The Rescuers

16

The Rescuers

    Ran’s phone rang at crack of dawn.

    “Hullo?” she croaked, her heart hammering.

    Gillian Prendergast. In a panic. Simon Basildon-Pugh had disappeared. Yes, all his stuff, too.

    Max had sat up in bed and was looking at her anxiously. Ran shook her head at him, smiling.

    “Hang on a mo’, Gillian. –It’s all right, Max: just that that Pommy dweeb’s walked out on Fern Gully.”

    He blinked.

    “Good riddance,” added Ran calmly, not bothering to put her hand over the mouthpiece.

    “Well, yes, but it’s the Opening in four days’ time!” he hissed.

    Quite. Not to mention the giant dinner for Sir Maurice Bishop et al. that was planned for the evening before the flaming Opening! “Well, Shannon’s gonna do receptionist for you, isn’t she?” she said to the phone.

    “Yes, but she’s not due to start till tomorrow—I mean, Sir Maurice and his guests won’t be here until the day before the Opening, but—”

    Ran cut her short in her flow. “Yeah. Get hold of her and tell her she’ll have to help you fill in as manager. I’ll contact England, don’t worry about that.”

    “But Ran, she’s looking after those poor kiddies,” quavered Gillian. “She said she couldn’t possibly start any earlier because—”

    Ran was quite glad to hear Ms Prendergast refer to the permaculture nuts’ kids as “poor kiddies”, actually, so she let her get through this lot. Then she said: “Tell you what: Bettany can take over at Taupo Organic Produce: we’ll send her back down there today. But this morning Shannon can pop over to you soon as she’s given the kids their breakfast and got them off to school: Alex can bloody well hold the fort for a day.”

    Whether or not Gillian knew who Alex was, goodness only knew, but she accepted this plan in great relief and asked if she should ring Shannon right away.

    “That’s okay, I’ll do it. We can’t possibly come down early ourselves, but we’ll see you as planned, okay? Just ring me if anything else goes wrong, but once Shannon’s on deck I’m sure she’ll be able to cope.”

    At her end of the phone, Gillian smiled uncertainly. Shannon was very young. She did seem capable, yes, but…

    “Thank God the schools are back, at least,” said Ran, hanging up.

    Max hesitated. “Er, yes. Um, but Alex did mention the local demand for organic tomatoes hasn’t slackened off yet, and they’re inundated with produce orders for Auckland, too. Well, I suppose if he has to close the stall for one day and help Tim and collect the kids from school and so forth, it won’t matter.”

    “No. –You can have your shower while I ring Shannon.”

    “No, I want to listen,” said Max frankly, his eyes twinkling.

    Ran stuck her tongue out at him, but punched buttons.

    Shannon’s reaction to the news of the dweeb’s vanishing act was exactly what anyone who knew the Jackson sisters might have expected.

    “Good flaming riddance!”

    Max now had his ear to the receiver; he collapsed in sniggers, rolling on the bed in ecstasy.

    “Yeah,” agreed Ran unemotionally. “See, what I thought was—”

    Max recovered and sat up, trying not to look nervous as he listened. Was Shannon going to raise objections or point out that even if Bettany left within the next hour or two it’d take her half the day to get to Taupo and was she even capable of driving that far, and such-like? He put his ear to the phone again.

    “Yes, ’course,” said Shannon equably. “Don’t worry about Alex, I’ll settle his hash! And if something does come up and I can’t manage to collect the kids and him and Tim are snowed under, Pete’ll do it. He always used to collect them when it was pouring, anyway. Their useless father never knew.”

    “Great! Um, Shannon,” said Ran with belated caution, “don’t contact Taupo Shores unless it’s absolutely necessary, will ya? Jan’s done far too much already.”

    “Too right! She sent over these miraculous quiches yesterday: kind of, um, not melty in the middle, exactly, but…” She sighed deeply. “I’ve given it a go, but mine always come out solid and stodgy.”

    “Better than mine,” said Ran sturdily. “I tried one again just the other day—well, Jan always reckons they’re such a stand-by, eh? It was like egg-flavoured concrete. And the pastry was worse: solid granite.”

    “Polly Carrano reckons you have to have the right pH balance for pastry,” recalled Shannon dubiously.

    “Then I’m either too acid or too alkaline—Oy!” she cried as Max wrested the phone off her.

    “Not too acid,” he said firmly to Ran’s sister.

    “Eh? Aw! No, last word you’d apply to her, eh?” Shannon agreed—he could hear the smile in her voice.

    “Mm, absolutely! Look, I’m sorry we’ve got to dump this on you, Shannon, but we simply can’t get away ourselves, Jim Thompson’s found a new possible site somewhere up on the Hibiscus Coast—that’s just north of Auckland—and it’s a matter of making up our minds and being ready to make a pre-emptive strike if we want it, because otherwise Maurice Bishop is going to hare off over some other obsession in darkest Queensland or the Blue Mountains or some such in Australia.”

    “That’s okay, Max. And if Bettany can’t make it, don’t worry: Alex can ruddy well go on pulling his finger out!”

    “Right!” agreed Ran cheerfully, regaining control of the phone. “Well, just give us a bell if you need to ask anything. And we can bring down anything extra they might need. Well, Dwayne was thrilled with the full batterie de cuisine, but there might be some special thing they don’t automatedly include.”

    “Yeah, sure! See ya!”

    She rang off before Ran could tell her how Tomkins was getting on.

    Max looked at her face. He put his arm around her. “Brisk efficiency is her watchword,” he murmured.

    “And always was,” she admitted wryly. “Well, better than being a no-hoper.”

    “Uh-huh. So shall I have my shower now?” he asked meekly.

    “Yeah, might as well. Just as well Jim got that plumber mate of his to install a Rheem, eh?”

    It certainly was! Well, they were renting the dump, it’d be the ruddy owner who got the benefit of it, but a full house with only a stupid electric water-heater that ran out after one and a half showers, or conversely, one heavy load of washing and half the lunch dishes?”

    “I’ll get Bettany up,” decided Ran as he grabbed his dressing-gown.

    Poor Bettany. “Mm-hm,” Max agreed, heading for the bathroom.

    In at YDI South Pacific’s office later that morning Jim Thompson listened to his fellow employees’ report in thoughtful silence. He scratched his head. “Ye-ah…”

    “What?” said Ran, propping her chin on Tomkins’s head.

    “I was thinking of the clients’ luggage and that, Ran. I mean, bloody Basildon-Pugh would have helped haul it in, presumably. Well, him and the kid that’s gonna do waiter.”

    “Before he vanishes up to Auckland the following week to varsity, ya mean. Yeah. Still, at least he agreed to come back down after Enrolment!”

    “Mm. Look, my cousin Maurie’s gonna be at a loose end for a bit—between jobs. I mean, he’s got one jacked up, but he doesn’t start till April. He was gonna head down to Turangi—it’s only at the other end of the lake, eh? He might be able to give them a hand: well, do any heavy lifting, I mean, and help with the waiting.”

    “Um, that sounds great, Jim,” said Ran on a weak note. “But it’s a Helluva drive from Turangi, ya know.”

    “Eh? Yeah; didn’t mean that. If he’s heading that way in any case he can stop off in Taupo for a bit instead. Want me to give him a bell?”

    “Why not?” put in Max mildly.

    Ran looked relieved. “Yeah, go on, Jim. And thanks.”

    Concealing a smile, Jim looked up Maurie’s number. He’d been a bit doubtful about Ran taking up with Max, actually: thought she might walk all over him, and then start in to despise him for being soft—he’d seen a bit of that, in his time—but no, they seemed to kind of balance each other real good, eh?

