Tsunami

9

Tsunami

    “In breaking news: a tsunami has just hit the western coast of Indonesia and some coastal areas of Thailand and Sri Lanka—”

    “Oh, my land!” cried Sylvia Silverstone loudly. “Mary Lou and Fred Baines are over there! I told them not to go to an awful, smelly, hot place like that!” She burst into noisy tears of shock.

    Under cover of the hubbub as Goldie and various other middle-aged moos with their heads more or less screwed on got up to administer comfort and other remedies, Pete croaked: “Shit, bloody Terry’s in Thailand!”

    He and Jan looked at each other numbly.

    After a moment she blinked and said in a low voice: “Pete, I think Max’s father lives in Sri Lanka. On—on the coast.”

    “Fuck,” he concluded numbly.

    “My cell phone does not seem to be working,” said one of the scrawny, tanned gay Swedes carefully in his almost-perfect American English.

    Pete scratched his head. “Uh—no, well, I think everyone’s trying to phone their relations at once. The whole of the New Zealand phone system’s probably overloaded, um, Per.”

    “I y’am Sven,” he corrected him wanly.

    “Sorry. Sven. You better give it a day to settle d—”

    “I think you do not understand, Pete. Thailand is a popular holiday venue, especially at Christmas time, for many Swedes.”

    Pete looked at him numbly.

    “My parents and sisters have all went there this year.”

    “Oh, Jesus! Look, I’m Helluva sorry, Sven. Come on into the office,” he said, taking his arm. Jesus, the poor little fellow was shaking! He led him in, sat him down and poured him a belt of the Black Label that Wal had brought over yesterday as well as the champagne—just as well, that single malt of Jake’s had vanished like the morning dew. He shuddered but got it down him.

    “We better ring the Swedish embassy, okay?” said Pete, consulting the phone book. Blast! What the fuck would it be under?

    “I have the number here,” he said faintly.

    Right. Well, they were efficient, the Scandawegians, weren’t they? He dialled very, very carefully, making sure he got the right area code for Wellington and wasn’t gonna be ringing Japan again, but the answer was a lemon. Sven tried: same result.

    “Yeah, the phones are overloaded. Have another belt,” said Pete kindly.

    “But I shall get blotto.”

    Uh—yeah. Must’ve picked that one up off a Pommy tourist. An elderly Pommy tourist. “Right. Blotto, stinko, pissed, kaylied, four sheets in the wind—very drunk. That’s the idea, Sven.” He refilled his glass. “Bottoms up!”

    “Er—Oh! It’s a torst! I see. Bottoms up.” He drank.

    “I’d join you in it but Jan’ll need me. That permaculture nut from next-door, he’s out there, too,” said Pete glumly.

    “The horrid man with all the little children from the concubines? I y’am very sorry to hear it, Pete.”

    “Yeah. Well, he’d be no loss: but he’s the backbone of the bloody place. Um, holds it all together, Sven. Um, manages it?”

    “I y’onderstand,” he said drunkenly. “Bottoms up!”

   “Max has given it away for today: him and Moyra have gone off with Mum to see a man she knows who does wood-turning,” reported Ran. “He can’t get any sense out of anybody. Not the bloody British High Commission, not the Sri Lankans—the accents don’t help, I’m not being racist but you’d think the least they could do would be put someone on the phones that speaks reasonable English—and not even the flaming Foreign and Commonwealth Office.”

    “So he has managed to get through to England?” replied Pete.

    “Twice, yes.”

    “Uh-huh. So is his dad on the part of the coast that was hit, Ran?”

    “That’s one of the things he was trying to find out from the bloody Sri Lankans!”

    “Right. Well, I suppose they’re completely at sixes and sevens. It is only a small country. Um, how’s Moyra?” he asked cautiously.

    “Bearing up better than Max is, really,” admitted Ran with a sigh. “She is upset, but after all she divorced the man over twenty-five years ago.”

    “Uh-huh. Um, what about his family in England? They done anything?”

    Ran shrugged. “His Uncle David’s rung the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, end of story.”

    “Can’t he use a bit of influence? Thought they were rich or something? Don’t they own a giant country house?”

    “It’s a small Adam manor in their terms, Pete,” said Ran drily. “The thing is, David Throgmorton’s really, really wet. Well, been sat on by his horrible father all his life, it’s not surprising. Tommy, Max’s father, rebelled and rushed off madly in all directions, but the old bastard pretty much ruined the both of them. And his Uncle Hugh, the one that’s a retired general, is so stiff-upper-lip that I couldn’t tell ya what he might be like underneath.”

    “Cripes. He managed to do anything?”

    “Max hasn’t got through to him but David reckoned he was throwing himself into the relief effort. Which is why his phone is always engaged,” she added drily.

    “Got it: that sort. Rather than throwing himself into finding his brother.”

    “Yeah,” she said sourly.

    Pete sighed. “Wish I could suggest something helpful, lovey.”

    “No!” said Ran with a startled laugh. “I mean, I just came over for a bit of a change, Pete, and to see if I can do anything.”

    Pete eyed her drily. “They’re all rallying round, ya know.”

    “Help, is it that bad?”

    Pete’s shoulders shook in spite of it all. “Pretty much, yeah. Well, Goldie Doole from Evanston, Illinois, is cooking up a storm in the kitchen—blueberry pancakes for breakfast are the least of it—with the help, not to say competition, of Marion Sexton from Wellington, EnZed, Susan Hartshorne from Christchurch, South Island, EnZed—that’s a whole demarcation dispute in itself—and Jill Gifford from Auckland, who’s almost normal in comparison, barring a certain obsession with bran.”

    “Help!” said Ran with a laugh.

    “Yeah.”

    “So is Jan over with the permaculture nuts?”

    “Yeah—well, preferable alternative to having them over here when we’re full up, eh? Sabrina’s gone completely to pieces. Just bawls and bawls.”

    “Pete, you can’t blame her, I suppose he is her—well, they’ve been together for twenty years,” she ended feebly.

    “Yeah. In her shoes I’d be cheering—but, yeah. Then there’s the Babette situation: by rights she shouldn’t be there at all.”

    “Eh?”

    Looking wry, Pete explained the Babette situation.

    “Help!”

