Unsettled

16

Unsettled

    “Right,” said Jan grimly, hanging up the phone. “That settles it. We’re going over to Napier for the funeral, and we’ll collect Polly, whatever those bloody relations of hers say, and bring her back with us! Stir your stumps!”

    Pete would have stirred his stumps anyway. He got up but said: “Um, won’t there be a lot of stuff to sort out? There usually is, after a funeral.”

    “No, the sisters-in-law did all that when they were getting ready for her to go into that home up in Puriri. Well, one good thing,” she noted grimly: “now Polly won’t be tied down having to visit her every day.”

    “Yeah. Right.” Maureen Mitchell had unexpectedly died just a few days before she’d been due to go up to the Puriri old folks’ home. Pete scratched his narrow jaw. “Love, there’ll still be odds and ends: um, jewellery, that sort of personal stuff.”

    “They can sort that out between them,” she said grimly. “Most of it’ll probably go to Davey’s girlfriend anyway, it sounds as if she was really fond of her.”

    He sniffed. “Yeah, well, I dare say, but she’s no relation, is she?”

    “Kids don’t get married these days, Pete,” said Jan heavily: “they live together for eight years or so, produce two kids, min’, and then, if he hasn’t taken off into the boo-eye, that’s when they have the ruddy ceremony that everyone’s expected to cough up a present for!”

    “Aw. If you say so. Um, does this mean I gotta wear that flamin’ suit?”

    “Yes. Go and pack it. Nicely,” said Jan evilly.

    Glumly Pete mooched off to pack his one and only suit nicely.

    “Right,” said Jan under her breath. “Now the only problem is, how to stop the bugger from insisting on driving all the way over the bloody Napier-Taupo Hills. Um…” Her eyes narrowed. “I know!”

    Twenty minutes later a very red-faced Pete McLeod was protesting that his son-in-law couldn’t possibly leave the ecolodge in the middle of their busy season and Andrew Barker was saying smoothly: “Bob will come over and keep an eye on things, and Jayne’s perfectly capable, Pete. Now, are you packed? Need a hand?’

    Pete debated saying something really nasty about his lingerie not being folded nicely and would Andrew like to do if for him, but refrained. The bloke meant well.

    And only an hour after that—Jayne having packed a totally unnecessary sandwich lunch for them to take with them—they were off. As Pete had jacked up to stay with his cousin Trev, who was a widower, rattling in that big house of his, that meant, presumably, that poor old Trev would be landed with Andrew while him and Jan went to the funeral. He’d better buy him a bottle of Scotch. Black Label, not Red, he decided glumly.

    As it turned out, Andrew was a real asset, because he handled them moos of sisters-in-law of Polly’s smooth as silk. From what Pete overheard it was largely a string of lies about the strain Polly had been under and absolute rest and quiet at their cabin on the lake, but never mind, it worked, and they were able to load her into the car and set off home for Taupo Shores Ecolodge only a ruddy day later than Pete had envisaged. It oughta be two bottles of Black Label for poor old Trev, really, only the exchequer wouldn’t run to it.

    Polly sniffled and blew her nose hard. “Sorry,” she said glumly.

    “Don’t be,” replied Jan with alarming grimness. She slapped her bread dough onto the new marble slab—Andrew, Christmas present—and attacked it fiercely.

    After a while Polly said: “Does that work?”

    “Eh?”

    “That new marble board—um, you can’t say that, really, can you? Well, that piece of marble that Andrew gave you, Jan.”

    “Remains to be seen, I suppose,” Jan admitted, stepping back and looking at the results of her labours dubiously. “If this lot turns out hard as a rock, we’ll blame the board—uh, slab. Actually,” she admitted, “it does feel a bit odd. Not like slamming the dough onto my good old kauri board that Pete made me back in… Cripes. 1985? –His love token,” she explained.

    Promptly Polly went into a helpless spluttering fit. “Oh, dear! Yes!” she gasped finally. “Bless him.”

    “Something like that,” Jan admitted, her eyes twinkling. “It was an offcut, of course.”

    “Stop it!” she choked, going off in a further paroxysm.

    Jan waited, smiling, until she’d recovered. “I dare say the ducks’ll appreciate it if it turns out putrid.”

    “I’m sure it won’t be putrid, Jan! Um, and don’t the environmentalists say that bread’s bad for ducks?”

    “That DOC lot over in Turangi very possibly do. Don’t think anyone in Taupo does. In fact I’m pretty sure I saw some enterprising type down near the boat harbour just last week with a trolley and little bags of—” She stopped, Polly was choking already. “Yeah,” she said, grinning. “Well, to tell you the truth I’m really only using the marble thing so as I can tell Andrew and Jayne that I’ve used it. Then I think I’ll prop it decoratively on my benchtop and go back to my good old board.”

