Downunder Country

23

Downunder Country

    Stan had ordered his sister not to meet them at the airport and for once she’d taken notice of him and agreed they could pick up a hire car. Just as well: she’d have had a fair wait after their plane’s nominal arrival time at Kingsford Smith. They didn’t have much luggage but of course their two bags were the last to come through. The flaming Customs prick asked Polly what the purpose of her trip was—though she'd conscientiously filled out their ruddy card—and was completely disconcerted, serve him right, when she beamed at him and said: “We’re going to visit Stan’s sister!” Then he tried to tell Stan he was in the wrong queue, this wasn’t for Aussies, but Stan just replied: “So sue me, mate. I got nothing to declare—nothing over there worth smuggling, actually. Mind you, they got Vegemite, one plus.”

    “Open this,” was the reply.

    They’d already X-rayed the bloody thing. Resignedly Stan opened his case.

    “It’s only clothes, I think,” said Polly helpfully.

    “Move along, madam,” the prick replied.

    “But we’re together,” she objected in a bewildered voice.

    “Yeah, and she panics in huge international airports, so we’re sticking together,” said Stan firmly.

    “What’s this?”

    “It’s a spongebag,” said Polly helpfully. “It’s a nice one, isn’t it? I asked him where he got it but he can’t remember. –See, that’s his razor, he likes a safety razor. That’s a new facecloth,” she added helpfully.

    It was pale pink. Stan refrained from clearing his throat. And from telling him that that was toothpaste, not Semtex.

    Then he had another look at Stan’s passport but the answer was apparently a lemon. “Pass me your handbag, madam.”

    Polly handed it to him, smiling. “Isn’t it nice? It’s French. It’s not my favourite one but it’s more capacious. My Aunty Jan really liked it so I got her one last time my late husband took me to Paris. She lives in Christchurch: wasn’t it terrible about the earthquake? But she was lucky, her house isn’t in an affected area. But the handbag turned out to be the wrong thing to do, because then Aunty Kay and Aunty Miriam were awfully jealous.”

    “Love,” said Stan, trying not to laugh, “I don’t think he wants to know.”

    The bloke inspected her lipstick suspiciously but as it wasn’t Semtex either, grudgingly announced: “Move along, then.”

    “Are we through?” said Polly in bewilderment.

    “Yeah. Come on,” replied Stan, grabbing her arm and hauling her off before the little Hitler could change his mind. Behind them he could be heard saying to the last, lone straggler: “What’s this?”—apropos of a perfectly ordinary suitcase.

    The Sydney Hertz mob were, thank God, more on the ball than their Auckland counterparts, and the car was sitting in its appointed slot waiting for them.

    “So this is what you do!” she beamed, getting in.

    Stan tottered round to the driver’s side. “What did you say?” he croaked, barely managing to insert his shattered form and sit.

    “What?”

    “Just now,” he croaked. “Do I gather that you’ve never taken a rental car before?”

    “No. Before I was married I couldn’t afford to, and Jake’s secretary always arranged for a limo, or someone from the Group would meet us with a company car.”

    “Yeah, but— Well, I think you mentioned you went to the odd linguistics conference or two, at one point. How did you manage then?”

    “After I was married, you mean? Same thing, unless it was a city where I had friends. And when I went to Europe last year I just got taxis.”

    “Goddit,” he acknowledged heavily. “Well, this is a Hertz rental car and this here is their parking lot.”

    “What do you do when you’ve finished with it, though?”

    Suppressing an urge to clear his throat, he explained. Up to and including the procedure if you were departing from another city, since she asked anxiously about it.

    “I see!” she beamed.

    “Yeah. –This here,” he said as they finally drove out of the airport precincts and onto a main road, “is Sydney.”

    “Hah, hah. So how far is it to Sue’s place?”

    “Barring giant trucks,” he admitted as one roared past them, “twenty minutes.”

    “Really? That’s good!”

    “Yeah, well, not a bad spot. Think you’ll see—” He broke off as a jet roared overhead. “Think you’ll see what its only drawback is when we get there.”

    Polly looked puzzled, but nodded.

    ... “This is nice!” she declared as they reached the retirement complex with its neat two-block brick units, its manicured lawns and manicured trees, and its two-storeyed brick residential block disguised as a charming colonial home, small white pillars flanking the porch, white windowsills, rose trellises and all. The roses were well past their best, but a few were still hanging on. Come July they’d be pruned back viciously and the place would look more like the soulless prison for wrinklies that it actually was.

    “It’s not bad as these places go,” replied Stan temperately as they drove into the visitors’ carpark and got out. “That,” he noted as a jet roared overhead and Polly gasped and clapped her hands over her ears, “is the aforementioned drawback.”

    “Heck, yes! How do they stand it?”

    “Well, it’s not always that bad,” he admitted. “Depends on what direction the wind’s in. But most of them are deaf anyway.”

    “I’m not surprised!”

    Stan’s shoulders shook slightly but he just said mildly: “Sue’s unit’s this way.”

    “It’s nicely maintained,” she said as they made their way along a neat concrete footpath bordered by a well-shaven stretch of centimetre-high Sir Walter. –Be the sort the landscapers bought by the metre, just rolled it out over whatever the builders happened to have left on the site. Clay, usually.

    “Yeah. Soulless, though.”

    “Mm, you’re right,” Polly admitted, biting her lip. “I suppose the flowerbeds are quite cheery, but even they look… over-manicured.”

    “Yep. Some of the residents do their best with pot plants, but they’ve got strict reggos about how far from the front door they’re allowed to put them—and they’re not allowed to dig.”

    “So they can’t have vege gardens?”

    “Nope. Well, Sue’s done her best with silverbeet and tomatoes in pots,” he conceded.

    “But gardening is supposed to be very therapeutic,” said Polly with a frown. “Not to say, helps keep you fit. –Not even raised beds?”

    “Huh? Oh! I getcha. Nope.”

    “I’d say it was very short-sighted of them,” she said slowly, “but possibly they don’t want their inmates to stay healthy and happy: the sooner they drop off the twig, the sooner they can sell their units to the next lot of suckers that’ll end up with no equity in them.”

    Stan smiled slowly. She was so pretty and of course so feminine, that sometimes he overlooked that logical brain of hers. “Yeah, that was my conclusion, too. –This is Sue’s,” he added as they approached a little brick unit that looked like any other until you registered the flourishing silverbeet in the pots at the front door.