    “Yeah, well, that one’s about to be resolved. Yours truly finally got her parents’ names and address out of her, and I rung them yesterday and by standing over the girl bodily got her to apologise and grovel to the bastards. It did seem to be all they were waiting for, so they’re taking her back into the fold. Coming over this arvo, actually.” He got a look at Ran’s expression. “Don’t look like that, lovey. They are her family, after all. And those three kids are their bloody grandkids. It’s not entirely their fault: they offered to have her back after Holmgren was born but the silly little bitch turned them down.”

    “I see. Um, but Pete, if Terry’s dead…” said Ran slowly.

    Pete sighed. “Don’t. I’ve already had that one from Goldie Doole, ta. –Not an insult, she’s got a very logical mind!” he said quickly. “Terry was the only one with any nous, see? The two younger jokers have pushed off, by the by. Took one look at Sabrina bawling and Babette looking helpless and slung their hooks, I gather.” He shrugged. “Par for the course. If ya can count, that leaves Tim, and he can’t push. Or won’t: he’s got a rooted objection to imposing his will on anyone, however much they need it. Think that’s not uncommon with Quakers. He wouldn’t even make Babette tell him her parents’ name and address once she started digging her toes in. And he’s not a manager, pet. He just loves the gardening. Can’t see him running the joint on a commercial basis. And don’t say I’m ruling Sabrina out because she’s a woman.”

    “Aren’t you?”

    “No, I’m ruling her out because she’s got scrambled egg between the ears.”

    Ran bit her lip. “Mm.”

    “Uh—well, lessee. Our guests are all a bit shell-shocked, but the four young ones from Wellington with the safari boots don’t know anyone that was affected, thank God, nor the two kids from Australia. –It took him seventeen goes to get through to his brother over there, by the way, but turns out his footy club decided not to go to Thailand this Christmas after all. Or Bali: one of them had a relative in a footy club that bought it in the Bali bombing. So they’re in Vanuatu. –That was known as the Hell-hole of the Pacific, when I was young: right up there with Guadalcanal, it was. That’s in the Solomons,” he added drily. “Bit further north but the climate’s just as horrible. The lowest annual rainfall in them places’d be about a hundred inches a year: wetter than north Queensland. Still, better than being drowned in a fucking tsunami, eh?”

    “You’re burbling, Pete,” warned Ran calmly.

    “Eh? Aw. Sorry. Um—yeah. The older Australian couple, the genuine ecolodgers, they’ve pushed off to National Park—I did tell ’em Vern Reilly could take them on his tour, but they wanted to see the place for themselves. And the two Canadian dykes have gone off into the untamed wilderness in their safari boots with their thermoses and a decent map, plus a compass and two mobile phones with our number in ’em, but there’s two from the bunkhouse that want to go on a guided bush walk, and the four from the house. Um, six altogether, Ran,” he said as she was looking puzzled. “Though young Per might go, too; his mate Sven’s taken one of Sylvia Silverstone’s Valiums, so he’s out of it.”

    “It said on the TV that a lot of Swedes go to Thailand at Christmas,” said Ran in a small voice.

    Pete sighed. “Yeah. Sven’s whole family’s out there: parents, two sisters and their hubbies, and one of the sister’s two kids. We got through to the embassy and they’ve been really good, but there’s no news, as yet. –Shit, don’t bawl, lovey!”

    Ran blew her nose hard. “I’m not. I’ll take them on the ten-mile track, Pete, if you like.”

    “Ta, Ran,” he said gratefully.

    He saw them off: the visitors all wearing safari boots and serious sun visors or peaked caps, clutching litre bottles of spring water, with their packed lunches in their backpacks, and Ran just in her tee-shirt, jeans and sneakers, carrying a plastic supermarket bag containing an orange, a couple of sandwiches, a small bottle of water and the first-aid kit, and mooched back to the main building smiling a little in spite of it all.

    He hadn’t told young Ran the rest of it; not a need-to-know. One of Wal Briggs’s sons, not the eldest, but the one that was an accountant and had just built himself a giant mansion up at Carter’s Inlet with a view of the inlet and a three-car garage, while the cabin-cruiser was being parked at a marina slot at nearby Kingfisher Bay for a yearly charge of an average New Zealand family’s annual income—that one—he was over in Thailand, too, with the second wife and, alas, the two boys from the first marriage. Wal was going frantic, he’d been completely unable to get any news whatsoever. Jake Carrano had apparently thrown the might of the Carrano Group into the fray but even they couldn’t do anything in the face of the complete shambles in Thailand and the complete inability of all large international aid organisations to pull their fingers out and coordinate information. Words to that effect: Jake was really, really ropeable. Well, he had known Wal all their lives, of course: they’d grown up in the same orphanage…

    “Eh?” he said, jumping. “Morning tea?” Shit, was it that time already? “Well, that’s very kind, um—”

    “Susan,” Mrs Hartshorne reminded him. “Goldie’s made some lovely chocolate brownies, and Marion’s done a batch of scones, and Jill’s made some bran muffins!” She beamed innocently at him.

    “Yeah,” said Pete weakly. “Sounds good. Well, better have one of each, eh?”

    “Right,” he said firmly, hoisting Holmgren up bodily. “Got your truck, eh?”

    “TRUCK!” he shouted.

    “Yeah.” Jan had given him a good wash before Babette’s parents arrived—just as well, the pair of them looked sort of spring-cleaned—so Pete kissed his rosy brown cheek. You could say this for Terry’s kids, at least they got enough fresh air. “Now, you and Mum and Harmony and Wilhelm are gonna go for a lovely ride in a car, okey-dokey?”

    “CAR!”

    Exactly. It looked spring-cleaned, too. A newish model, so they weren’t short of a few bob—just as well.

    “I’m in my seat,” said the pious Harmony smugly.

    “Right.” Pete put Holmgren in the battered, old-fashioned child-restraint beside her and the red-eyed Babette and did its belt up really tightly.

    “Now listen, Babette: don’t you loosen them seatbelts for anything, okay?”

    Mr Brown—there were a fair few of them in Hastings—looked huffy. “I’m afraid there wasn’t time to get new child restraints, but some members of our church very kindly provided that one and the carrycot for William. Naturally we’ll buy them both new child restraints, suited to their age and size, as soon as possible.”

    “Wilhelm,” corrected Babette faintly.

    “William while he’s living in our house, Barbara,” replied her father firmly.

    Pete didn’t wince, he was past that. He just closed the door on her and the kids, shook hands with the spring-cleaned Mr Brown and waved them off.