    “Yep!” he reported, putting down the phone.

    Ran and Max had gathered that; they beamed at him.

    “Right, well, that’s that sorted,” said Jim, getting up. “Come on, we better go before Sir Jake Carrano gets a sniff of this place—he lives up the Hibiscus Coast, didja know?”

    “No! Help, does he?” gasped Max.

    “Yep, owns the whole cliff top at Pohutukawa Bay—now that’d be an ideal site,” said Jim longingly.

    Ran eyed him tolerantly. “He means,” she explained, “that that’s where they actually live. The Carrano Group owns a Helluva lot more up that way than that.”

    “Yeah,” said Jim sourly, not perceiving that a certain amount of Mickey was being taken.

    “Come on, then,” said Max, smiling. “Shall we take both cars, Jim?”

    Jim made a face. “Think there might be some questioning of petrol claims from Head Office if we do.” He went over to his office door and held it open for Ran, who was carrying Tomkins.

    “Ta, Jim,” she said, going out.

    Max tottered feebly in her wake. “Questioning your petrol claims, Jim?”

    “Yeah. Think they got a new bod in Accounts. Never used to worry: coulda claimed for anything. Shit, when me and Hill were in Oz that time…” He plunged into the full bit.

    Meanwhile, back at Max and Ran’s rented house, Bettany was very flushed. Hugh Throgmorton had immediately volunteered to drive her down to Taupo, and she still wasn’t over it. What made it worse was that she was pretty sure Max had kind of manipulated him into it. Well, before anyone else could tell his uncle about today’s crisis he was doing it, and the minute he’d said that it looked as if Bettany would have to go back to Taupo, the General was off and running!

    She was conscious of a strong wish to ring up Livia immediately and pour it all out to her.

    “Um, yes,” she said weakly as Hugh Throgmorton asked if she’d left anything in the laundry. ‘I mean, I put the machine on for Ran—”

    He was out there investigating before she could turn round. Ooh, help! Well, at least she’d got some nice new knickers; as a matter of fact new underwear was the first thing she'd gone out and bought after she'd got poor Mummy’s insurance; but all the same, did you want a very posh man whose family had owned their country house for hundreds of years—their famous country house, it was on the Internet and everything!—looking at your underwear?

    She looked round her blindly and suddenly sat down on a hard kitchen chair.

    Hugh came back with his hands full of frillies, smiling. “These yours?”

    “Um, not the blue things or the black things,” she said faintly.

    Still smiling, he set the blue and black bras and knickers aside. “Shall I pack these for you?”

    Bettany gulped. “No! I mean, no, thank you. I’ll just stuff them in my case.”

    “I don’t think these things with the wires in them ought to be stuffed,” he said dubiously.

    Poor Bettany now felt as her face was going to explode, it was so dreadful! “Um, no, I’ll fold them,” she sad very faintly.

    “Should they have been in the washing-machine?” he asked, still dubious, fingering an underwired orange bra. Well, the girl in the shop had said it was flame-coloured, but orange was what it was.

    “They’re quite sturdy. Quite new,” she managed.

    He looked up with a grin. “That’s good! We had a disaster at home once—I was on furlough, thought I’d give Cynthia a hand by doing the washing. Total chaos: the thing ground to a halt and sort of chugged away from the wall. The girls were home on hols and they had hysterics. Guess what?”

    She gulped. “A bra wire in the works?”

    “Yeah, in the rotary thing. The poor old machine had done its best to keep going, you see. The motor started smoking.” The grin broadened.

    “Good Heavens!”

    “Uh-huh. They all disclaimed responsibility, of course, but after a while it turned out that the girls had been warned not to dare to put ageing bras that the bloody school machines had been having a go at anywhere near the thing. –Forget whose it was, now. Well, it was a while back.”

    “Yes, um, what on earth did you do?” said Bettany faintly.

    “After the abortive hunt for anything resembling a guarantee, you mean? Stopped Cynthia forcibly from ringing round putative repairmen, and bought a new one.”

    “Yes. You’re lucky you were in that income bracket,” she said dully.

    Hugh blinked. “Well, yes. Didn’t feel lucky at the time, mind you!”

    “No. Um, I’ll just—” Not meeting his eyes, she gathered up the frillies and hurried out with them.

    Hugh scratched his head. “Lead balloons come to mind,” he muttered.

    What with this awful scene, and the fact that she thought he was marvellous but was also frightfully in awe of him, poor Bettany hardly spoke on the journey to Taupo. Well, she knew if she did open her mouth she’d start chattering too much out of sheer nervousness, and that’d put him off entirely!

    There was a lot of congestion in the city, though the southern motorway was fairly clear. Hugh wasn’t into speeding, especially not with precious cargo aboard, so it took them over four hours.

    “Er, Bettany,” he said, clearing his throat, as they neared the township, “you don't mind having to look after these kids, do you?”

    “Of course not!” she cried in amazement.

    She was obviously genuine. “Good,” said Hugh. “Then is something else the matter?”

    “No!” she gulped.

    “Er… Not feeling car-sick?”

    “No, I’m a good traveller, thank you, Hugh,” she said in a small voice.

    “Then what’ve I done?” he asked baldly.

    “Nothing!” she gasped.

    He made up his mind to it, and pulled in to the side of the road, wincing as a giant tanker shot past them. “I don’t think it’s nothing,” he said mildly, undoing his seatbelt.

    “No, you haven’t done— It’s me!” she gulped.

    He made a wry face. “Can’t stand my company, is that it?”

    Had you asked Bettany only yesterday whether being alone with Hugh Throgmorton would have been a dream come true, in all probability she’d have said “Yes.” Now it felt like a nightmare.

    “No, of course not,” she croaked, almost in tears.

    The beleaguered man thrust a hand through his short hair. “Look, something’s up, for God’s sake! I thought you liked me.”

    “I just—” She swallowed painfully.

    Maybe he hadn’t made it clear? Sending out the wrong signals, was that the modern phrase? “I like you,” he said steadily.

    Suddenly a tear ran down her flushed brown cheek. “I like you, too, Hugh,” she said dolefully.

    By this time he was imagining all sort of things, ranging from encumbrances of one sort or another—possessive lover, possessive Catholic husband, offspring back home that she’d never admitted to, possibly because they were illegitimate—though that seemed like rubbish, in this day and age: they couldn’t have been born, realistically, much earlier than the late Seventies: she’d be around forty-five. Uh—though if her family had been some sort of strict religious nutters…? Or, um, if not that, some ghastly disease? Rubbish! He’d seldom seen a healthier specimen of womanhood!

    “Then what on earth’s up?” he groped.

    “We’re too different,” said Bettany dolefully.

    Hugh took a deep breath. Right. Got it.

    “This is the fucking class thing, isn’t it?” he said grimly. “Dear little Ran, now I look back, did try to drop some sort of hint—well, to the effect that no-one gives a toss about rubbish like that out here.”

    “You wouldn’t know it, the way the media go nuts over the Royals,” she said wanly.

    “Thanks very much! I’m not a bloody descendant of the House of Hanover! Or that of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha!” He looked at her face. “Um, I mean I’m not a descendant of Queen Victoria,” he said lamely.

    Bettany stared into her lap. “Well, there you are. I had heard of those names, but I didn’t know what you meant.” Another tear.