    The said door opened and his sister greeted them with: “Would you believe! That Manners woman has got up a petition to stop residents having birds! –It’s because of that cockatiel of Heather Young’s, it does screech in the mornings, but good Heavens, what’s a few bird calls, when all’s said and done? At least it’s a natural sound!”

    Stan opened his mouth but at that moment another jet roared over and he and Polly involuntarily ducked. “Unlike some,” he noted. “Well, natural if ya don’t mind a bloody good imitation of a steam whistle.”

    “It only does it to greet the sun!” retorted his sister crossly.

    “We believe ya, thousands wouldn’t,” he drawled. “This here’s me sister Sue, ya couldn’t of guessed,” he added to Polly.

    “Hullo, Sue, it’s lovely to meet you,” she said with a smile.

    “Likewise, Polly,” she allowed. “That’d be a Hermès handbag, would it? –Thought so,” she said as Polly nodded somewhat weakly: Sue Crabtree, née Gorski, was at the moment clad in a saggy whiteish Aran-knit cardigan open over an offensively purple and orange floral blouse above a pair of very baggy black polyester slacks, the whole finished off with giant fuzzy royal-blue slippers. She was not a small woman, so the effect was all the more impressive. The hair, which had originally been the same undistinguished fawn as Stan’s, had been cropped in the style their Dad had referred to as “short back and sides.” This would have been quite acceptable except that she’d had the right-hand side dyed bright pink, a shade not far off that of Polly’s duna cover, and the left given a platinum bleach.

    “Been volunteering at the hairdressing school again?” he spotted.

    “Yeah. –It’s quite a good lurk, it’s free, ya see,” she explained to Lady Carrano.

    “Right. The only drawback being that ya don’t have any say in what the kids do to ya,” he drawled.

    “Shut up, Stan! I like it, Sue!” Polly said eagerly. “It’s so bright and individualistic!”

    Stan quailed. “Don’t you dare,” he croaked.

    “I couldn’t, I haven’t got a strong enough personality to carry it off,” she admitted wistfully.

    Sue sniffed. “Dunno about that. Well, if I’d of let that Daymerian kid do it—not Damian, he changed it,” she noted drily—“it woulda been blue, but I don’t much like blue.”

    “No, I think it would be rather depressing,” Polly agreed.

    “Yeah. Well, come in, we don’t wanna give that Manners woman an earful!” she said loudly.

    Stan was aware that the dame in question lived in the next little two-unit block set at right angles to Sue’s. He grinned, as the net curtains over there duly twitched.

    “Not that I hold any brief for cage birds myself,” Sue admitted, leading the way into her little sitting room.

    “No, me, neither!” Polly agreed eagerly. “It’s so unnatural, isn’t it? Particularly for the Psittaciformes: most of them live in flocks in the wild, don’t they?”

    Stan put his arm round her, smiling. “Yeah: once you’ve seen a flock of thousands of budgies in the wild, ya never want to see one in a cage again, believe you me.”

    “No,” Sue agreed. “But these poor little buggers have been bred as cage birds, never known anything different: they’d die in the wild.” She paused. “Well, I dunno about Heather Young’s specific cockatiel, actually: it's always struck me as tough as old boots. It got out once and went for that silly old twerp Barney Smithers when he tried to grab it: hadda have three stitches in his cheek, serve him bloody well right. Then it had a go poor old Karen Hutchinson’s kumquats—well, the bloody things are positively anal, the way she’s trimmed them, hardly trees at all, but they’re her only discernible interest in life, and by the time the cockatiel had finished there wasn’t a whole fruit on them, and the poor woman was in tears. After that it swooped on old Pete McIntosh when he was staggering back from the deli with one hand on his ruddy walking-frame and the other holding an ice cream. He thought it was going for his eyes, like the maggies, and panicked, silly old nit.” She eyed them drily. “Only wanted a go at the ice cream, as it turned out. After that Betty O’Leary had the nous to sprinkle some crushed peanuts for it and it came down and ate them like a lamb, so she was able to throw a tea-towel over it and take it back inside. Heather was just standing there bawling,” she ended, very dry indeed. “Take a pew, Polly.”

    “Thanks,” said Polly composedly, sitting down on Sue’s reproduction Queen Anne sofa.

    “Are you all right there, love?” asked Stan. “That sofa deep enough for you?”

    “Yes, it’s just right, thanks!” she smiled.

    “In that case maybe I won’t nag ya to get rid of the thing,” he said to his sister.

    “Keep on nagging me, ya mean. And before you start, I have tried to sell it. Nobody wants it. Well, Gayle Cooper offered me a good price, but turns out her son’s got Power of Attorney, so that was that. Then she offered to swap it for hers, but the son put the kybosh on that, too.”

    “I wouldn’t sell it,” said Polly firmly. “It’s just the right size, isn’t it? Most sofas are far too deep.”

    Stan looked at his sister’s broad-beamed form, and raised his eyebrows slightly.

    “Sell it to ya,” Sue offered. “Eighty bucks.”

    “Really?” she beamed, as Stan cringed. “That’d be nice! What do you think, Stan? –I tell you what, I could buy another fuchsia tiger duvet cover and we could re-cover it to match!”

    “Polly, love, the thing is reproduction Queen Anne,” he groaned.

    “I know. They were very popular in the 1930s,” she replied tranquilly. “Where did you get it, Sue?”

    “It was Gran’s—Mum’s side. She was the sorta dame that as soon as the hubby’s made a few bucks embarks on a programme of chucking out her suite every few years and buying a new one. Think this woulda gone out to the garage around 1950: she replaced it with an overstuffed pale blue brocade thing—hard as Hell to sit on. The lounge-room blinds hadda be closed all the time because the sun was gonna fade the blue. The old boy dropped off the twig in the Sixties but that didn’t stop her: she replaced the blue suite with a huge one in floral linen—nasty little pleated skirts round every piece.”

    “Ugh, yes: I know!” cried Polly. “Aunty Vi’s suite was just like that! Her pattern was mainly pale lilac roses with pale green leaves and some smaller, frondy stuff that was sort of greyish. What was your gran’s?”

    Sue made a face. “Offensively pink cabbage roses. The ruddy curtains matched.”

    “Help!”

    “Yep, strong men cried for that when they entered Gran’s lounge-room,” replied Sue with satisfaction. “Anyway, we think Grandpa hung on to that sofa to put his feet up on in the garage and have a smoke—she was the sort of woman that wouldn’t let the poor old blighter smoke in the house.”