    “Spring-cleaned,” he said glumly to Tim, who had just been standing by all the while looking glum. Glum and raggy, he didn’t own many clothes.

    “I’d have said anal,” he replied glumly.

    Pete blinked. “Uh, well, yeah, to get clinical!”

    “But spring-cleaned puts it very well,” he added sourly.

    Pete took a deep breath. “Tim, matey, were you gonna shoulder the economic, not to say emotional responsibility for the four of them for the rest of their lives?”

    Tim’s big, bony hands shook a little. “No,” he said in a very low voice. “Could I—could I speak to you, Pete?”

    Oh, boy, now what? “Sure,” said Pete easily. “You wanna come up the back where the Lord High Everything Else won’t hear us?”

    Tim smiled feebly. “My mum and dad were mad on Gilbert and Sullivan.”

    “Likewise,” admitted Pete. “Fair bit of it about in them days. These days it’s all leopard-spotted tights and silly masks on sticks, far’s I can gather. And really horrible smarmy tunes.”

    “I suppose your friend Sir Jake Carrano goes to all those shows.”

    “Eh? No! Real jazz and classical music! Gets over to Sydney any time they have a decent opera at the opera house, takes Polly to Glyndebourne and some place in Sweden every other year.”

    “Drottningholm,” he said dully.

    Right, that placed him neatly, didn’t it? They seemed to be heading for the permaculture nuts’ cow paddock: Pete just ambled along beside him, not saying anything.

    “I like cows,” said Tim as they got there. “But Terry decided they were to be Sabrina’s job…”

    “Uh-huh.”

    Tim leaned on the gate. “I’ve been in prison,” he said abruptly.

    “Uh-huh,” returned Pete neutrally.

    “I— Nothing very terrible,” said Tim, staring blankly at the grazing Jerseys. “I was a company director. Just a small concern. We did a lot of business with BrierleyCorp.” He swallowed.

    Ouch. “Went under when they did, didja?”

    “Yes. I—I let my accountant talk me into… It was stupid, bloody stupid. I knew it was illegal and bloody risky, but it would’ve got us back into the black and— Never mind,” he said tiredly, passing his hand across his long, narrow, meek face. “The judge threw the book at me. I’d gone bankrupt: God knows how those people who put their assets in the wife’s name manage it: I certainly didn’t.”

    “I think they manage it because they’re gazetted crooks, Tim, and you were just weak,” said Pete.

    “You’re right,” he said, sighing. “I suppose if I’d been able to afford a decent lawyer it might just have been a giant fine with some sort of arrangement to pay it— Anyway.”

    After a moment Pete said: “Did Terry know?”

    “Yes.”

    Light began to dawn. “Has the sod been blackmailing you?”

    Tim tried to smile. “Not that, no. He—he just made it very clear that he’d take me on on the basis of working for my keep and that I’d have no responsibility or stake in the enterprise and certainly no—no financial responsibility.”

    Pete sniffed. “Close enough.”

    “Not really,” he said wanly. “I didn’t want responsibility. I’ve been content enough. But I wish I could have looked after the cows… Um, Jan mentioned that Sir Jake Carrano is—is coming down.”

    “Yeah; he was due today but he’s been chewing various high-up’s ears over this tsunami stuff. Um, why?”

    “I—I’ve met him, in another life. I’d rather not see him…”

    Uh—there had been occasions on which Jake had sailed ruddy close to the wind, but not since he’d met Polly. And Pete with his own ears had heard him say that BrierleyCorp were riding for a fall ages before the news broke.

    “Um, six months before it happened—not the BrierleyCorp crash, I don’t mean: before my accountant even suggested the idea—he offered to buy us outright. It was a reasonable offer but not a good one, if you took the books at face value.”

    “Jake’s never taken a book at face value in ’is life!” he gasped. “Nor anything else, neither!”

    “No, apparently not,” said Tim with a grimace. “Anyway, he set up a meeting and I stupidly turned him down, so he told me to my face that anyone who put all their eggs in BrierleyCorp’s basket was riding for a fall.”

    Pete gulped.

    “I took it as some sort of—of pathetic ploy to get me to sell after all,” said Tim limply. He looked at Pete’s expression. “Don’t say it. It was something like two years after that—when I had plenty of time to think,” he noted wryly, “that it dawned that he’d never have stuck his neck out and said something like that, that could really have affected the financial markets, unless he’d meant it.”

    “Yeah. Well, he might not remember, but anyway, you can steer clear of him, easy enough,” said Pete kindly.

    Tim licked his lips. “Jan said he’d like to look over the property.”

    “He likes to know what makes things tick, that’s all,” said Pete kindly. “Terry’d never let people see over the place.”

    “’Satiable curiosity,” he agreed, nodding.

    That was exactly what Polly said about Jake. What with that and the Swedish classical music stuff—well, poor old Tim! “Don’t worry, I’ll put him off.”

    “Thanks, Pete.”

    They stared peacefully at the cows for some time. Then Pete cleared his throat and said: “Look, it may be premature, but if Terry and those two women were staying where he said he was gonna, there’s very little chance they survived. That whole island was swamped and they seem to have found all of the survivors.”

    “Mm. Um, he said it was a conference but we couldn’t find any brochures…”

    No, quite. If you asked him, Pete McLeod, the bloke had been siphoning off funds from the place for years, and most of the jaunts overseas hadn’t been conferences. “Well, what’s the situation with the property, Tim?”

    “I don’t know,” he said simply.

    Oh, Christ! No, Terry would have seen to it he didn’t. “We’ll have to get onto his lawyer. Shit, if the bodies aren’t found… I dunno. You don’t know who his heirs are?”

    “I—no. I suppose Sabrina?”

    “She’s only his de facto,” said Pete on a grim note.

    “I think she would have a legal claim these days, in fact I think it's the same as for a wife.”

    “It better be. Um, I always thought the place was a cooperative.”

    “I’m not sure. I think Sabrina may have an interest in it, but I certainly haven’t.”

    No. Right. Poor bloody Tim.

    “Hullo, Jan,” said Shannon grimly at the permaculture nuts’ front door. “I thought you might need a hand. This is Alex. He’s pretty useless but Tim can tell him what to do.”