    Hugh put his hand gently on the hot, dampish one that was mangling the strap of her handbag. “So what? You’re here, I’m here, no-one gives a shit about our backgrounds: let’s just stay here and be happy! –Together, if at all possible,” he added firmly, repressing a very vivid picture of Father accusing him of rushing his fences—literally—what time poor old David, who’d followed him and fallen off his fat pony, was rubbing his bum and trying not to bawl in front of the old bugger.

    “What?” she said faintly, looking up at him at last.

    “I haven’t got that much time to waste—though I’m fit as a flea, I’m glad to say. If you can stand me after all, I’d like to try living together, Bettany.”

    Bettany burst into tears.

    At this Hugh undid her seatbelt, put his arms round her and pulled her against him.

    Finally he said, as the sobs seemed to have abated: “If you’d blow your nose, I could try kissing you, and then if you don’t like that—”

    “Don’t be silly!” she said on a gasp and a laugh. She opened her handbag and groped in it. “Oh, help.”

    Hugh produced his own pristine handkerchief. “Here.”

    She blew her nose and mopped her eyes, some of the mascara coming off in the process, he saw in some amusement, and said earnestly: “There you are: it’s indicative. Only real gentlemen have clean hankies, and I’m the sort of person who forgets to put one in her handb—”

    Hugh simply pulled her against him and kissed her thoroughly.

    “Oh, Hugh!” she gasped.

    “Yes,” said Hugh, grinning like an ape. “Thought it was there, eh?”

    “Oh, yes, darling!” she gasped.

    “Help,” said Katy numbly in response to the report on the Bettany-Hugh situation.

    The ladies had given the whole bit away and were, frankly, hiding, while the current lot of Pete’s and Jan’s ecolodgers committed hari-kari or drowned themselves by leaping off Pete’s blasted Tallulah Tub or God knew what—Jan was past caring. Livia had come over to Taupo Shores Ecolodge in Wal’s sacred launch—that Jan hadn’t even been aware she knew how to drive—and since Katy had independently turned up just when Jan was looking with loathing at the piles of morning tea washing-up generated by the hungry hordes, they’d all three taken off in the said sacred vessel for a bit of peace. If you went past the permaculture nuts’ place in the direction of the town, the next property you came to was owned by one, Bob Kenny, who hadn’t been known to do a hand’s turn on it for donkey’s ages. Nicely overgrown, it was. Well, he did use its boathouse, and as he used his launch in summer to take tourists on the lake it was no doubt nicely maintained like all Good Keen Men’s boats did oughta be, but— Yeah.

    Livia—trust her—had brought a nice sun umbrella, so they were sitting under it on a rug also provided by Livia, and, regardless of where the sun might be in relation to the ruddy yardarm, drinking a rather nice Gewürztraminer (Wal’s), and eating the remains of the carrot cake which surprisingly Jan’s hordes hadn’t finished—possibly because it was the third of the three that had had to be cut up— Yeah.

    Rather luckily for staff relations at Taupo Shores Ecolodge Janet Barber, Jan’s invaluable part-time helper, had (a) given one her sniffs when Livia had announced bitterly that Wallace was still in Auckland, and (b) urged Jan to go: she could cope! Well, coping just at the moment meant shoving the dishes in the machine and peeling and cooking mountains of potatoes for the potato salad for lunch, but peeling spuds within an inch of their poor lives was one of Janet’s favourite jobs. There were three unbaked savoury pies, two chicken, one vegetarian, sitting in the fridge, true, but she’d assured Jan that she’d remember to put them in the oven; and not to worry about the fruit salad, she’d do it! Janet’s fruit salad most nearly resembled the tinned efforts of Mr Wattie as was possible with fresh peaches, but gee, what else did yer average EnZed ecolodger expect? She also offered to make meringues to go with it, and as her meringues were quite miraculous—funny, that: almost everything else she cooked apart from scones died immediately—Jan had accepted this offer gratefully, simultaneously preventing her mind forcibly from calculating how many eggs that would leave…

    Livia looked at Katy’s numb face and dissolved in giggles, gasping: “Hugh's got a strong hand, you see, darling!”

    “Did she say that?” croaked Jan.

    “Yes!” she gasped helplessly.

    Abruptly Jan and Katy both broke down in awful sniggers.

    “Oh, dear,” said Livia weakly, mopping her eyes on a lace-edged hanky. “But you must admit, darlings, it’s the best thing that could possibly happen to her!”

    “I’ll say,” croaked Jan.

    “Yes,” said Katy limply. “But I sort of got the impression, from what I’ve seen her wearing, um…”

    “Flashy: yes,” said Livia calmly. “But Polly and I changed her look, you see, for the big first meeting, and—well, I don’t think she’s been absolutely sticking to it, she was wearing her floral skirt when they arrived, but just a simple pink cotton-knit top with it—”

    “Scoop-necked?” asked Jan clinically.

    “I don’t think he’d mind that, if he’s normal,” admitted Katy weakly.

    “No, he doesn’t appear to mind it at all,” Livia agreed.

    “Livia—I’m sorry, I know she’s an old friend, but I have to ask this—was her bra showing?” croaked Jan.

    “Not quite. I mean, it wasn’t meant to. Of course you could see a bit of it when she bent over, but you see,” said Livia seriously, “we discussed it and agreed that with his background he probably wouldn’t approve of the modem styles.”

    “No,” they agreed numbly.

    Katy then looked warily at Jan, and found she was looking warily at her. Silence fell.

    Livia ate some cake, and sighed deeply. “Delish, Jan! Is this the sort that has cream cheese in the icing, dear?”

    She’d only had her carrot cake about five million ti— Oh, well. “That’s right,” Jan agreed mildly.

    “Mm-mm! Have some, Katy!” she urged.

    Jumping, Katy took a second piece of cake.

    “Uh—I may have this wrong,” with Bettany said Jan on a cautious note, “but did you and Polly have this confab about changing her look before she’d even met Throgmorton?”

    “Of course, dear.”

    Katy choked on her cake.

    “Right,” said Jan weakly. “Um, Livia, do we gather that she made a dead set at him? Because if so—”

    “No, darling! You’ve got it all wrong!” she cried. “She was completely overawed by him, poor soul; in fact she rang me and cried down the phone! No, he made all the running!” She beamed at them.

    A more cunning woman, reflected Jan Harper drily, would have spotted he was that sort and let him, but as she didn’t for a moment think that Bettany had either the cunning or the brains for that, she just smiled and said: “Good.”

    “Absolutely!” agreed Katy in relief.

    “Mm.” Livia took a sip of wine. “It tastes a bit sour after the lovely cake, doesn’t it? Never mind! –The other thing is always fatal. Well, look at Julia Roberts’ sister!”

    “Uh—our Julia Roberts? At the service station?” asked Jan. You never knew when Livia’s name-droppings were genuine. No, wrong word. Not genuine in the sense that she knew the ruddy celeb: she seldom did. Genuine crap that she’d picked up from her ruddy theatrical mates in Britain. Usually incorrect crap.

    “Yes, of course.”

    “I thought her sister was Lesley Turner.” –Mrs Turner was about sixteen stone, and about as florid and ebullient a personality as Mrs Roberts herself.

    “No—that’s the one that lives in Taupo. No, this was Lynette Burgess. She lives in Wairakei, now. Of course I’ve never met her, but Julia was telling me about her just the other day.”—Jan eyed her with a wild surmise: would this have been in the context of Bettany and General Throgmorton getting together?—Not noticing, Livia swept on: “She was much younger, of course, but that doesn’t count, does it? Julia said he was admittedly gorgeous, the Pierce Brosnan type, so you couldn't altogether blame her, but you see, he was from the other side of the lake—”

    “Livia,” said Jan weakly, “do you mean your side?”

