Refraining from mentioning things like where the sun actually moved in the Antipodes, for a wonder.

    Moyra then retired to her room to ring Max on her newly-acquired EnZed mobile—yeah, it was funny that the phone system was all different out here, wasn't it, Moyra?—and Dan, first making sure the door was safely closed behind her, remarked: “She’ll be earbashing him for hours, poor bugger. All right, ya sorted out Shannon’s little do good, but what about you, Sean?”

    “Eh?

    “You heard. What if anything are ya planning to do about that nice Molly and her kid, and when, and is it gonna entail installing them here? Because your mother and I would quite like to know.”

    “Don’t think Mum’d even notice, she’s planning this huge thing for some type that Alex knows— Um, sorry, Dad. I have got it sorted. We’re gonna rent that dump of Miser Ron Reilly’s in Rimu Stree—”

    “What?”

    Sean waited until the echoes had ceased ringing. “Don’t tell me he’s the Scrooge of Taupo, we all know that, ta. The dump’s a dump, and I’m not gonna pay him cash dough, Dad, I’m gonna put in a new sink and do the bathroom up—don’t panic, he's gonna provide the stuff—and Brook’s gonna share it with us, the place has got four bedrooms, ya see, so him and Tracy are gonna have one of the big ones, and he's gonna re-do the wiring.”

    “And who’s gonna paint the lot, including the roof?” enquired Dan coldly.

    “Not us. We’re taking it for six months, to start with, and by that time I’ll be working for Pete and Jan fulltime, and Molly and me are eventually gonna build on their property, round the lake a bit. Well, if it works out after the six months, but it will!” he said cheerfully. “Sort of between the ecolodge and the permaculture place, only quite a bit further back,” he added illuminatingly. “Don’t worry, me and Pete are gonna put in a drive.”

    “Have you talked all this over with Pete and Jan?” croaked Dan.

    “Yeah, ’course. I’m staying on with Hugh for a bit—well, we wanna see what that blighter Alex is gonna do, his publishers have been pushing him, and he’s just about finished the work on the book. We’re pretty sure he’ll take off after that. Itchy feet.” He shrugged slightly.

    “Y— Um, Sean, you’re chucking your qualifications away,” said Dan limply.

    “I don’t wanna work in a lab all day, Dad. I want to do something a bit more practical, and get outdoors a bit.”

    Dan sighed: Sean always had loved the outdoors. With an effort he refrained from mentioning the words “fishing” or “boat.” “Yeah, well, it’s your life, but heck, can Pete and Jan even afford to pay you a living wage?”

    “Not all year round, but they can feed us. And I can always do a bit for Hugh when Pete doesn’t need me. And Jan’s decided we oughta have an agreement that I learn the business from them and eventually they leave it to me.”

    Well, that wouldn’t  make his fortune, either, but it was a bloody sight better than being a flaming groundsman-cum-gardener for the rest of his natural, so Dan just sighed and said: ‘Well, okay. If that’s what you want.”

    “Yeah. And Molly’s got her glass-blowing: plenty of room on the property for that, and it’ll bring in quite a bit, she’s been getting her name known.”

    “Yes. Good,” he said feebly.

    “Doing that stuff for Fern Gully has paid off, she’s got quite a few orders!” he added happily.

    Dan didn’t ask how many orders or for how much, he just said weakly: “Goodoh.”

    “Hullo,” said Katy mildly as he appeared in the studio and sagged heavily against the wall.

    Dan took a deep breath. “Do you know what your son’s done now?”

    “Why is he always my son when he’s done something you don’t like?” replied Katy without animus.

    “I can’t imagine!” returned Dan wildly.

    “Well, what? I thought he went over to Fern Gully today?”

    “What? Never mind that!” Dan plunged into it.

    At the conclusion of the very heated narrative Katy said calmly: “He’ll be all right with Jan keeping an eye on him. I don’t suppose it’ll suit him in the long run, he’ll have to deal with all their awful conventional bourgeois customers, but at least it’ll give him and Molly a base for a bit.”

    “Uh—yeah,” said Dan feebly.

    “And Jan’ll see they don’t starve.”

    Dan sighed. “Mm.”

    “You could take her some more of those banana passionfruit tomorrow, if you like.”

    “I’ve gotta go to work,” replied Dan heavily. “Someone’s gotta earn a living wage round here!”

    “Drop them off on your way in.”

    Taupo Shores Ecolodge was not on his way— “Oh, all right. I’ll pick them now, shall I?” he added in a pointed voice.

    “No, they’re in the kitchen in a bucket. Moyra picked them, she got all keen.”

    Dan swallowed. “Katy, are you sure she knows what banana passionfruit are?”

    “I showed her,” replied Katy with the utmost placidity.

    Uh-huh. “Does that mean you held one in your hot little hand in the kitchen and waved it at her, or actually took her out to the flaming vine and said: ‘These yellow rudeish-looking things hanging down like what we won’t mention?’”

    “I’d’ve said cucumbers were just as rude. And bananas.”

    “Did you show her the vine, Katy?” asked Dan heavily.

    “Yes, of course. She thinks it’s beautiful.”

    “Ya mean the ruddy thing’s still flowering?” he croaked.

    Instead of enquiring whether he went around with his eyes shut—many wives would have, Dan recognised fairly—Katy replied: “A bit. No, she meant with its fruit.

    Dan gulped. “It takes all sorts,” he croaked.

    “Yes. Alex rang up, his publisher man wanted to know if I had a website, and I told him and he said he’d do us a picture of it!” she beamed.

    “Darling, do we want a picture of it?” he croaked.

    “Yes. He’s thinking of a new series, vines and gourds, and of course chokos don’t fruit until winter—I didn’t realise that, did you know that?—and so he’ll be back then. Pete’s got a big vine, too, as well as the permaculture nuts.”

    Dan’s knees had gone all weak and he staggered blindly over to a chair, picked up the mysterious bag that was on it and sat down, hugging the said bag to his bosom. “Katy Jackson, do you mean to stand there and tell me that YOU KNOW WHAT FLAMING ALEX’S PLANS ARE?”

    “Don’t shout. Well, sort of. He’s going up north, there’s a man and lady there with interesting pumpkins and, um, gourds, I think he said. I’m not sure what after that but he’ll definitely be back to do the chokos this winter.”

    Dan swiped his hand across his face. “Even Hugh Throgmorton hasn’t been able to get anything that definite out of the bugger!”

    “He’s too cut and dried,” she replied.

    Dan just sighed.

    “You’d better go and have a whisky,” she suggested kindly.

    “Katy, does Shannon know?” he croaked.

    “Mm? Oh, about Alex’s plans, you mean? I don’t know, Dan. Why don’t you ask her?”

    “Because I’d quite like to live to go to that conference this May, since the bastards are actually gonna cough up for it!”

    “If you don’t ask her you won’t know.”

    “How very true!”

    “I’d stop worrying about it, in that case, dear. Can you grab that big stick?”

    Sighing, Dan got up, replaced the bag of some unidentified substance—possibly dirt, that was what it had felt like, anyway—on the chair, and grabbed the big stick.

    He watched in a lacklustre way as Katy stirred a huge pot of something with said stick.

    “Sean was saying the chef at Fern Gully made them a superb ratatouille,” he offered without hope.

    “Mm. Did he? Mm,” was all the reply he got.

    Sighing, Dan wandered out again. He might just as well go on the whisky, because that was as far as the gen on his youngest daughter’s bloody love life was gonna go this week, wasn't it? And she was such a sensible, down-to-earth kid, too: why the Hell couldn’t she have fallen for someone ordinary? And—and sensible!

Next Chapter:

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