    Jan looked weakly at a wiry, thin-faced, dark-haired man of medium height. Help, he was miles too old for Shannon, after all she hadn’t yet had her twenty-first birthday—when was it, again? February? Early in the year, anyway.

    “Hi, Jan, nice to meet you,” he said, grinning.

    “Um, yeah. Hi, Alex,” she replied weakly.

    “He’s stronger than what he looks,” said Shannon grimly.

    Actually, to those more used to the male side than Shannon Jackson was, he looked pretty strong. Definitely the wiry type, like Pete. “Well, I’m sure Tim will be grateful,” she said weakly. “Um, he’s somewhere about but I’m not sure exactly where, Alex.”

    “That’s okay: I’ll either find him or not,” he replied cheerfully. “It’s all very lush, isn’t it?” he added, looking at it admiringly.

    “Yeah, that’s what permaculture is. Though they reckon it works better in Queensland.”

    “I should think so! They must have had to truck in tons of manure, surely, on these pumicey soils?”

    Uh—he had more nous than Shannon seemed to be giving him credit for. “The cows and poultry help, and after the first plants get established there’s compost as well, but yeah, Terry did have to break down and buy in manure—and some topsoil, I think, though he’s never admitted that. And gee, guess what he used to dig in all in?” ended Jan grimly.

    “Hard labour by the concubines: we know,” said Shannon soothingly. “They got a washing-machine yet?”

    “They have now,” said Jan grimly. “Me and Pete bought a second-hand one.”

    “What are they, Luddites?” asked Alex feebly.

    “No, Terry’s mean as sin and prefers working his women to death to spending a cent on them, and I sincerely hope that can go in the past tense,” said Jan sourly. She took a deep breath. “Sorry. This morning’s washing’s going round as we speak, Shannon, but we got them a replacement vacuum-cleaner—they did have one but it was hopeless,” she explained—“so you could do the floors if you like, dear.”

    “Righto.” Shannon went inside without more ado.

    Jan looked limply at Alex.

    “I could come inside and make you a nice cuppa, Jan, before I set off into the untamed tropical rainforest,” he said nicely, smiling. Nice straight teeth; why Jan had thought they’d be crooked, God knew.

    “That’s mainly choko vines,” she replied, nodding at a very rainforest-y bit of it, “but it does look terribly tropical, doesn’t it? Um, well, let’s have a cuppa, yeah. And we might try getting something solid down poor Sabrina.”

    Alex came in, politely gesturing her to go first. “Something dainty, I would think, rather than solid, Jan,” he murmured.

    “Uh—yeah!” said Jan with a laugh. “It’s this way, Alex. You don’t need to worry about this gate,” she said as they passed the child-proof thing that was open in the shabby passage; “it was for little Wilhelm.”

    “Okay,” said Alex, taking her elbow gently.

    “Ta,” said Jan feebly. Didn’t he know that your Kiwi Good Keen Man never took a female’s elbow, you didn’t lower yourself to anything like manners, they were for foreigners and poofs— Uh, phew! They had reached the dingy kitchen and Alex had ushered her onto a kitchen chair.

    “You know,” he said, smiling that smile at her—ooh, his cheeks were very lean, but the way they sort of creased when he smiled was really attractive—“Shannon could take over here, she’s more than capable.”

    Jan swallowed. “Um, yeah, but between you and me and that awful antique stove, Alex, that’s the trouble. She’s too capable, and Sabrina and the younger boys are shit-scared of her. Um, well, Tim is too, I think: he’s not the type of man that can take a managing woman.”

    “No, I see,” he said kindly, opening cupboards.

    “There’s no instant coffee, Terry doesn’t believe in it. The teabags are— Yeah, that’s right,” she said as he found them.

    “It does sound to me extremely likely that he’s D,E,A,D, Jan,” he said kindly, looking round for an electric jug and, noticing the old chipped enamel kettle on the stove, picking that up instead.

    “Mm. Let’s hope so. At least—well, they all hate him, of course—well, poor Sabrina thinks she loves him, but if you ask me that’s partly brainwashing, partly habit—um, the thing is, Alex, what the Hell’s going to happen to them all if he is?”

    “How many are there, Jan? –Shannon’s extremely annoyed about the whole tsunami thing, her narrative was completely confusing,” he said, smiling the smile.

    “Um, yeah. Let’s see. The three youngest kids have gone: they were Babette’s. The two oldest are Sabrina’s. Jonathan’s sixteen, he’s seized the opportunity to go off and spend the day with his friend Harry Davis and his computer—Terry’s got a laptop but he won’t let the kids near it. I sent Jacinth over to the Kahas’ place: she’s friends with their Ngaio and Cherie Kaha’s got the sense to see she eats something. She’s thirteen, poor skinny little object, and completely bewildered by it all. The four younger ones are Kamala’s: I don’t think they’ve really grasped what’s happened. Krish is eleven and Bryce is ten: they’re playing out the back somewhere. Ghillywaine’s eight. At the moment she’s struggling with the book suitable for seven- to eight-year-olds I misguidedly gave her for Christmas, out in the orchard. The youngest is Nokomis and she’s six and worth the other three subdued little objects rolled into one; but on the other hand, they’ve had time for the bastard to get at them. Nothing physical, he’s not that type. He’s a master of the one-liner put-down.”

    “Shit! Why do people like that have kids? He sounds just like my maternal grandfather,” he said, making a sour face.

    “Mm. Having kids was the accepted thing for that generation, but Terry’s is inexplicable. Unless he just likes having a crowd to dominate, and ya know what? I’d say that was it.”

    “Yes, it sounds like it.” Alex drew up a chair and sat down companionably next to her. “Kamala went with him, right?’

    “That’s right. It doesn’t sound like she’s got any relations left. The kids don’t know a thing but Pete and me put poor old Tim on the rack and he thinks that there was only the sister that went with them to Thailand. The mum had cancer: died when the girls were in their late teens. Two years after that the dad drove his car into a lamppost.”

    “Suicide?” asked Alex calmly.

    “We thought that was the logical conclusion, yeah. The cops kindly called it an accident and left it at that. There was no insurance: he’d cashed it in to get the wife decent terminal care. The hospital just sent her home to die, we gather.”

    “I see. Presumably he owned a house?” said Alex calmly.

    “Well, yeah, he did, never mind the Flower-Power thing they’d been into in their younger days. There was a whacking great mortgage, but the girls did each get a bit. So guess what Kamala put hers into?”