    “Yes, that’s right, darling. His family owned—well, I think Julia said it’s been pulled down, now—oh, yes: that funny one that’s nearly all glass is where it used to be, I think. No, well, poor Lynette was just ordinary, like us.” She sighed. “I do so sympathise… Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night all scared thinking it never happened and I never came out to New Zealand at all and never met darling Wallace!”

    “Livia, his background’s even more ordinary than yours or mine, so stop worrying about it,” said Jan firmly, refilling her glass. “Drink it.”

    Smiling a little mistily, she drank it. “No, well, that was it, you see, dears. Threw herself at him. Oh, dear… I must say, she wasn’t the only one. Did I tell you I once had a bit-part in a play with Patrick Stewart?”

    Jan gulped. She’d been under the impression that before rising to worldwide fame in magenta and black pyjamas, he’d only acted in Shakespeare with the ruddy Royal Shakespeare Company!

    “I thought he was that science fiction man,” fumbled Katy. “Sean watches that stuff.”

    Well put, thought Jan drily. “Yeah, that’s him. Was this Shakespeare, Livia?”

    “Well, something classical, dear, yes! I had to wear a sort of draped thing,” she recalled hazily. “I didn’t have any lines, but I had to bring in a pot or something. But in spite of the bald—he lost his hair very young, you know—he was just so good-looking, I had the most tremendous crush on him. He wasn’t the leading man, far from it, but in with the In crowd, you know? Actually I think Brian Blessed was in it,” she recalled hazily.

    Jan gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth. Surely not? When had Livia left Britain?

    Livia sighed. “Well, I managed not to throw myself at him, dears, but it was a near-run thing. Only then—I think it was partly reaction—I met Jimmy Seton, and I have to admit I threw myself at him. Not an actor,” she said to their blank faces: “he was something in the City. He used to wear the most wonderful suits… He was going round with the leading lady in the telly thing I had a bit-part in, and she dumped him. I had no idea what he was worth or who his horrid family were, and— Oh, well. He brushed me off like a fly.”

    “His loss!” said Katy crossly, draining her glass.

    “No, well, thank God he did!” she admitted, laughing suddenly. “But like I say, dears, Bettany didn’t!”

    Some of those present had lost track of the supposed subject of this conversation.

    “Uh—oh! Throw herself at General Throgmorton!” said Jan, draining her glass. “No. Good!”

    Livia finished her wine. “It’s looking so good: they’re both positively glowing! –Do you think he might like to take over the permaculture place? Run it efficiently and everything?” she added brightly.

    Jan and Katy looked dubiously from her to the bottle. Uh…

    “He does want to live here, you know!” she added brightly.

    “Um, well, I s’pose he wants to be near Max and the little boy,” allowed Jan. “But aren’t they gonna be up in Auckland for the foreseeable?”

    “Yes, but he’s used to travelling a lot, and I don’t think he’d mind popping back and forth!” she said sunnily. Optimistically she picked up the bottle and up-ended it. “Oh. Blow. Never mind, there’s another one in the boat!” She rose and, tottering on the usual high wedgies, went down to the launch.

    “I can’t see it, Jan,” said Katy cautiously. “Not permaculture. Well, um, me and Dan have barely met him, he just popped in to say hullo, really, but… I mean he was, um, not just neat, um… Spruce!” she produced triumphantly,

    Jan gulped. “Goddit. Um, well, permaculture doesn’t actually have to be grubby, I suppose…”

    Livia came back with a second bottle. Beaming, she opened it. “The thing is,” she said refilling all the glasses, “he’s the sort of man who needs to keep busy. I think it’d be just the thing for him!” She directed the beam at them. “I thought I might have them over, just for a little dinner.”

    Katy swallowed hard.

    Jan picked up her glass and took a very large gulp. Then she took a very deep breath. “He probably does need something to get his teeth into, yes. Not old, is he? That may take care of the property, Livia, and give Throgmorton something to do. But it won’t take care of the children.”

    “But by that time won’t they have got their money, Jan?”

    “If Jake’s lawyer keeps putting pressure on that bitch of a grandmother, Sabrina and the kids may get half the value of the property, yes, but not until after it’s been sold. It won’t be enough for them all to live on until they’re grown up. And can you see Sabrina coping with the lot of them on her own, even at her peak? I can’t.”

    Livia frowned. “I don’t see why Hugh can’t adopt them!”

    Katy gasped and dropped her glass. “Damn!”

    “Never mind, Katy, it’s only gone on the grass. Have some more.” Livia passed her the bottle. “He likes children,” she assured them—whether truthfully or not it was impossible to tell.

    Jan drank half her glassful off blindly. “He’d need to,” she croaked.

    “Julia thinks it’d be the best solution for them, too,” she added. “—Don’t look at me like that, she’s a very warm-hearted woman, and she’s been collecting for the poor little lambs ever since it happened!”

    “Uh—yeah, we know,” said Jan limply. The well-meaning Mrs Roberts was one of the greatest gossips in Taupo! The story would be all round the town in a highly spiced and garbled version before poor Hugh Throgmorton’s car engine had barely cooled down from the trip down! Jesus!

    “He called in there specially to thank her,” added Livia on a defiant note.

    Er… Just nice upper-class English manners, or was the demented Livia in fact on the right track and Hugh Throgmorton was already taking responsibility for the permaculture nuts’ poor little kids?

    “It’s too early to tell, isn’t it?” offered Katy at last, after the only sounds for some time had been the endemic zinging of the cicadas, the plashing of tiny wavelets on the shore, and the high-pitched screaming roar of some idiot’s bloody speedboat further out on the lake.

    Livia looked smug. “Maybe.”

    Fern Gully Ecolodge’s reception desk—not an institutionalised one that isolated the receptionist from the guests, but a heavy old wooden office desk that was now glowing a soft golden-brown in all its recycled kauri glory—was spotless, and bore into the bargain a vaseful of mixed manuka foliage, New Zealand flax leaves, some just straight and sword-like, some looped in the correct florist-like fashion, and gloriously rioting tendrils of pink-flowered vine. Banana passionfruit. Maurie Thompson’s lips twitched.

    There was no-one on duty—he could have nicked that fancy laptop—so he rang the bell by the neat little notice: “Please ring.” On second thoughts he picked the notice up and took a closer look. The notice proper was stuck on a neat little block of wood. Hand-done on heavy fawnish recycled paper, and adorned with a small silver-fern shape in a subfusc green, to boot! His shoulders shook slightly as he set it carefully back in its place.

    The ecolodge looked about as over the top as what his cousin Jim had said, though if they wanted to attract the sort of overseas clients that Jim reckoned they did, it’d need to be. He looked at the tortured driftwood supports of the scattering of coffee tables, and grinned. What the Hell stopped those fancy glass tops— Jesus, were those little bubbles in the glass? He strolled over to the nearest one. What the Hell stopped the glass tops from being knocked off their ruddy hunks of driftwood?

    “Can I help you?” said a polite soprano voice from behind him.

    Maurie turned without haste. “The boot’s on the other foot, actually,” he said to the pretty blonde girl.