    “Oh, dear,” said Polly sympathetically. “That sounds awfully like my Grandma Macdonald—Mum’s mum. She was a tartar! Only a tiny woman, but she ruled the whole family with a rod of iron. I don’t remember Granddad much: he was one of those tall, craggy men who don’t talk much. He was allowed to smoke on the verandah but that was as close as he got.”

    “Yep, fair bit of it about. Still is, these days; it merely manifests itself differently,” she noted drily.

    Polly nodded hard. “All those women I met at the Brinkmans’ awful barbie down at Gorski Bay were that type: the blokes were pretty much under the thumb. Well, you know: they got away with whatever they could when they weren’t under the wife’s eye, but they were as sucking doves in the home, believe you me!”

    “Right,” Sue agreed, grinning. “Ole Brinkman favour you with his usual burnt chicken, did ’e?”

    “Yes, but I didn’t have any, I just had some nice fish that Stan cooked,” she said, smiling at him.

    “Glad to hear it. Well, if ya want the sofa it’s yours, and I’ll put the eighty bucks towards a nice new one from Ikea.”

    “Sue, everything they sell comes flat-packed,” said Stan heavily.

    “I’ll buy it while you’re still here and you can un-flat-pack it for me,” replied his sister instantly.

    Promptly Polly collapsed in giggles.

    “Look, Sue, if she buys the thing off you what the Hell’s she gonna do with it?” he demanded heatedly.

    “Eh? Take it home. I don’t suppose the Carrano fortune’ll notice the cost of getting one sofa from Sydney to Auckland.”

    Stan looked at Polly’s face. Oh, dear: it was looking all hopeful. “Sending an old cheap reproduction sofa across the Tasman is chucking your money away, darl’,” he ventured, though without any real expectation that this’d strike a chord.

    “But I like it, Stan! And it’s a really good size for the bach, it could go under the front windows! –We used to have divans there, I’m sure it’ll fit.”

    “Well, uh— God. It’s your dough. Send it airfreight, will ya?” he added snidely.

    She brightened horribly. “That’s a good idea! Then we’ll have something for Jenny and Tom to sit on when they come over!”

    At about this point Sue Crabtree lost it and dissolved in helpless hysterics.

    Stan just waited the fit out. “Look, she’s got no idea what anything costs: half the time she’s saying it’s too dear because she’s thinking back to her student days, and the rest of the time she’s chucking it away with both fists because for the last twenny-odd years she’s been married to a ruddy billionaire and she’s got it fixed in her noddle that whatever it is, is the way it’s done!”

    “Yes! I got that!” gasped Sue, off again.

    Polly was now rather flushed. “I won’t if you don’t like it, Stan. But I think it’s cute,” she said sadly.

    “What? Look, I don’t mind what ya put in the place, darl’! Uh—though it’ll swear at that lovely antique kauri sideboard,” he admitted, gulping slightly.

    “Only if you allow yourself to be ruled by convention!” she replied crossly. “They’re both lovely of their kind!”

    “Uh-huh. Like your kitschy fuchsia bedspread and that glorious Worcester vase on the bedside table,” he noted.

    “Is it? Well, if you say so.”

    “I do say so. By the by, why have you abolished the Famille rose vase?”

    “It was the wrong shade of pink.”

    Stan’s jaw sagged.

    “But the other one looks good with the duvet cover, it’s got some little bright pink flowers on it that are almost the same shade!” she beamed.

    “Sounds good to me!” put in Sue cheerfully.

    Alas, at this point Stan Gorski lost it completely and dissolved in helpless hysterics. Quite possibly many women would have taken instant umbrage and never let him hear the last of this, but Polly merely smiled placidly.

    Also at this point the shrewd Sue Crabtree, looking on, decided that possibly her little brother hadn’t fallen out of his tree after all when he’d taken up with one of the richest women in the Southern Hemisphere, and maybe it was gonna work out okay.

    Three days later the reproduction Queen Anne sofa had been consigned to the care of Grace Removals, apparently thrilled to be able to dispatch it airfreight at the cost of only megabucks, not to say pick it up at the other end and put it in storage until required. At the cost of only megabucks again, doubtless. Ikea had duly been visited, a very ordinary flat-packed grey wool or possibly wool-like sofa had been loaded onto the ute Stan had had to hire for the purpose, Hertz rental cars and Sue’s very, very old Vee-Dub not being suitable for lugging sofa-length flat-packs across Sydney, and the thing was unpacked, assembled and in pride of place in Sue’s little lounge-room. Possibly the most boring sofa in the known universe—yep. However, she was very pleased with it.

    They were due to head off to Gorski Bay early next morning, but as Sue was an early riser they popped over there from their motel to say goodbye. And Polly shyly presented her with a present. Stan hadn’t known she was gonna do this: he watched uneasily.

    “I know you don’t approve of the ones with the squashed faces,” she said, as Sue unwrapped it, looking for once very unsure of herself, “but this one’s got a pointy face and it’s very fluffy. I hope you like it.”

    Very fluffy? What was she on about? It was only a small parcel, not big enough to hold anything fluffy. Sue had finally got the fancy gold wrapping paper off it and discovered a neat little b— A neat little red box? “Hold on!” Stan gasped. “Polly, angel-face, if that’s a Cartier box I really don’t think you should have—”

    “No, silly!” she said, squeezing his arm. “That’s only the box! I think it had a necklace in it, or was it that gold cat brooch with the emerald eyes?”—Sue might have been seen to gulp, at this point.—“No, I don’t think so… Anyway, it’s just the box, I haven’t been extravagant, honest!”

    He waited in fear and trembling as Sue opened it. She gasped. Then she laughed and said: “It’s gorgeous, Polly! But heck, you shouldn’t have, it must be worth a small fortune!”

    “She’s got several large fortunes,” said Stan drily. “Go on, show it to us: might as well know the worst.”

    All smiles, his sister held it out. Stan gulped. It was a very, very pretty oval 18th-century miniature of a girl, perhaps in her mid-teens, holding a fluffy blue-grey cat. The girl’s silk bodice was the softest of salmon pinks and a blue-grey bow that was cunningly not quite the same shade as the cat peeped from amongst the lace at her bosom. As Polly had said, the cat’s face was pointy. Well, definitely not squashed.

    “I can’t take it,” said Sue limply. “It’s too exquisite.”