    “In that case,” he said grimly, the nostrils of that lovely straight nose flaring slightly, so that Jan Harper suddenly had a vivid vision of what the frightful maternal grandfather must have been like at his peak, “her estate would have a very good claim to a stake in this place.”

    “Mm. The thing is, Alex—that kettle’ll be ages,” she said as he got up and optimistically lifted its lid, amazingly enough using the pot-holder, so he had nous, all right, added to which he knew his way around a kitchen—“the thing is, although it’s a flourishing concern and its valuation must have shot up since they first came here, it’d only really be worth something if you wanted to buy it as a going concern and keep on with it. That’s what permaculture is, you see: it’s an ecosystem. Pull down part of it and it all falls apart and the land reverts to scrub on pumice, like our dump.”

    “I see. What does the bountiful New Zealand government do with orphaned, relativeless children, Jan?”

    “Foster care,” said Jan grimly. “I believe these days it is fairly rigidly controlled: the foster parents have to be vetted and the homes inspected—but it’s highly unlikely that that the four of them could stay together. In fact not likely that anybody’d volunteer to take two at a time.”

    “That’s about what I’d thought. Uh—Tim?”

    “You haven’t met him yet, have you?” replied Jan grimly.

    “I think I may have. A tall, thin older man, in well worn-in greenish overalls: long face, rather Scandinavian, very short grey hair, intensely blue eyes?”

    Most people didn’t notice the eyes or… “Yeah,” said Jan limply. “Well, it’ll’ve been the overalls or the pale grey jeans, he hasn’t got many clothes.”

    “Mm. We had an interesting conversation about genetic manipulation as opposed to natural mutation. Then diverging onto Mozart operas,” he said smoothly.

    Jan smiled feebly. “Yeah. Did he strike you as the type to take on six kids—there’s Sabrina’s as well, remember—plus the mother of two of them, plus the running of a fair-sized organic produce enterprise?”

    “My impression was that he’d be the type that’d feel enough sympathy for them to be silly enough to try,” replied Alex with precision.

    “Yeah, that’s about it. The kids do all like him, but he’s completely incapable of anything approaching discipline, and while kids don’t need to be sat on like bloody Terry did, they do need rules and guidelines!”

    “I’d agree, Jan,” said Alex politely. “Shall we make a tray for Sabrina?”

    “Uh—yeah.” Jan sat back limply and let him get on with it. Not entirely to her surprise, Sabrina perked up slightly when Alex Burton smiled at her, and even sat up in the big bed with the hugely comfortable inner-spring mattress—the room was Terry’s, not officially hers, but Jan had firmly put her in there—and drank the weak tea and ate the bread and butter which Alex had cut lacy-thin for her.

    “Thanks,” said Jan as they retreated and left her to have a nap. Perhaps she would really nap, too, instead of lying there crying. “You were right: dainty was what she needed.”

    “Mm-hm. Granny was like that. Went completely to pieces when the old bastard died, but eventually accepted dainty trays.”

    “And?” said Jan with some foreboding.

    Alex’s mouth twitched but he said solemnly enough: “Recovered completely and spent her declining years thoroughly enjoying the house in Remmers that he’d never let her use her own taste in, Jan. Chucked out his Persian rugs—don’t worry, Mum grabbed them before they hit the bin!” he said with a laugh, “—recarpeted the place in floral Axminster, bought a new suite and had it covered in pale pink brocade to match the new curtains, ripped his handsome knotty-pine kitchen out and replaced it with those plastic-faced cupboards.”

    “Melamine,” said Jan faintly. “Pale pink?”

    “No: pale lemon, matching the new vinyl. She did the bathroom in pale pink, though. To spite him: he’d had it blue. The bedroom was blue, too. She got rid of the twin beds and bought a nice Queen-size with a fake Queen Anne headboard: very shiny, y’know?”

    “Imitation rosewood,” said Jan, shutting her eyes,

    “Well, it could have been real, Granny wasn’t short of a few bucks!” said Alex with a laugh. “Plus the rest of the bedroom furniture to match. He’d had solid oak: extremely handsome, but very plain: Forties functional, possibly. Unfortunately the whole family hated it, so it vanished never to be seen again. She didn’t choose pink, exactly, for that room,” he said reminiscently, what time Jan eyed him in foreboding. “Fuchsia and pink on white! I was fascinated by the blooms on the curtains, eiderdown and vanity skirt: possibly that was what got me into botany in the first instance.”

    “Oh, yes, you’re a botanist, too,” said Jan limply. Realising too late she shouldn’t have put it like that.

    “Yes, quite,” said Alex smoothly. “Let’s see… Granny did more little odds and ends to the house with his money, bought dainty cakes instead of baking them herself, wore pink twinsets with her pearls, whereas he always made her wear blue twinsets with her pearls, and declined all invitations from his bridge club!”

    “What did she do with herself, if not bridge?” said Jan feebly.

    “Very little. Quite a lot of window-shopping, she loved getting into her best and going to the nice shops. She always took the bus, she let my uncle have Grandpa’s Bentley. The family kept nagging her to go on an overseas trip, but she just ignored them. Used to listen to the radio a lot, did quite a bit of knitting. It might not sound like much of a life, and if you analyse it, apart from the absence of bridge the actual activities were scarcely different from what they had been in his lifetime. But she was happy as Larry, Jan!”

    Jan swallowed. “Right,” she said, smiling weakly at him. “I get it, Alex. I should think Sabrina will probably recover just as well. But she hasn’t got the wherewithal to live anything like that sort of life, unfortunately.”

    “No. They could try advertising the place as a going concern, I suppose,” he said dubiously.

    “I don’t think they’ll find any other permaculture nuts that could pay them a decent price, though!”

    “No-o.. Hobby farmers?” he said, raising his eyebrows at her.

    Polly and Jake Carrano knew a few of those—and you had to be in, not their income bracket, nobody was, but getting on that way, to afford it. But those hobby farms were all conveniently near Auckland or Wellington, handy for popping over for the weekend, whereas Taupo was a good three hours’ drive from Auckland—more, if you kept strictly to the speed limit—and about seven from Wellington. Added to which, they were the sort of farms that didn’t need continual maintenance, like permaculture did. She put these points to Alex.

    “Mm. Still, it’d be a nice tax loss,” he said with a twinkle. “Put a manager in, maybe? Why don’t you mention it to your rich friends, Jan?”