    His eyes began to twinkle as he took in the outfit: cream silk blouse with pockets over the tits, palest fawn slacks with a narrow tan leather belt, and the sort of crêpe-soled white shoes that you normally only saw on middle-aged ladies on the bowling green! The very blond hair was neatly tied at the neck: he couldn’t see with what from this angle, but he wasn’t taking any bets it wouldn’t be a small strip of leather. ’Cos guess what? The slender neck was adorned with a tiny strip of the same, from which depended a small irregular chunk of polished agate: streaks of grey and tan on cream. Tasteful, huh?

    “Maurie Thompson,” he added. “Jim’s cousin. Said you needed a hand.”

    Unphased, the girl replied: “Oh, good, you got here. Actually we weren’t expecting you so soon. I’m Shannon Jackson. Come on through, Maurie, and we’ll talk about your duties.”

    Cripes, that was telling him! Managing not to raise his eyebrows, Maurie ambled in her wake.

    The back regions were rather more restrained than the public area, but you couldn’t have called them utilitarian. She led him into a pleasant little office—the highly environmental shades of the reception area were toned down slightly here and the visitor’s chair was a padded thing in quite a pleasant soft grey-blue, matching the curtains. Didn’t go with Shannon Jackson’s grey-green eyes, though, he registered, looking at her with interest.

    “I presume Jim explained our situation to you?” she said briskly.

    Actually Jim’s explanation, if such it could have been called, had incorporated the  intel that an older moo was supposed to be filling in for the manager. “Well, sort of. I gathered you need someone that can do a bit of hard yacker and doesn’t mind waiting tables as well.”

    “Yes. If it suits you you’d be the porter and parking attendant during the day and help with waiting in the evening.”

    “Yeah, sure, I’m easy, if you can jack up accommodation for me.”

    Shannon had been into this. “Yes, the people at the next property, that’s Taupo Shores Ecolodge, can put you up: their loft room over the garage is free. Fern Gully will bear the costs, since you’re doing us favour.”

    Crikey. “Thanks,” he said simply.

    “They can give you breakfast, but you’ll get your other meals here. How long can you give us, Maurie?”

    “I’m free until the beginning of April. The bloke I’m replacing is retiring then.”

    “I see; that’s great,” she said, not asking what the job was. “Now, we’ll have to put it all on an official basis, of course. If you’re not employed at the moment you can put us down as your primary employer on your tax form, and you won’t be taxed at the higher rate.”

    “I see,” he said limply. How old was the girl, for God’s sake? Talk about on top of the job!

    The bumf she then produced included not only the flaming tax form but, ye gods, an employment contract incorporating umpteen clauses about indemnity, insurance and God-knew-what, and a good-sized spiral-bound booklet containing Fern Gully Ecolodge’s “Information For New Employees of Fern Gully Ecolodge, a YDI Enterprise.” Efficiently she pointed out the important sections. The assumption seemed to be that you were gonna be victimised—verbally, physically or out-and-out sexually—by their ruddy guests! Maurie goggled at her.

    “It’s just for your protection. Naturally we don’t anticipate any trouble,” she said smoothly.

    “Yeah. What if I go mad and have a go at them?”

    Smoothly she turned to the section in question. Jesus!

    “We need to cover all eventualities,” she explained.

    “Mm.” He flipped over. “In case of heart attack?”

    “Yes. If you were permanent staff we’d send you on a certified First Aid course. It's the parent company’s policy; they have been in the hospitality industry for many years.”

    “Yeah. Aren’t your guests all gonna be the healthy sort that wanna get out tramping over National Park, though?”

    “Not necessarily. Sir Maurice Bishop, the CEO at YDI’s Head Office in London, anticipates that many will be the slightly older type of ecolodge customer who require first-rate cuisine in a fully environmental atmosphere.”

    Maurie took a deep breath. “Shannon, do you actually believe all this bumf?”

    Shannon eyed him warily. True, he was Jim’s cousin, and Jim was okay, in fact both Ran and Max liked him, and Jan and Pete had loved having him at Taupo Shores… Maurie Thompson looked sort of okay in that he wasn’t dressed like a yob, and he hadn’t turned up at the ecolodge in shorts and jandals—personally she didn’t mind jandals, but Jim had evidently been wised up about Sir Maurice Bishop’s abhorrence of bare toes—lived in Pongo all his life, as Jim had put it. But while Maurie’s jeans were clean, they were definitely not new, and his very ordinary grey tee was distinctly limp. He was cleanshaven, that was a bonus, and his unremarkable brown hair with a bit of grey in it was cut very short, in the sort of conservative cut that Dad went in for. He was tall and quite broad-shouldered but he didn’t seem clumsy—clumsy waiters were apparently also a no-no in Sir Maurice’s book.

    “I think the precautions are sensible,” she said firmly.

    “Uh—yeah. But the gobbledegook?”

    “Goes with the territory.”

    “Right,” he said wryly. “Dunno why I thought the hospitality industry might be more down-to-earth than the rest of the corporate world.”

    “Nope,” said Shannon flatly.

    “Uh-huh. And if you admitted that you’re not a fan, this Sir Maurice’d give you the old heave-ho.”

    Suddenly she gave him a brilliant smile—Maurie blinked. “Yes! –I’ve just realised!” she added with a little laugh. “You’ve got the same name! Maurice!”

    Maurie’s eyes twinkled. Evidently Jim hadn't given her the full intel on what had been the hugest excitement in the extended Thompson family since Granddad’s dad had had that win on the Melbourne Cup! “Sort of. Maurice,” he said in French. “My mother’s French.”

    “Do you speak French?” she gasped.

    “Bien sûr.”

    “Thank God!” she cried. “We’ve had an email enquiry in French, and there’s nobody here that can really read it. Well, not enough to be absolutely sure; I mean, I did some at varsity, but literature’s different, isn’t it?”

    “Very. Never been on that so-called French Camp the varsity types run in Noumea during Orientation Week?”

    “Heck, no. Only the kids with rich parents can afford that sort of thing!”

    “Them and the lecturers that get paid out of the extortionate fees, presumably.”

    “Yeah; Ran—that’s my sister, she works with Jim—she reckons it’s a real scam.”

    “I’ve always thought so. Show us this French email, then.”

    Happily Shannon printed it out for him.

    Maurie raised his eyebrows slightly. “Mm. They want a booking for four—two couples—for March, starting in the first week if you can manage it, and they’d like to know what tours and other leisure services are available. Er—and when the skiing season is.”

    “Not until winter,” she said in dismay.

    “Well, exactly, but that’s just an aside: I don’t think it’ll put them off. And if this word means what I think it means, they’re very keen to see the glow-worms. Presumably whoever put that little gem on your website didn’t see that David Attenborough programme,” he added politely.

    Shannon eyed him suspiciously. “What do you mean?”

    “The one,” said Maurie drily, “where he explained that glow-worms have a season. It’s something to do with their reproductive cycle, I think.”

    “Help!”

    “Yeah. Well, if you’d like to draft a reply I’ll translate it for you.”

    “Right! Thanks! –Hang on. Do they want two double rooms, or what?”

    “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask me that, because all I can make out from this is that they want to stay in a cabin with bottles. Possibly they’re dipsomaniacs?” he said politely.

    “Nah, that’ll be a bottle cabin,” said Shannon happily. “Good, they can have that big one, just as well Max made it big enough for four, eh?”

    “Uh—yeah. Bottle cabin?”

    “Recycled, didn’t Jim say? Well, let’s get this done and your forms completed and then,”—she looked at her watch—“I’ll show you round, might as well get you orientated, eh? You did say you didn’t mind helping out in the kitchen, didn’t you?”

    This last was more or less a rhetorical question but he answered it anyway. “No, I don’t mind. Peeling, chopping, washing—anything that needs doing except actual cooking.”