    “Of course you can! See, it’s got a gold chain—Jake said it’s not contemporary but that’s the sort of thing he always said—but there’s a pin as well, so you can wear it as a brooch, too. I thought maybe you could wear it to your Neo-Persian Club meetings,” she finished, looking at her hopefully.

    Stan had to swallow. This group of barmy Sydney retirees had decided to defy the entire Persian cat establishment of—not just Australia, actually—the world, and start breeding for pointed faces. Naturally this meant that no breeder in the country would sell them a kitten and they were black-listed by every cat show from here to Perth and back. The project hadn’t got very far.

    His barmy sister of course took this suggestion seriously on board—it appeared to be the clincher, in fact—and was now deciding that she could take a photo of the miniature and it could become the club’s logo! She then thanked Polly fervently, gave her a hug and let her put the thing round her neck. It looked really, really stupid against that off-emerald sweatshirt she was wearing. Not to say with the appalling Stuart tartan slacks that went with it. Oh, well. The two of them were terrifically pleased with it, that was all that mattered, really, wasn’t it?

    And with that they were off, headed for Gorski Bay and Dead Man’s Cove.

    For a while Stan was able to concentrate on negotiating the Sydney traffic, but eventually his brain began to ponder the matter… He drew in. Better get it over with before he hit the Princes Highway.

    Polly sat up, blinking, appearing to come out of a pleasant dream. “Is something wrong with the car? Or have you forgotten something?”

    “No. Just tell me before I run barking mad: how the Hell did you get that miniature through Customs?”

    “I wore it round my neck, of course,” she said calmly.

    Stan goggled at her. He had noticed a slender gold chain disappearing into the divide, yes, but he hadn’t asked—afraid it might have been her wedding ring, actually, and the question would have embarrassed her.

    “They never question ladies’ personal jewellery,” added Polly with her seraphic smile.

    After a stunned moment he managed: “I can’t laugh. Just promise me never to do that again!”

    “Okay,” she said blankly.

    “Me nerves won’t take it,” he explained wryly.

    “Ye-es… But you’ve smuggled gemstones out of Afghanistan,” she pointed out logically.

    “Yeah. Just take my word for it.”

    “All right. But it seems very inconsistent, to me.”

    Inconsistent. Yeah. Rolling his eyes madly, Stan started the car again.

    “Wollongong!” she cried as the sign appeared.

    “Ye-es… That is where we were headed for.”

    “No, I mean that’s where I got the duvet cover! Turn off, Stan, and we can look for a matching one to cover the sofa with!”

    “All right, but I gotta issue a word of warning.”

    “What?” replied Polly uneasily.

    “If you refer to it as a duvet cover they won’t have a blind notion what you mean. –Duna cover.”

    Immediately she collapsed in gurgling contralto giggles. It was a bit like listening to a flock of maggies, really, he mused, smiling.

    Naturally she didn’t have a clue where the shop was.

    “Don’t panic. Buster was with ya, right?”

    “Yes. Moaning because Tom had told me not to feed him on steak.”

    “Right!” he acknowledged. “Very clear! Okay, we’ll ring him.”

    She didn’t have his number but after being persuaded that even if Jenny was at work, she could try her number, she tried it. She was at work, but merely in her office, and happily gave Polly Buster’s mobile number and reminded her of their home number—he hadn’t managed to find an affordable flat this year. Stan by now had his ear to the phone, waiting. Sure enough, Jenny then asked weakly: “What on earth do you want him for, Polly?”

    She plunged into it. It took a while, as she started off: “See, we went to see Stan’s sister like I said we would in my email—” When she got to the point, Jenny was heard to gulp.

    “But—” she got out. She started again. “Um, wouldn’t it be nicer in, um, something plainer?” she finished lamely.

    Stan lost it and laughed himself sick. “Gimme that,” he said, coming to and realising Polly had started to sound self-exculpatory on the phone and was glaring at him, cheeks flushed. “Oy, Jenny,” he said: “she loves the thing. And if you put your prejudices, not to say preconceived notions aside, it does look bloody good, actually.”

    “Come off it,” Jenny managed weakly.

    “No, I mean it. Anyway, we better get on with it if we wanna make it to the bay today. We’ll see you in July, oke?”

    “Yeah. See ya,” she said numbly, ringing off.

    Polly was now looking pleased, and rang Buster eagerly. Stan hadn’t thought the kid would remember, but he apparently did. The problem was she couldn't understand a blind word of it. “He’s giving me male directions!” she gasped.

    “Oops.” Stan took the phone off her and got the intel. “Perfectly straightforward,” he said, grinning.

    “Yes, if you’ve been brought up to think like a male.”

    “Men are from Mars, women are from Venus?” he suggested, grinning.

    “Cultural stereotyping? Well, these days the scientists claim there’s no physical or neurological difference between men’s and women’s brains.”

    “But?” he murmured, turning a corner.

    “The patterns of most of human history were necessarily dictated by biology,” said Polly slowly. “And I’ve never believed that mere scientific facts can explain social behaviour, anyway. The tendency today is to believe that if they can’t pinpoint a gene for it, it can’t be real or natural. Well, for one thing, that’s incredibly naïve: I refuse to believe that genetics work that way. I’ve even read a thing that said there is no such thing as race, because there’s no race gene. Well, obviously it’s a combination of all sorts of genetic factors plus environmental ones. Doubtless it’s something genetic that reacts to the environmental influences, but that’s not one gene, is it? And as for the Mars and Venus thing, all primitive societies seem to have had well-defined rôles for males and females, don’t they? Men were usually the hunters, while women were the gatherers—as well as having to look after the babies, of course—biology, like I said.”

    “Mm… Well, Aboriginal society’s certainly like that. The blokes got out after the odd roo—still do, it’s utes and rifles these days, but same idea; while it traditionally was the women who dug the root vegetables—cultivated them, too, don’t let the Whitefeller brainwashing tell you they were merely hunter-gatherers, they weren’t. Had complex agricultural systems that the advent of European grazing animals completely destroyed in less than a generation. And it’s certainly the women up in the Top End who get out and pull the lotuses!” he finished, grinning. “Anything up to underarm-deep in water.”

    “What about the crocodiles?” she gasped.

    “Yeah, well, always something to think about, but I don’t think crocs like lotus beds—you can’t swim in them, the things grow too close together.”

    She nodded seriously. “What part of the lotuses do they eat?”