    “Why don’t you mention yourself outside and into some hard yacker?” said a steely voice.

    “He’s been helping me, Shannon,” said Jan feebly. “He got some bread and butter into Sabrina, thank God. Um, I don’t think Polly and Jake need a tax loss, Alex, but they may know someone who does; I’ll mention it, yeah.”

    “Good. Which way should I head to find Tim, do you think?”

    “Uh—towards the cow paddock, I rather think. Hang on, let’s make him a thermos and I’ll show you. How’s the vacuuming, Shannon?”

    “Vacuuming!” she snorted. “Don’t those kids ever pick up anything after them?”

    “No, I don’t think so.”

    She sniffed. “I’m putting stuff away and dusting and once I’ve vacuumed I’m gonna wash all the woodwork in those bloody bedrooms.”

    “Righto, Shannon: ta,” said Jan feebly, getting a thermos out. “It’s all right, I scalded it,” she said to Alex.

    “Good for you, Jan! –Jesus, what’s that?” he gasped, jumping, as a blaring clarion called.

    Shannon had also jumped but she said composedly enough: “Bloody Terry’s outside bell: means there’s customers wanting organic produce. You can go and serve them. Go on: that shed just down the driveway.”

    “Um, I dunno that there’s anything to sell them, though,” said Jan uneasily.

    “Too bad,” retorted Shannon: “he can cope. –Go!”

    “I’m going, mein Führer.” He went out without haste.

    “Boy, he’s maddening,” she muttered.

    “I think he was being maddening because you were ordering him around, Shannon. Why didn’t you let him volunteer?”

    She shrugged. “Thought he wasn’t gonna.”

    Jan sighed. “I don’t think he’s that bad. And if they don’t volunteer, ordering them doesn’t work, in the long run.”

    “In the short run it gets stuff done, though,” replied Shannon grimly.

    “Yes. Depends whether one only wants them for the short run,” said Jan mildly, inspecting the kettle. Blow: hot but no cigar.

    “I’ll buy an electric jug,” stated Shannon grimly.

    “That’d be good: ta.”

    There was a short pause. Jan just stared at the kettle.

    “You’re right,” said Shannon, swallowing. “Only if they don’t volunteer, I suppose they’re—they’re not worth bothering about.”

    Jan bit her lip and turned reluctantly to look at her. “I wouldn’t think so, lovey,” she said kindly.

    “Okay, next time I’ll let him volunteer and then if he doesn’t we’ll know, won’t we?” she said valiantly. She marched out, her head held very high.

    “Oh, Gawd,” groaned Jan, dropping like a stone onto an old kitchen chair.

    Alex had expected it to be an organic retailer’s van, but it wasn’t: it was a silver Mitsubishi. The silver-haired couple belonging to it were standing in front of the large empty table in the shelter of the open-fronted shed.

    “We rang the bell,” said the male in explanatory tones as he approached.

    “Yes: good morning. Can I help you?” replied Alex smoothly.

    “We wanted some organic produce,” he said, looking at the notice which stated: “PLEASE RING FOR ORGANIC PRODUCE.”

    “Yes?” said Alex nicely. This had no result so he said: “What kind of organic produce did you have in mind?”

    “Tomatoes, John,” prompted the female.

    “Yes: tomatoes,” said the male to him.

    Alex peered round the gloom of the shed. There were some grimy potato sacks at the back, putatively full of potatoes, but that was it. “I’m afraid we’re out of tomatoes.”

    “No, we are’d!” gasped a cross little voice. A short, stocky, nay cuboid figure panted to a halt beside him. “Who are you?” she demanded, glaring.

    “Alex. I’m a friend of Jan’s. She told me to serve this lady and gentleman.”

    She appeared to accept this statement. “We are’d out of tomadoes. There’s loads.”

    “In the garden?” he asked.

    “In the tomado pash. They are’d allowed to pick them by themselves,” she said, glaring at the elderly couple.

    “It doesn’t say ‘Pick your own’,” ventured the male.

    “John, we can pick a few tomatoes,” objected the female.

    “They’d be nice and fresh,” put in Alex with malice aforethought.

    “Yes, exactly,” she agreed, not realising the Micky was being took, God! Not that his relatives were any better—or, indeed, the vast majority.

    “Come on, show us the tomato patch,” he said to the kid. “What’s your name?”

    “Nokomis.”

    “Nokomis. Come on, then.”

    “Lock the car, John,” prompted the female as they started off. He pointed his remote control at the car and it beeped and flashed obediently.

    “I seen one of them before,” said Nokomis grimly to Alex.

    “Yes, quite a few of the newer cars have got those long-range things. Silly, really, because you have to go right up to the car to get in, in any case.”

    Her eyes narrowed; for a moment he thought that had been over her head. “Yeah, rilly silly. Hey, they’re dords, eh?”

    He wasn’t sure precisely what a dord was—perhaps halfway between a nerd and, uh, what was the other one the kids had these days? Oh, yes: dork. But he certainly got the general picture. His shoulders shook. “Yes, you’re right, Nokomis!”

    It was a magnificent tomato patch—magnificent. Alex’s eyes bolted from his head, and the elderly couple weren’t much better. Finally the female managed: “Look, John: companion planting.”

    “Yes. So it is all organic?” he said feebly to Alex.

    “I’m just a friend of a friend, so I couldn’t guarantee it, but I believe it is, yes.”

    “Can we pick some of the basil?” asked the female.

    “Cam they?” said Alex to Nokomis, poker-face.

    “Only if they pay for it.”

    “Yes, of course we’ll pay for it, dear,” said the female quickly.

    “Okay, then. The prices, they’re all on the list,” she said to Alex.

    “Um, yes? But where is the list, Nokomis?’

    “Under the table. I c’n show ya. But they are’d allowed to pick them by themselves.”

    “No, we’ll keep an eye on them, eh?”

    “Yeah,” she said, glaring at the potential stealers of basil—well basil, something that he was almost sure was garlic, some of the plants had those marvellous ball-like flower heads, and marigolds. “They haveta have the ripe ones!” she hissed.

    “Of course, Nokomis. –Excuse me: do be sure you choose nice ripe ones, won’t you?” he said politely to the hesitating couple.