    “Good. What size are you?” she asked, ball-point pen poised.

    “Eh?”

    “For your uniforms. What size are you?”

    Feebly he told her, and she wrote it down. About the only detail she didn’t ask for was his inside leg!

    “What in God’s name are these uniforms?” he croaked.

    “Just standard kitchen wear if you’re helping the chef. Cotton pants and tunic, and aprons, of course. For waiting it’s a white shirt with a cummerbund in Fern Gully’s shade of green, but you can wear your own black slacks if you’ve got any, otherwise we can supply them. We haven’t got much of a range, though, I’m not sure they’ll fit your waist measurement. But the leg length should be all right.”

    “Uh-huh. That leaves carrying bags—I presume that’s what porter means—and parking cars, by my count.”

    “Mm. If you’re working outside in summer you have to wear a sunhat, someone wised Sir Maurice up about the ultra-violet.”

    “Is that it?”

    “No, ’course not. Cream slacks like mine, it’s natural denim, and a shirt to match, with our logo on the pocket.”

    “Natural denim?” he croaked.

    “Yes.” She turned to her computer and began to type briskly.

    Maurie just sat there sagging slightly. Natural denim. That blighter Jim hadn’t told him the half of it—no, the flaming tenth! …On second thoughts, there were no flies on ruddy Jim, and he’d have deliberately held off for fear of putting him off. Whereas, thought Maurie Thompson drily, watching the absorbed Shannon, all he’d had to say was that there was a very, very pretty blonde girl on deck, and he’d have made a sale!

    … “Isn’t he nice?” beamed Gillian Prendergast later that day. “Very obliging! And very good-looking, isn’t he?” she added, her naturally sallow cheeks very pink.

    Sourly Shannon replied: “I dare say. Handsome is as handsome does. Most good-looking blokes think they’re too good to put in a hard day’s yakker.”

    “I—I wouldn’t say that, Shannon,” she stuttered, very taken aback.

    Shannon gave her a dry look. “Think about it.”

    Time had inexorably moved on, they were into late February, the weather was glorious, Fern Gully Ecolodge had triumphantly had its Grand Opening—apparently to the satisfaction of all parties—and Hugh Throgmorton was installed at Taupo Organic Produce. Inexorably, too, it was felt by some.

    Alex’s first reaction to the idea of having General Throgmorton wished on them had been, frankly, relief. He was snowed under. The publishers had started nagging him about getting his stuff in, but with the incessant demand for flaming organic tomatoes, and all the packing that needed to be done with the crops going mad in the late summer weather, and Sean having apparently spun the Auckland retailers a real line about organic blackberries and similar crap— There was even one inquiry for “baby”, unquote, chokos! Fortunately the things’ fruiting season wasn’t until May-June—they were a winter vegetable—but good grief! At one point he’d got interested in the plant and done a bit of research, and he now knew that the ruddy things, in addition to more than bulking out Tim’s compost—they went mad, as that thing rampaging along the hedge to the side of Taupo Shores Ecolodge’s main building more than demonstrated—were called “chayote” in possibly more civilised climes than Australasia, and not only the plump, pale green fruits, technically gourds—Cucurbitaceae—were eaten as a vegetable, but also the tender leaves and shoots, particularly in Asian cuisine, which these days of course went over big with the trendies. Something that he wasn’t gonna let on to Big-Mouth Sean if his life depended on it! No, well, the kid had done good, but really! Chokos, yet? Ninety-nine point nine repeating percent of New Zealand loathed the things, considering them tasteless and slimy, not necessarily in that order. Alex himself found them delightfully delicate in taste, but he wasn’t gonna mention that, either.

    Now that Hugh was actually here and had taken charge, the initial relief had worn off a bit, and Alex found himself wishing more and more that the bloke wasn’t such a ruddy go-getter. Not to say, that there was someone else around apart from him and Bettany to slow him down! Poor old Tim couldn’t cope with him at all. Well, he seemed to like him, strangely enough, but no way was he capable of putting the brakes on him.

    It wasn’t that Hugh thought their feeble selves should be doing more than they already were. No, if anything it was the reverse. “Cutting out the nonsense” was what he called it. Cutting out the crap, to lesser mortals—right. Unfortunately Shannon, on the rare occasions on which she managed to pay them a flying visit, seemed to agree with everything the man said. Even Jan had said firmly to his feeble plaint: “Good: the less you load yourselves up with, the better.” And Pete, on hearing about the baby spinach débâcle—the General having ordered them firmly to stop all baby spinach operations ASAP, words very much to that effect—had said: “Good, let the bloody stuff grow, ya might get a decent vege out of it.”

    Of course Hugh was doing the thing properly, and he’d bought a pile of gardening books in Taupo—what was available, which didn’t include anything on permaculture, but Terry had had a few tomes that he’d gone through like a streak of greased lightning—and he’d ordered more via the Internet, and found all the relevant sites on said Internet and etcetera. Not to mention getting an electrician in to check and replace the house’s wiring and install more power points and lights, with better light bulbs in all the rooms, apparently in order to be able to read the aforesaid in the evenings without risking his eyesight. Well, Alex was quite grateful to have better lighting in his so-called studio, that was now actually being called that instead of the dining-room by everybody, even the kids… Oh, well. But it was like living with a strong wind in the house!

    “Yes, I’d have said he was that sort,” agreed Katy Jackson mildly. Alex and Hugh had driven over to their place this evening, the latter in order to consult Dan about something to do with drainage and the pipes thereto, and gas reticulation and its pipes and—whatever: efficient stuff; and Alex ostensibly because someone at his publishers had found a pic of Katy’s wall hangings on Fern Gully’s website and was very keen to order something similar from her. Which he could have told her over the phone—yeah. Actually because he was desperate for a sympathetic ear.

    “Grab this,” she added.

    Alex grabbed a length of hessian and watched with interest as she dunked its nether end into a vat of bluish murk. “This isn’t more of Pete’s sacks, is it?”

    “No: commercial stuff. I’m just trying out ideas.”

    “Uh-huh.”

    The hessian having being dunked and hung up to Katy’s satisfaction she noted in her usual mild manner: “Shannon’s a bit the same sort.”

    “Uh—oh! Strong wind in the house, Katy? Yes, absolutely,” he agreed.

    “Dan saw that Maurie guy down at the dairy the other day: he said more or less the same thing, only he thinks it’s funny,” she noted.

    “Yeah? He’s a better man than I am, Gungha Din, but I knew that,” said Alex without thinking.

    “So is he a botanist, not a kiwi-egg man?”

    This arcane utterance was not received with either a blank silence or a mad shaking of the head as of one with water in the ear: most of New Zealand was aware that the kiwi-egg types lurked at Turangi. At the DOC: Department of Conservation to youse. That was largely what they conserved: kiwi eggs. Presumably creeping out into the bush to liberate them from under their unsuspecting mums, poor little creatures. Alex’s feeling was that the birds were put upon quite enough without that: the female kiwi’s egg was enormous in proportion to its size, in fact the largest egg proportionately of any known bird. The DOC types were also nominally responsible for other types of conservation and environmental issues in general, and some of them were rumoured to be monitoring the volcanic activity of the mountains of National Park.

    “Uh—no: volcanologist, Katy,” he replied weakly. “Quite well known in his field. Um, the job he’s due to take up down at Turangi’s a pretty senior position, I believe.”

    “Does Shannon know?” replied Shannon’s mother simply.

    “I don’t know, Katy, but my feeling is that wouldn’t stop her ordering him around in any case.”