    Smiling, Stan explained, as he drove down the street, turned another corner, and pulled into the parking basement under the shop in question. Male directions or not.

    The shop was out of the bloody things, of course.

    “Look,” he said putting his arm round her: “it’s two-sided, right?”

    “Um, yes, duvet covers always are, I think.”

    “Yeah. Well, we’ll take it apart, use half for the sofa, and put a plain back on the other half for the duna, okay?”

    Her face lit up like all her Christmases had come at once. “Yes! You’re a genius, Stan!”

    He refrained from saying anything about the male mind, but it was an effort. “Thanks. Well, uh, a bit early for lunch; we could grab some morning tea, though, if you’re peckish?”

    “I wouldn’t mind a coffee. Somewhere that’s got loos, though.”

    “Yes, of course,” he said mildly. “Come on, then.”

    Over a very humdrum morning tea—flattish cappuccinos, flat, dampish things that called themselves brownies—she beamed at him and said: “This is nice!”

    “Uh— Pretty ordinary, I’d’ve said, darl’.”

    Polly’s eyes twinkled. “Ordinary in the vernacular Australian sense of bad, is that?”

    “More or less, yeah.”

    “I didn’t mean the morning tea as such. I just meant having it here with you. It feels… cosy!” she finished, with that smile of hers.

    He had to swallow hard. “Yep. Too right.”

    They made it to his shack at Dead Man’s Cove in good time. Once inside she collapsed in sniggers.

    “I thought I’d done it up quite nice,” he offered feebly.

    “Yes! That’s the point!” she gasped. “When Phil Brinkman brought me over here he wouldn’t even let me get out of the car—it wasn’t just that it was such a hot day, he obviously felt it wasn’t a fit place for me to set foot in!”

    “Hah, hah. Well, it’s not luxurious, but it is fully insulated and that there on the wall is quite an efficient reverse-cycle—”

    “Yes! Don’t go on!” she gasped.

    “Don’t usually use it for heating, though, got me wood-burner, see?”

    “Mm. We used to have a pot-bellied stove at the bach—the same sort of thing, but it’s round—but Jake abolished it in one of his super-duperising fits and put in the heating system.”

    “Right. That reminds me: been meaning to ask you: has the loft got heating?”

    “Mm. Ducted. He didn’t like those thingies,” she said, looking at his reverse-cycle. “They’re starting to get popular at home, now: they call them heat pumps.”

    “Eh?”

    Polly smiled. “I thought that’d grab you. A heat pump’s what a fridge is, eh?” He nodded numbly and she said calmly: “People don’t buy them for air-conditioning, though I believe some of them do have lots of functions. Well, the only conclusion I came to was that they call them that because they pump the heated air from their electric elements into the room.”

    “What happened to the word ‘heater’?” he croaked.

    “I don’t know,” she replied serenely.

    He sat down suddenly on his prize recycled sofa. Genuine Late Eighties, it was. Palest grey fake leather. Flat, low arms that the human elbow couldn’t reach: a real doozie. “Bloody Hell, it’s a different world!”

    “It’s certainly a different world from the one I grew up with,” replied Polly calmly. “Where’s the bathroom?”

    “Mm? Oh: through there, darl’. The other door’s the kitchen. Nice doors, eh?” he added proudly.

    “Hah, hah,” she said, grinning. With this she vanished.

    Stan sat back, smiling. His horrible doors had been a real find, from a dump. Not inside doors, front doors, inset with panels of bubbly yellow glass. Mid-Seventies? Something like that. Goddawful. They didn’t match. That made it better.

    “I love your doors,” she decided, coming back. “They’re so awful they're wonderful.”

    “Yep. Like me sofa?”

    She winced.

    “No, it is bad,” he allowed. “Good ole Mac offered to make me a nice crochet afghan for it, only the sofa would’ve insulted it too much. Besides—” He made a face. “Well, you know.”

    “Yes,” said Polly with a little sigh. “It doesn’t do to encourage them too much, does it?”

    “Nope. Um, this drongo emptied the freezer and turned it off before he left, so there’s nothing for lunch,” he admitted.

    “Fish and chips?” she suggested eagerly.

    “Uh—go to Mac’s, ya mean?”

    “Of course!” she replied, nodding eagerly.

    Stan got up. “Cummere. I gotta give you a great big kiss.”

    Obediently Polly came. “Why?” she asked mildly, when he’d more or less finished.

    “Because almost any other dame in the world would have had a dummy spit at the implications of Mac offering to crochet me an afghan, far from wanting to buy fish and chips off her!”

    “Bullshit,” replied Lady Carrano serenely. “You’d better go and have a pee before lunch.”

    Stan tottered off obediently to have a pee, a broken man.

    Given that they couldn’t—or at least shouldn’t—live entirely off good old Mac’s fish and chips, the supermarket was mandatory. The first visit was pretty uneventful: mid-afternoon, not many in. Bree was on the check-out and went rather red, poor woman, when she realised that the pretty brown-haired woman in the tight designer jeans and the cuddly pale green fuzzy teddy-bear fur jacket open over the best pair in NSW as of this min’, encased in his favourite peachy top with the little sparkly thingos on it here and there, was with him, not just standing next to him in the queue. But nobody else took the slightest interest in them.

    The next trip was different. It was a mild, sunny day, so she wasn’t in the pale green teddy-bear fur jacket, she was in a very, very pale yellow tee, completely yummy, with a pair of skin-tight polyester stretch pants in what the male side would’ve said were purple, but she’d declared firmly to be deep violet, scored from an op shop near Sue’s place. Granny-wear: right. Sue had also admired them fervently but couldn’t get into them. In them Polly did not look like a granny. The elasticised waist was of course not attractive—even on her—so she’d “just popped into” David Jones downtown—the swankiest department store in Sydney, right—to see if they might have something. The something turned out to be a mottled purplish long silk scarf. Sue had taken one look at the price tag and turned green with horror, but Polly had merely outed with the credit cards, explaining happily to the shop woman: “My cousin’s little girl dug out all my credit cards and put them into this flap thing for me, because she thought it might be useful for the trip over here. I’m not sure which ones you take: would you like to choose?” –Lovely smile.