    “I thought if we picked a couple of greener ones they could ripen up later. We’re from Auckland: we thought we’d take them home with us, you see,” said the female nicely.

    “That’s sounds fair, don’t you think, Nokomis?”

    “Um, yeah. C’n I’ve a flower?” she suddenly asked.

    “A marigold? Of course you can,” said Alex limply. “Or would you like one of these lovely round balls? They’re garlic flowers, I think.”

    Nokomis eyed them hungrily. “I’m noddallowed.”

    Alex took a deep breath. “It’s all right: your dad’s overseas, isn’t he? Pick as many as you like, Nokomis, he’ll never know.”

    “Righto!” she beamed, falling to.

    The silver-haired female, having carefully inserted herself and her flat-heeled but suede shoes in amongst the tomato vines and their companion plants, was now carefully inspecting the fruit before picking, but the male had remained at Alex’s elbow—possibly out of some confused atavistic memory of the peer group? Now he muttered: “Is that on? I mean, um, if she’s not allowed?”

    Alex made a face. “He’s in Thailand. In the area of the T,S,U-know-what.”

    “Christ,” he said numbly.

    “Exactly. Can it matter?”

    “No. Um, would he be the owner?” he muttered.

    “Yeah. Ya don’t wanna buy a flourishing organic ecosystem, by any chance, do ya?” said Alex with a sigh.

    “No, I’m afraid not,” he said, smiling palely. “Um, she’s having a bit of trouble,” he muttered.

    Uh—oh! Nokomis, not the horribly competent silver-haired thing he was wedlocked to. Alex produced his penknife and helped to make a beautiful bunch. After a bit he realised that Mrs had got her tomatoes—which she’d put in a plastic bag she’d produced from her purse—and was watching them wistfully, so he kindly picked a bunch for her, too.

    “Thank you. Aren’t these garlic flowers extraordinary things?” she said on a weak note.

    “Yes. They’ll make your hands stink of onion, though, so watch the cut ends,” said Alex kindly. “That all? I think they’ve probably got lettuces and other stuff, too.”

    “I wouldn’t mind a nice fresh cucumber,” she admitted. “So long as it’s one of those long hot-house varieties. I can’t digest those others.”

    “Got cucumbers, Nokomis?”

    “Yeah! All over the place!” she retorted scornfully.

    “Those looked like cucumbers back along the drive,” ventured the male.

    “Gourds, surely?” said the female. “They were climbing the trees, John.”

    “Nah! Cucumbers!” said Nokomis scornfully.

    Okay, they were cucumbers. They went back to the drive, the cucumbers were duly approved—they certainly weren’t in a hot-house, but as John said on a wistful note, the drive was just about as warm as one: wasn’t it a lovely sunny spot?—and Nokomis showed Alex the price list. She was right, it was under the table: on the clipboard which was hanging from a hook under the table. “How old are you, Nokomis?” he asked idly, scanning it.

    “I’m six, I’m nodda baby!” she retorted smartly.

    Good, in that case she wouldn’t be able to read this. He charged the silver-haired pair double the price for everything, and told them nicely the flowers were of course complimentary, and they went away as pleased as punch.

    Alex leaned on the table, musing. Some blokes who were grandfathers would have offered little Nokomis a toffee or, if out of those or not permitted them by the companion-in-life, fifty cents…

    “There’s more!” she hissed as another silver car slid cautiously up the drive over the bloody road-metal, the sort he’d come to grief on over near the new ecolodge.

    Aw, gee! It was a silver-haired elderly couple! They looked a trifle jollier, however, and the clothes weren’t as subfusc. Blue and navy as to the male, rather than fawn and fawn, and lime green and tan as to the female rather than fawn and white.

    Tomatoes? Yes, of course. They’d have to pick them, though. Beaming, the woman assured him they’d love to see the gardens! The tomato patch was greeted with rapture and the announcement that they were far too nice for chutney, but they’d get some for them and some for Bernie and June and for Alison and Jack. No plastic bags were produced and they accepted Nokomis’s announcement that they’d have to pay extra for the bags without a blink, so she raced back to the shed to get some. About ten kilos of tomatoes were picked, with quantities of basil and another big bunch of flowers, and then six cucumbers were selected, for themselves and others, and they’d love some strawberries, and if only they’d realised they’d have worn their old clothes—Nokomis grabbed a basket and raced off to pick some, and Alex, Sam and Alice sat in the sun and chatted of shoes and ships and sealing wax…

    Sam gave Nokomis a toffee and a five-dollar note but by now anything less would have astonished Alex. And he hadn’t even mentioned the T,S,U-know-what to him! Yet that car was a complete clone of the other, down to the fucking remote control… Nowt so quare as fowk, eh?

    “No, it's yours!” he gasped, as the kid held out the five bucks to him. “Have you got a money-box? –No. Um, if we went down the dairy, Nokomis, you could buy an ice cream and a Coke all for you with that money.”

    She didn’t say she wasn’t allowed, possibly because, as he’d never permitted them pocket-money, the bloody man had never had to issue that prohibition. “Now?” she breathed, her eyes as round as saucers.

    “Why not? I’ll just tell Shannon and get the car keys.”

    He went over to the house, not realising until too late that Nokomis had come, too. Oh, well, if she was gonna witness the definitive row that broke him and Shannon up before they’d even started, so be it.

    He tracked her down in one of the bedrooms, grimly washing windowsills. “Shannon, a grandfatherly customer has just tipped Nokomis five dollars, which she’s never been allowed to accept before in her life, and we’re going down to the dairy to spend it immediately, all on her, so lend me the car keys, please.”

    To his complete astonishment she replied: “Good one. Here,” and gave him the car keys. “Watch it at the bends.”

    “Right: gravel,” he agreed, making a face. “Ta, Shannon, you’re a brick. Come on, Nokomis: quick!”

    And they raced out with shining morning faces.

    After a few moments Jan appeared in the bedroom doorway looking cautious. “What was all that about?”

    “Blow, I should’ve asked you if you wanted anything from the dairy.” Smiling feebly, Shannon explained.

    Briefly Jan debated trying to point out that a bloke’s heart could be in the right place but he could still be completely wrong in other— Uh, no. She tottered back to the kitchen and in the absence of instant coffee or anything that could boil water within half an hour just sat and rested for a bit. She wouldn’t tell Katy about any of this, because frankly, she didn’t know what conclusion to draw herself!