    “No,” agreed Katy with a sigh. “—I could come over tomorrow if you need a bit of help, Alex. I think I’ll leave this stuff for a bit: I need to, um, Dan calls it letting it simmer.”

    “Well, yes, thanks very much, Katy: all contributions welcome,” replied Alex, smiling at her. “What do you fancy? Personing the stall, nipping off zucchini with a little knife and laying them in their precise position in the prescribed boxes, or very carefully picking fully organic blackberries, choosing only the best-shaped and completely unblemished—”

    “Shut up!” she gurgled, collapsing in giggles. “Um, well, I’m not very good with money. I mean, it isn’t all set quantities, is it? I mean, would I have to weigh them and tell them how much it is?”

    “Not any more: Hugh has efficiently got us bagging the tomatoes and etcetera—mainly capsicums and eggplants—first thing, and he’s made the cucumbers and the few melons that don’t go to Auckland fixed price each, no halves allowed. Likewise the bunches of herbs. And there’s a fair amount of stone fruit, but he's done even better with that: no loose fruit allowed, after he monitored the stall in person for two terrible days together and found that the local moos squeeze the stuff: boxed.”

    “Boxed?” She brightened. “Oh: you mean like in those narrow wooden crates? I haven’t seen those since—”

    “Since Adam was a lad,” interrupted Alex smoothly. “No. Couldn’t think of the right word, sorry. Cartoned? Smallish cardboard containers, um, think I’ve seen takeaway food in something similar, cunningly covered in Gladwrap. You squeeze, you buy.”

    “Set price too?”

    “Yep.”

    “I see. Um, I’m no good at Gladwrap,” Katy confessed uneasily. “It hates me.”

    “Me, too!” said Alex with feeling. “Luckily Bettany doesn’t seem to mind coping with the bloody stuff—and actually,” he revealed with a grin, “Sabrina’s perked up like anything since Hugh arrived, and she’s been doing most of the wrapping!”

    “That’s good,” she said placidly. “What about adding them up, though? I mean, if they buy more than one thing.”

    Alex looked wry. ‘Hugh and Sir Jake between them have instituted a flash new cash register that not only does all the adding for you, it tells you the right change if the nice middle-class organic produce buyer hands you a bloody fifty-dollar note for three dollars-fifty worth of produce.” He looked at her expression. “If I can work it, anyone can, I promise you. And if you’d like to do it, I’ll show you how to work it myself, don’t worry.”

    ‘Thanks. Um, but I’m not much good at machines. I set the oven all wrong the other day and it didn’t come on and Dan was wild, he was starving and there was nothing to eat.”

    Alex had to swallow. “Didn’t know ovens could go that wrong.”

    “It’s a modern one,” Katy revealed glumly. “Dan got it about, um, was it two years back? Something like that. He said to ignore the timer, so I’ve never used it. But I must have done something to it accidentally.”

    “You mean this modern bloody oven has got a flaming timer that doesn’t just ping or something when the roast oughta be cooked, it tells the bloody thing when to turn itself on?” croaked Alex in horror.

    “Yes. That’s why Dan was wild.”

    “God preserve me from modem technology!” he said with feeling.

    “Mm. Well, Dan said that, too, after he’d calmed down and had a whisky.”

    “Yeah,” he said limply. “Did he? Good. –Jesus, I suppose next thing Hugh’ll be installing one of them in our kitchen!”

    “Mm. Jan says that’s what modern ovens are,” Katy revealed sadly. “Only if you nip down to the shops quickly old Steve Garber might have an older model. Jan said he doesn’t move with the times, he moves half a decade behind the times.”

    “Uh—yeah—does he? Good on ’im. Um, but who is he, Katy?” he fumbled.

    “Steve Garber. He owns Taupo Hardware & Electrical.”

    “Got it,” he said grinning. “Um… say I tell Hugh there’s a rumour of a nice older-model but very efficient stove going at really good price…”

    “That’d do it,” agreed Katy with her usual placidity.

    Alex bit his lip. “Mm. Oh, dear! One swears that one’ll never turn into a manipulative schemer, but honestly, some people just drive you to it, don’t they?”

    “Yes,” she agreed succinctly.

    With an heroic effort Alex managed not to mention her youngest daughter in that connection. “Organic blackberries, then, Katy?” he suggested nicely.

    “I’d love to, actually!” she beamed.

    Right. Organic blackberries it’d be. And too bad if she started thinking about her art and lost concentration and put a few misshapen or discoloured ones in with them! Shit, it’d prove they were genuine organic, wouldn’t it?

    Tim leaned on the gate of the cow paddock. “They’re both at it,” he revealed glumly.

    “Yeah,” Pete agreed. “Well, both efficient types, eh? You’d expect them to be on the same wavelength.” –Jake had come down again and he and Hugh Throgmorton were apparently getting on like a house on fire. In fact Jake was rumoured to have shaken his hand over the ruddy baby spinach do. Not that Pete didn’t feel the same about that!

    Tim sighed. “Yes… I can see it’s sensible, of course… But it won’t be true permaculture.”

    Well, hoo-ruddy-ray! “No, well, if Hugh makes the place at least pay its way and pays you a decent wage, so much the better,” replied Pete firmly.

    “I suppose… At least he understands about companion planting and rotating your crops.”

    “Well, there you are, then,” said Pete kindly. “Done anything about them ruddy ducks, yet, has he?” he added less kindly.

    “Um, what? No-o… The ducks are all right,” replied Tim blankly.

    All right as in wandering around all over the place shitting as they went, not to mention paddling off to Turangi whenever they felt like it: he’d picked the younger kids up from school just the other day—well, he’d been over that way anyway, the Rawiti boys had mentioned a nice piece of rimu that a cousin of theirs had had going begging—and Bryce reckoned they’d lost two more. It woulda been three, only Jan had spotted him eyeing the one that had wandered over to their place and plonked itself down on the lawn near where the Taupo Shores Tallulah was moored, and put the kybosh on that great idea.

    “They need to be in a run, they’re bloody domestic ducks,” he said heavily.

    “But they like the lake,” replied Tim wanly.

    Pete sighed. “Yeah. Then at least clip their ruddy wings: that one that was over our place again the other day—” He broke off.

    “What?”

    “The bloody thing flew away before I could grab it and bring it back to ya!” replied Pete with some feeling, omitting the rest of the story. “Added to which, Sean’s girlfriend’s got ducks and he was saying she’s gonna bring them down, and what’s the betting half of your lot’ll join up with hers and you’ll never be able to sort out which is which?”

    “Is she coming down?” replied Tim vaguely.

    Pete sighed. “Apparently.”

    “She sounds nice,” he said vaguely.

    Yes, she sounded very nice, but none of this was the point, was it? “Look, what are Jake and Hugh up to?” he demanded baldly.

    “I’m not sure, Pete. Um, Shannon’s in there, too.”

    Yeah, well, she was as horribly efficient as the two of them put together, that was true. Fern Gully’s ruddy Grand Opening evidently had not only been a tremendous success, but the famous Sir Maurice had thanked and congratulated Shannon, wrung her hand, and agreed without a murmur that YDI would (a) fund an expensive Pommy hospitality course that apparently she could do on the flaming computer—Pete wasn’t asking how—and (b) appoint her as temporary manager until she’d done it, and into the bargain (c) then appoint her as manager. The kid had got it all in writing, what was more. Max had given them a vivid description of that encounter, grinning all over his face, and Jan and Pete had duly been reduced to hysterics. Only, as Jan had said afterwards, good on the kid, but imagine having to live with her!