    Sue by this time had gathered her wits sufficiently to croak: “Isn’t that price a bit steep for a scarf?” but Polly and the shop woman appeared not even to hear her, so Stan said kindly, putting his arm round her: “Let it go, Sis. After twenny-odd years of not looking at price tags, she can’t help it.” Sue nodded numbly. After that she was so stunned that she almost let Polly lead her off to the perfume section and foist a large bottle of Chanel Number 5 on her. Coming to as the woman behind that counter divulged the price, to gasp: “No! Absolutely not! It’s consumerism gone wild!” Polly had conceded mildly that she supposed it was and allowed her to propel her out of the shop.

    The scarf was now wound twice round the waist over the elasticised top of the pants and cunningly knotted in front, really setting off them pale yellow pair above it. The curls were just pinned up loosely in a big mauve plastic clip from Woolie’s, but possibly this didn’t strike Ma Brinkman, as she drove her trolley violently into the Gorski Bay supermarket’s shelves of tinned fruit and gaped at the two of them, arm-in-arm.

    “Polly! Is that you?”

    “Yes; hi, Louise,” she replied mildly.

    Ma Brinkman goggled from her to Stan and back again, finally coming out with: “I didn’t know you were back in Australia, dear. Is Jenny over here?”

    “No, I’m staying with Stan,” replied Polly, smiling nicely.

    She gulped, hah, hah. “I didn’t think you knew him.”

    “Yeah,” said Stan stolidly at this point. “How are ya, Mrs Brinkman?” –He had briefly debated whether it would be better to call her “Louise” but had decided that the usual, more formal appellation would rub the cow’s nose in it much more.

    She gave a mad titter, replied that she was very well, added that she must be going, they’d just popped down for a few days and there was nothing in the house, and staggered off leaning heavily on her trolley. At the end of the aisle she looked back, presumably to assure herself it was really them. Together. The two of them.

    “Wave!” hissed Stan.

    “I am!” replied Polly with a giggle, waving madly and smiling like anything. Exit Ma Brinkman.

    “She will get over it, unfortunately. Hey, pity she doesn’t know you’re Lady Carrano,” he grinned.

    “Never mind, it’s good as it is!”

    “Yep, sure is! Well, come on: Goulburn Valley peaches, was it?”

    “What?”

    “Ya did say ya could fancy tinned peaches.”

    “Oh! Yes, please.”

    “Good-oh.” Stan put a tin of yer standard Aussie peaches in their wire basket, and they wandered on, arm-in-arm…

    The next encounter was pure joy. Kym Corrigan. They were sitting on the seawall across from Mac’s finishing some greasies around five later that day, recruiting their forces after a somewhat strenuous afternoon, when he drove up in his giant Land Rover. Possibly the violent screech of the brakes as he jolted to a halt was not down to the fact that he’d immediately spotted them, but then again possibly it was. Polly was looking particularly juicy in the palest yellow and purple—pardon, deep violet—but with the addition of a little fuzzy bolero jacket in coral pink—Sue’s op shop again—which Stan was just adjusting tenderly round her shoulders, not to say just over the pair of ’em, as he arrived.

    He got out of the vehicle looking stunned. No, better than that: gobsmacked.

    “Gidday, Kym!” called Stan insouciantly. Not neglecting to fondle the one his hand just happened to be on.

    Turning about the same colour as Polly’s slacks, Mr Corrigan croaked: “Gidday,” and stumbled into Mac’s.

    Promptly Lady Carrano collapsed in a gurgling gale of contralto giggles, sort of plastering herself against Stan as she did so.

    “Ye-ah…” he concluded with a deep sigh. “Pretty much the end of a perfect day.”

    “You could have your books much sooner if you’d let me send them airfreight,” Polly pointed out.

    “Nope. I know if Grace reckon it’ll be three weeks on a container ship, plus a wait until they’ve filled the rest of the container, it could be as much as three months; nevertheless.”

    At this point many dames might have insisted, thus precipitating a real row. Polly just sighed and said mildly: “All right, macho man. But I still maintain we’re two responsible adults and you’re being illogical.”

    “Yep,” he agreed. “I’ll let you pack up me undies drawer, though.”

    As anticipated, she collapsed in giggles.

    After she was over that she said: “Are you sure there’s nothing else you want to bring over?”

    “Uh… me matching non-matching doors?”

    “I wish we could… But there’d be nowhere we could put them where they’d have their full effect, now that you've abolished the partition wall between the main room and the little bedroom.”

    “Uh—you agreed, love.”

    “Yes, of course; I’m not criticising. It’s much handier, now. And it’s lovely just being able to walk through into the bathroom!”

    Yeah. Well, that had been a bit of a hassle, but with the loft over the garage cleared they’d been able to migrate up there and use that ensuite while the water was off in the bach, a hole was knocked in the wall, a sliding door was put in, and that dinky tiled effect Carrano had had in his poncy little bathroom was entirely ruined. The entire thing, floor, walls and ceiling, had been lined in inch-square pale green tiles, not plain, no, slightly variegated, and the things were impossible to replace. So it was nice plain white ten-centimetre-square tiles a mate of Sol’s got for them from a plumbers’ supply place—mate’s rates. Very, very fortunately the plumbing itself was on the outside wall, so they hadn’t had to rip out either the bog or the shower. There wasn’t a separate handbasin: the bog was one of those extremely up-to-date ones that Stan had heard about but never before laid eyes on—one of the worst of Gorski Bay’s second-homer dames had wanted one to replace the perfectly good one they already had in their downstairs bathroom, and the hubby had done his nut over it down at the pub. The handbasin was on top of the cistern, or what would have been the cistern, and when you flushed the bog the basin filled—more or less. The idea was the used hand-washing water would go towards the flush. Dreamed up by an anally neat mad environmentalist with time on his hands—right. The sort of thing that made you wonder just how many irreplaceable natural resources had gone into its manufacturing processes—yep. Space-saving as well as water-conserving, right? Right. Polly had paid for all the renovations, but then, it had been her idea and Stan couldn’t have afforded it in any case.

    “I know! We could look for one of those doors for the bach’s back door!” she cried.

    Abruptly Stan collapsed in a horrible fit of sniggers. He laughed so much he had to drop onto the bed: he was shaking all over.

    “It’s not that funny,” said Polly dubiously.

    “Yeah!” he gasped. “’Tis!”

    Polly sat down on the edge of the bed looking quite composed. “Personally,” she said, when the fit seemed to have dried up, “I think one of those gloriously horrible doors with the yellow bubble glass would be just the thing.”

    “Yeah,” said Stan, wiping his eyes. “Well, there might be one left in the whole of New Zealand, they’d only have had about thirty years to abolish the things.”