    “It’s A HELICOPTER!” screamed Krish the next day, jumping, as it hovered over Pete and Jan’s drive.

    “HELICOPTER!” shouted Bryce, also jumping.

    Nokomis just stood there open-mouthed as it hovered, making the most Goddawful racket.

    The ecolodge was still full, though some of the bodies were different, but Jan had decided it was a bloody sight easier cooking in her own kitchen than in that dump next-door, so she’d told off Shannon to give Sabrina a nice tray in bed and make sure the others all came over for tea. Krish, Bryce and Nokomis had turned up around three, but neither she nor Pete had had the heart to send them back again.

    Pete appeared from the direction of the shed. “Bloody Jake,” he discerned.

    “Yeah; unless young Sean’s drowned that lot you let him take on the Tallulah Tub.”

    “Don’t call ’er that! ’Tisn’t a rescue helicopter, ya nit: what’s that say?”

    “CG. Oh: Carrano Group,” said Jan weakly, grabbing Nokomis as the bloody deafening thing finally squatted on the ground, before an audience now composed of all inhabitants of the ecolodge spending the afternoon in residence, including Charles Sexton in Speedos and a striped beach towel, ugh!

    “Yeah.” Pete had already grabbed the boys.

    “Hullo,” said Jake mildly, getting out.

    “What the fuck do ya think ya doing?” Pete replied.

    “Got fed up. Been arguing with the bloody government and bloody aid agencies for the past week.—Gidday, Jan.—Gave it away and come the easiest way.” He turned to help Polly out.

    The assembled multitude duly gaped at Lady Carrano in a drift of palest green gauze with high-heeled—Jesus, were those shoes crocodile? There were laws against that, these days!

    “Where’s the hat?” said Jan weakly.

    Polly smiled that lovely serene smile at her. She was in her late forties but she certainly didn’t look it: the hair was as luxuriant as ever but these days she generally wore it up and a few silver threads appeared artistically amongst the sun-streaked glossy brown. And the figure was still gorgeous: rather the Elle McPherson type. “Chucked it in the back. We were supposed to be going to some stupid fund-raising garden party. We haven’t brought anything, I’m afraid, Jan.”

    “That’s okay; there’s mounds of food and drink.”

    “No: clothes,” said Polly serenely.

    “Oh! You mean you literally gave it away and came straight— Yeah,” she said as they were both nodding. “Well, you can borrow something.”

    “Ta. Can you feed Chris? Then he’ll go over to the airport and pretend to be legal.”

    “Of course they can! Get out!” shouted Jake at the grinning pilot.

    He got out, saying: “Do ya want the hat?’

    “No, forget it, it’s horrible,” replied Polly. She came over to Jan and said: “Hullo, who’s this?”

    “This is Nokomis, from next-door.” Jan attempted to give Polly a warning look.

    “Hullo, Nokomis, I’m Polly.”

    “You come in a helicopter,” she stated.

    “Yeah. Wanna have a look in it?”

    She and the boys all did, so they all had a look. After which Lady Carrano came inside, and got into a pair of Jan’s old jeans which were the right length in the leg for her but too wide round the bum and the waist and, as Jan was low on tee-shirts, what with all the rushing over next-door, a singlet of Pete’s that strained over the tits, after she’d removed the gorgeous lacy green bra that toned with the dress, explaining: “I don’t care if I never wear a flaming bra again, it’s been solid fund-raising does for the last week! And none of them can see that if you just ask people for a cheque and give the aid effort what the caterers and etcetera cost, you’d raise twice as much!”

    “Yeah,” agreed Jan weakly.

    Polly brushed her hair out vigorously in front of Jan’s mirror. “That’s better! –Who is Nokomis, again?”

    “Mm? Oh: the mum’s Kamala, the one’s that’s missing presumed drowned, Polly. –Shit!” said Jan, scrubbing vigorously at her eyes. She sank down on the bed.

    Polly sat down beside her and put her arm round her, saying nothing.

    “I’d sworn I wasn’t going to bawl,” said Jan eventually, blowing her nose hard.

    “Everyone’s human.”

    “Mm. We’re full of terribly nayce retirees, of course, but they’ve been rallying round like nobody’s business!”

    “Yes. Big crises bring out the best in everyone, don’t they?”

    “Yeah. Common humanity, or something. I suppose we’ll all go back to hating the Indonesians for being Muslims in a few weeks,” said Jan, blowing her nose again, “but at the moment even Julia Roberts has got a tin on her counter for tsunami relief!”

    “Mm. So’s Dave at our dairy, and he’s the most dyed-in-the-wool anti-ist.”

    “Anti-ist?” said Jan cautiously.

    The big greenish eyes sparkled. “It’s one of the favourite religions these days, now that formal religion’s gone by the board for most people. Anti-ism, Jan.”

    Jan choked.

    “That’s better! Why don’t you put your feet up?”

    “Oh, go on, ya talked me into it. A cuppa wouldn’t come amiss, either.”

    “Good.” Polly drifted out, smiling.

    “She’s had it,” she said to Jake in the main lounge.

    “Thought so. Pete’s all right: he just goes in ’is shed if it gets too much. You remember the Jacksons? One of their girls is over next-door keeping an eye on the oldest wife, and her boyfriend’s put himself in charge of the organic produce: never mind your odd tsunami, the nice middle class keeps on rolling up for its organic tomatoes, apparently.”

    “That’ll do,” she replied without animus. “Where is Pete?”

    “Him and a skinny bloke in safari boots and shorts and a fat bloke in togs are fetching a few more in. There’s an American dame that seems to be in charge of the kitchen, she’ll tell ya what ya can do.”

    “What I’ll do first,” said Polly in a threatening voice, “is put an end to all this à la carte shit, they can have table d’hôte and like it!” She went out, looking firm. If you discounted two feet of brown hair billowing about her shoulders—and the tits in the singlet, of course.

    “That was me wife,” Jake explained to the blokes that were hovering near the bar. He went behind it. “All right, let’s see the colour of yer money!”

    There was a short silence and then one of them ventured: “Pete said the drinks were on him because of the tsunami.”

    “This is their business, ya nana,” replied New Zealand’s richest businessman calmly. “You drink, you pay.”

    Meekly the bloke produced his wallet and Jake dispensed drinks, his shrewd grey eyes twinkling, but the grin well under control.

Next chapter:

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