    “Right,” Pete acknowledged drily. “But didn’t they give you any idea of what they might be planning, mate?”

    “Hugh did say that Sabrina might like to buy a nice little flat,” said Tim vaguely.

    With what? Pete goggled at him.

    “Um, well, I think he meant after he buys Terry’s mother out, Pete,” he admitted.

    Eh? “Look, that’d mean the cow’d get all the dough!”

    “Um, well, that’s what he said… Mirabelle’s got her head stuck again!” He hurried off to rescue the flaming stupid Jersey that if it was the one Pete thought it was, was capable of shoving her bloody head into anything you cared to name and getting it stuck. Including this here wooden gate, on one glorious occasion, which explained why the said gate now had a giant piece sawn out of it. Tim had just about had kittens at the sight of Pete’s chainsaw so near to the precious Whatsername’s face, but if your ruddy cow went and stuck her stupid head through a gate—!

    “Shut up about the flaming cow, Pete,” sighed his helpmeet some little time later. “We’ve heard it all before.”

    “Several times!” agreed Livia with a loud giggle.

    Pete eyed the two empty glasses on the ecolodge’s kitchen table suspiciously, but as Ma Barber came back in from collecting the used morning-tea things from the guests’ lounge, refrained. Janet Barber wasn’t actually a teetotaller, in that she'd been known to take a gaspingly sweet EnZed sherry or two round about Christmas, but as near to one as Pete ever wanted to meet. Added to which she was the sort that disapproved of every form of human enjoyment on principle. True, she was completely reliable: that was, she worked the hours she and Jan had agreed on, and did the stuff she was asked to do without complaining, but this reliability didn't include waiting in the restaurant in the evenings, when they were busiest or, indeed, waiting at all, unless maybe there were only one or two couples in at dead of winter.

    “No, well, that was about as clear as it got,” he explained sourly.

    Before anyone else could speak Janet noted, looking down that nose of hers: “I don’t suppose Tim would have understood half of it if Sir Jake and General Throgmorton had told him their plans.”

    No-one pointed out that in the by and by Tim had actually run a company and in fact was bloody bright, it was pointless arguing with Janet.

    “Added to which,” noted Livia, “he wouldn’t have tried to understand, because his traumatic life has left him emotionally drained, poor man.”

    Janet gave one of her sniffs.

    “Uh, yeah, pretty much, Livia,” agreed Jan feebly. “Just bung that lot in the dishwasher, would you, Janet?”

    “Of course,” she replied, looking down the nose again.

    “So Jake didn’t drop a hint, Pete, dear?” pursued Livia.

    “Eh? Uh—no. Not to me.”

    “We’ll just have to wait until he comes back,” said Jan heavily.

    “Exactly!” Janet agreed, straightening from the dishwasher, though the remark hadn’t been addressed to her.

    “Yeah. –Aw, yeah,” Pete remembered: “Tim said that Shannon’s over there, too.”

    “Good!” said Livia brightly. “I’m sure she’ll be able to keep their feet on the ground, if they get carried away with their big corporate whatsits!”

    Pete meet his helpmeet’s eye. “Uh—yeah,” he conceded feebly. “You’re not wrong there, Livia. I’d say she had more common than the two of ’em put together.”

    Janet sniffed again—though quite mildly, for her. “Exactly, Pete. They’re all the same, aren’t they? –Now, Jan, dear, shall I beat those eggs for the quiches for lunch?”

    Jan was seen to blench. The word “beat” was only too apposite when it came to Janet and eggs. Beat them into submission, the end result being concrete quiche. Or, indeed, omelette, on one ghastly occasion. “Uh—no, thanks all the same, Janet. It’s a wee bit early for that. But you could slice the zucchinis, if you like: yours always turn out much neater than mine.”

    Bridling slightly, Janet replied smugly: “It takes concentration and a steady wrist, Jan, dear. –I’ll wash them first, of course!”

    Beautiful sun-ripened organic zucchini? That Tim in person had given Pete less than half an hour since. “Mm, good,” agreed Jan. “By the way, Pete, I don’t suppose you managed to force cash dough on Tim for them, did y— No. Right,” she acknowledged heavily.

    “Bent ones that them ponces in the fancy shops up in Auckland won’t take,” Pete explained.

    “It’s not the greengrocers, Pete,” said Jan for the Nth time, swallowing a sigh, “it’s their bloody lady clients.”

    “But they’re not bent at all!” cried Livia, very puzzled.

    From the bench Janet gave a titter. She turned round, holding one up. “Not to you and me, Mrs Briggs!”

    “About as bent as your average modern banana,” explained Jan heavily.

    “Good heavens!” cried Livia. “Is that all?”

    “Yeah,” Jan agreed drily. “Apparently they’re just as picky over their flaming skinny eggplants—um, you might know them as aubergines, Livia.”

    ‘Shall I get the book, Jan?” she offered eagerly.

    Livia was not a cook. Talking of concrete eggs. She had, however, latched onto the fact that Jan was very fond of Jane Grigson’s Vegetable Book, and had become, to use her own expression, quite intrigued by it: goodness, the things the clever author had found out!

    “Uh—well, why not? If they’re on form the permaculture eggplants will have gone mad again: they won’t all be those skinny ones the same size and shape as the flaming zucchinis that the lady customers want, might as well see what ideas— Um, thanks, Livia,” she ended feebly as Livia had triumphantly retrieved the volume.

    Peace reigned in Taupo Shores Ecolodge’s spacious kitchen. Janet prepared vegetables industriously, Jan pored over Jane Grigson, reporting occasionally to Livia as she did so, Livia uttered the occasional little admiring trill or gasp, and Pete, since none of these here females were offering, got up and made himself a cuppa.

    Well, he reflected, sitting down heavily to drink it, they’d know soon enough what the great corporate plan for the redevelopment, refurbishing and just complete re- of the permaculture nuts’ place and the permaculture nuts’ poor little kids was, and meantime they could only hope to God that that Shannon kid did have the sense to put the brakes on that pair of gung-ho nongs!

    “What?” said Jan, looking up from an absorbing passage on the history of broccoli in English cuisine, the aubergines having given place insensibly to further fascinating vegetable morsels.

    “Eh?” he replied blankly.

    “You said ‘re’.”

    “Yes, you did, Pete dear!” confirmed Livia with a giggle.

    “Re-something?” offered Janet, industriously peeling five million spuds for potato salad what Pete had been under the impression there was gallons of in the fridge already.

    “Uh—oh,” he said sheepishly. “Well, re-everything, really, Janet. –Jake and Hugh. Re-doing the permaculture nuts’ place and then some,” he explained.

    Janet sniffed, but nodded.

    “I tell you what, Pete, dear: we could nip over there before lunch!” said Livia brightly.

    “Horse’s mouth, eh, Livia?” he replied, trying to smile. “Uh—no, ta, on the whole. Think I’ll wait and see what Jake has to say. In case,” he said heavily to her puzzled face, “I have to put me foot down with the corporate ning-nong, geddit?”

    “Oh! Yes, of course, Pete, dear!” she beamed.

    “Good on ya, Pete,” said his helpmeet weakly.

    “Absolutely!” agreed Janet with fervour.

    Pete jumped, and smiled feebly. “Yeah. Right. Well, fingers crossed they’ve sorted out something sensible, but— Yeah.”

Next chapter:

https://theecolodgesbythelake-anovel.blogspot.com/2021/10/something-sensible.html