    “Yes, but they’re much less up-to-date than Australia!” she said eagerly.

    “Okey-doke: we can make it our project for our Sundee drives,” he drawled with heavy irony, nong that he was.

    “Good!” she beamed, taking him at his word, oh, fuck. “And I’ll alert Rab and Avon at Goode as Olde, you never know!”

    Er… true, Goode as Olde’s old bus barn held an immense amount of unwanted ghastly junk. Not to mention all that really, really warped timber outside in the yard that they seemed to have inherited when they took over the place from the original Mr Goode.

    “Yeah,” he agreed weakly. “Good-oh.” Scouring the North Island for vile Seventies front doors hadn’t actually been his plan for his precious Sundays alone with her. Oh, well! Came of opening yer big fat gob because you thought you were being clever, eh? He sat up and admitted reluctantly: “Now we’re on the bed I’d really like to do you, but I think we’d better get on and pack me undies drawer, if we wanna get going first thing tomorrow.”

    “Mm,” she agreed, nodding. “Don’t forget to leave out some clean things for tomorrow, will you?”

    Uh—no. He had spent years and years getting himself packed and on and off planes and boats efficiently—not to say buses: there were some corkers in Turkey and Syria, not to mention the outer regions of the Ukraine, not to mention the gaily-painted Pakistani crates that miraculously made it over the Hindu Kush and the Khyber Pass.

    “No, righto,” he agreed meekly.

    … “I don’t think,” said Polly, when the packing was all done, “that they’ll let you take those fishing rods on the plane, Stan. They’ll make you check them as baggage. I know they’re in their lovely leather tubes—aren’t they clever?” she added admiringly. “But, um, they’ll probably say you could always take one out and use it as a weapon.”

    “Shit. You’re right. If I check them the buggers are absolutely sure to lose them! Shoulda got Grace to take them with me guns—what a nong!”

    “Mm,” she agreed glumly. “Um, look, I know you won’t like this idea but I really think you’d better let me have them couriered.”

    Stan opened his mouth. Then he looked at her anxious face. “Yeah, okay, sweetheart. Thanks very much,” he said with a sigh. “Uh—but from Gorski Bay?”

    “No, it’d be easier from Sydney. I’ll just ring Gavin at Carrano Tower, he’ll arrange it, he said to ask him anything.” She outed with the mobile phone. Didn’t have to dial, no: the thing had the number in it. “Hullo, Colleen,” she said. “It’s Polly Carrano here.” The phone made what even from where Stan was sitting were discernible as ecstatic noises. “No, actually I’m in Australia,” she said. “Just south of Wollongong.”—More ecstatic noises.—“We’ll be back in Sydney tomorrow; hang on. –Stan, would we have time to pop in at the office before the plane goes?”

    “Yeah,” he said limply. “It’s the evening flight—provided we make it to Sydney in decent time.”

    “Oh, good! –Yes, I’m pretty sure we can manage that, Colleen.”—More noises.—“Actually I wanted to ask Gavin something, but if he’s busy—” This time the noises positively rose to a crescendo. Polly lowered the phone and smiled at Stan. “She’s getting him.”

    “Right,” he said, trying not to wince. “Who is he?” he hissed.

    “He’s the CEO of Carrano Enterprises (Australia), of course.”

    Yeah, he’d had a feeling he might be.

    “Hullo, Gavin, how are you?” she said happily.

    Stan just closed his eyes and waited it out.

    Okay, they would pop in at the building tomorrow arvo and the CEO of Carrano Enterprises (Australia) would see to it that Stan’s fishing rods and anything else they liked to send would be couriered over to Auckland for them. Probably this meant that the luckless Colleen would be deputed to carry out the arrangements, but that was usually how these things were done in the upper echelons of yer corporate high-rise, wasn’t it?

    “There!” beamed Polly. “It will be nice to see Gavin and Colleen again!”

    “Yeah. Just tell me this: what are you planning to wear for this jaunt to the Carrano Tower?”

    “Um, well, what I’ve put out for tomorrow,” she replied blankly.

    Stan cleared his throat. “Right.” Okay, she was gonna turn up in downtown Sydney one stone’s throw from Martin Place in the purple polyester pants, because they’d be comfortable on the plane. These would be topped by a bright pink singlet with a ripped-off Aboriginal design of a lizard on it (not Sue’s op shop, surprisingly enough: a tourist dump in Wollongong; Buster was reported to have liked it)—because you never knew, and the airport or the plane might be boiling, so she thought she’d better wear something sleeveless. But as you never knew, and the plane might be freezing, this was gonna be set off by the pale green teddy-bear fur jacket. It was a lovely shade, true, just the colour, in fact, of that luscious negligée the Phyllis dame had talked her into buying. The outfit would be finished by the silk scarf from DJ’s, in what he’d now been informed were shades of mauve and lilac as well as violet, round the waist but not too tight, plus luminous yellow socks and pink and grey sneakers—comfortable on the plane, right.

    “They won’t mind what I wear,” she said kindly.

    Well, no, considering the number of shares the woman presumably owned in the company that was their bread and butter—no. But that wasn’t entirely the point. “Uh—no,” he croaked. “I was just wondering… I mean, what did you usually wear when you, uh, dropped in on them?”

    “Um, a suit, I suppose… Well, whatever I was wearing when we were in Sydney.”

    “Yeah? Uh—any specific instance come to mind?”

    “Um, well, last time would have been, um, Easter 2009, I think. Yes, it was that week, that’s right: Gavin took us to Randwick to see the races in the afternoon—I can’t remember which day it was: Wednesday or Thursday, I suppose: we met him at the building beforehand. It was quite a mild day, so I wore my light-weight caramel wool suit with a silk sleeveless blouse. I was gonna wear a cream one, that’s right, but Jake said I’d better wear the dark brown one, it’d set off the brooch with the brown Aussie diamonds, the Aussies were always chuffed to see me wearing it. But it’s much too heavy to wear as a brooch on silk, of course, so I wore it as a clip on my pearls. He was very pleased, because they’re Australian, too: cultured. From Broome.”

    “Goddit,” he said faintly.

    “And a dear little hat, it’s not quite a fascinator, it’s a little tip-tilted cap in ruched caramel silk, with one big palest caramel silk rose on it!” she beamed.

    “Polly, love, it sounds completely edible and I’m quite sure this Gavin guy’s eyes were on stalks, his and every other guy’s you met, but are they even gonna recognise you?” he croaked.

    “Don’t be silly,” she said placidly.

    Stan subsided. Okay, he was silly. But he’d make bloody sure she had her handbag with her passport in it over her arm, just in case.

    That was it for the packing, and everything would have been hunky-dory, except that they were out of supplies again—the fridge and freezer were already off and cleaned—so they popped into the village to grab something from the supermarket. Their mistake.

    The parking lot was almost empty, and Stan had warned her that by this hour the shop would be, too, they might have to settle for a loaf of garlic bread or cinnamon buns or something, to which she’d replied placidly that that’d be fine, and they were just getting out of the car when the shit hit the fan.

    A ruddy great Bentley pulled in two slots away from them, Ma Brinkman and a very flashy dame covered in bling got out of it, and the flashy dame took one look at Polly and screeched: “Polly Carrano! My dear, what are you doing in funny old Gorski Bay? Don’t tell me it’s you that’s bought the Wheelers’ place!”

    To which Polly replied lamely: “Um, no. I’m just staying with a friend. How are you, Vera?”

    After that both Vera Corston and the stunned Ma Brinkman were all over her—Ma Brinkman had had no idea, and why hadn’t Polly told her, if she wanted to be incognito she wouldn’t have breathed a word—etcetera. Mrs Corston awarded Stan several avid glances, but as Ma B. introduced him coyly as “Polly’s friend, Stan Smith,” at least one of them was able to preserve his anonymity. The martyred Bill Corston got out of the car, greeted Polly politely but with a certain avidity, today’s peachy top and its two peaches possibly being an influence, here, shook hands with Stan and then remained dumb.

    The Vera cow tried to force them to come back to their ghastly place on the waterfront—not the yellow fright but even flashier, featuring even more plate glass—but, thank God, Polly managed to stick to a refusal. As it wasn’t the supermarket’s late opening night they then had to make a dash for it, the Vera cow’s word, Bill being ordered not to dare to forget the tonic this time—presumably he didn’t need telling about the gin—and Stan and Polly, perforce, dashed along with them. Or slightly behind them.

    “One garlic bread and we’re outa here,” he muttered in her ear.

    Nodding, she hissed: “Yes, or cinnamon buns, whichever comes first!”

    Neither of these viands immediately presented itself but there were some large cheesy bun things with bits of bacon in them, so he grabbed a packet and they shot off to the check-out. Bree was on again and asked sadly if that was all, so he explained they were off again tomorrow, at which her plump face fell so much that he leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Ya haven’t seen the last of us, we’ll be back every so often,” he promised.

    Very flushed and flustered, she replied: “Good-oh! We’ll see ya later, then!” and they made their escape.

    “Cripes,” he concluded as they buckled themselves fiercely into the car.

    “I’m awfully sorry, Stan,” said Polly in a small voice.

    “Not your fault if one of the worst cows ever to infest the NSW coast happens to know you.” He started the car and, with a last hunted look in the direction of the shop, backed out. “Ole Bill a business mate of your hubby’s, was ’e?”

    “No. Racing,” said Polly heavily. “Jake outbid him for a horse and they got talking and agreed to syndicate it, and then they entered it for the Melbourne Cup and we all went, that’s how I met Vera. And since then she’s considered herself to be a bosom friend.”

    “Uh-huh. Um… No,” he decided.

    “They did come to the funeral, if that’s what you were wondering.”

    “Uh—well, yeah. Well, that was decent of them.”

    “Mm. She is well-meaning, but unfortunately unbearable with it,” she said on a clinical note.

    Stan had to clear his throat. “Puts it well. Do ya still own part of this Cup contender?”

    “I don’t know,” she replied simply.

    “I—believe—ya! Thousands—wouldn’t!” he choked, nearly driving into a lamppost.

    “Look out!”

    “Sorry,” he said, pulling in and wiping his eyes. “Nice horse, is it?”

    Polly sighed. “It’s a very nice horse, but you know what racing people are: they won’t let a horse just be a horse, it has to perform.”

    “Ugh, yeah, you’re right,” he discovered. “Well, that kind of puts the kybosh on my next suggestion: that maybe we could make it over for the Cup.”

    “I still love the racing,” she replied, smiling at him. “I’d love to go to the Cup with you! Just in the stands, eh?”

    “Y— Uh, shit, yeah! None of your flaming corporate boxes or owners’ boxes! Uh, might not swing it this year, sweetheart.”

    “Then let’s plan it for next year!” said Polly eagerly.

    “You’re on!” He leaned over and kissed her lingeringly… “Mmm,” he sighed. “Well, home, James, cheesy bacon buns, marg and coffee?”

    “They’re good toasted; one of the supermarkets in Puriri has them, too,” Lady Carrano replied placidly. “Or grilled. You cut them in half.”

    “Right!” And they drove back to the shack at Dead Man’s Cove to a beanfeast of cheesy bacon buns, grilled by him because she was terrified of grills, even electric ones, slathered with marg and washed down with, on due consideration, not coffee at this hour, but the last of his by now rather tepid Toohey’s. Followed by bed. Sheer bliss, in other words!

    By contrast with bloody Vera Corston the amount of fawning that went on when they got to the Carrano Tower the following afternoon was negligible, completely negligible. They kindly allowed Gavin to give them—and Sue, who'd declared she wouldn’t miss this for all the tea in China—drinks and nibbles, and chauffeur them out to Kingsford Smith in his, or possibly the company’s, Roller. The bloke then got them upgraded to business class, no sweat, presented Polly with a large bouquet of roses, kissed her fondly on the cheek and retired to the Roller with Stan’s sister. Serve ’im right. Stan shook slightly all the way through the X-raying palaver.

    On the way Polly donated the roses to the very startled stolid woman who’d waved her X-ray gun at her, but on the whole that made it better.

    And only sixteen minutes after their scheduled take-off time the big Qantas bird, that had been taxiing in ever-decreasing circles for twelve minutes by Stan’s watch, finally lifted into the air. His companion mangled his hand to death during this procedure, but he was now expecting this. And it was a very small price to pay, wasn’t it?’

    “Mad as a snake,” he murmured, closing his eyes and stretching his legs sybaritically.

    “Mm?” replied Polly vaguely. “Sue? Yes, but she’s lovely with it, Stan!”

    Yep. Her and some others!

Next chapter:

https://anothercountry-apuririchronicle.blogspot.com/2023/08/another-country-altogether.html