    “I would!” Polly agreed with her contralto gurgle of laughter.

    The bread was rising, though without any guarantees from Jan, and the ladies were having a cuppa, when Jan bethought her of something—

    “Polly,” she said, clearing her throat slightly, “if Andrew’s put the hard word on you— Well, I’m not sure he— But listen: if there’s any suggestion of you driving the dratted Taupo Shores Tallulah, tell him where he gets off, okay?”

    “But I thought Libby loves driving it?” she said in confusion.

    “She does, bless her. But the flaming menopause is hitting her really hard. Horrible cramps—you know. Bob’s put his foot down. Makes her stay in bed with a hottie and the hot gin toddy remedy, the one you gave us.”—Polly nodded hard.—“Only some days she feels too queasy to face it, poor girl. And don’t say ‘doctor’: we’ve been there, done that.”

    “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she replied grimly.

    “No. Good on ya. Um, but what did your lovely Dr Bruce Smith recommend, Polly?”

    “He’s a man, too,” said Polly sourly. “Camomile, and a magnesium supplement.” She shrugged. “Supposed to be a muscle relaxant.”

    “Did it work?”

    “Well, I dunno about the camomile, because it makes me feel sick at the best of times, so I didn’t go near it. I took the flaming magnesium stuff but I couldn’t see that it made an appreciable difference. Then it started giving me the runs, so I gave it away.”

    “Right,” said Jan heavily. “Anyway, Andrew’s looking for someone to fill in for her on her bad days.”

    “I don’t think I could drive it,” Polly admitted. “It’s a very big launch, and I’ve only driven our little runabout.”

    “No, and you’re not going to drive it! If the bloody thing turned turtle with the ecolodge guests on it and they found out who you are, the buggers’d be into you for millions in compensation!”

    “Ugh. You’re probably right.”

    “Yeah. –You know, back when Pete and I first started the ecolodge, I’d never have dreamed of warning anyone about something like that—I’d never even have thought of it. People just didn’t do that sort of thing, back then.” Jan sighed. “I suppose, really, it was the last gasp of the good moral Christian upbringing our forebears suffered under for generations. Had something to be said for it after all, eh?”

    “Mm. My parents would certainly have been horrified at the mere idea… They’d have been out there like a shot, hauling them in and providing blankets, warm beds, and hot drinks.”

    “Yep. Gone are the days…” said Jan with a sigh.

    “What days, for God’s sake?” asked Pete’s voice, and they both jumped and gasped.

    “Um, the days when people didn’t bring personal injury suits, Pete, love,” admitted Jan feebly.

    “Huh! That Morrison that they got in at the moment, he been talking to you?”

    “No, why?”

    “Sued ’is neighbour for keeping pigeons. Reckoned they were shitting all over his new cream render.”

    “Um, pigeons are awfully messy, Pete,” Jan offered.

    Pete eyed her drily. “These were homing pigeons, love. He lets them out fifty miles away, they come straight home to their little boxes.”

    Polly gave a sudden giggle. “Ooh, yes! I’ve seen them on TV! They do, don’t they?”

    “Yeah. If they’re gonna shit on anyone’s wall it’ll be the owner’s: straight down from their little box—” He stopped, as both Jan and Polly had now collapsed in tearing-eyed gales of laughter.

    “I’ll make a fresh pot, Pete,” said Jan, wiping her eyes, as he was now inspecting the teapot.

    “Stay there: I’ll make it. Well, that’s Morrison for you. That other bloke, Bundy, he’s as bad. Parked his ruddy great Volvo in the street, down in Wellington. Wadestown: ever been there?” They shook their heads and he said: “Well, I haven’t, either, but Andrew has: he’s got an old mate there. Steep as buggery, lot of the houses haven’t got road frontage at all, only access is a steep footpath or a huge great flight of steps, and the streets are just about wide enough for one Mini. Anyway, Bundy’s parked, and this bloke runs into ’im, so ’e sues the pants off ’im: didn’t have proper insurance, poor bastard.”

    “Did he do much damage?” asked Jan.

    “Couldn’t of, love. Ya can’t do much more than 10 K, if that, the streets are so narrow and steep, and barely a straight stretch more than two sections long. Ruined her lovely paint job and cracked a rear light trying to squeeze past, from what we could make out. Turned out the poor bugger was trying to get his pregnant wife to hospital.”

    “What?” they gasped.

    Pete made a face. “Yeah, well, false alarm, as it happened, but yeah. Ya just don’t sue a bloke under them circumstances, do ya? Not the way I was brought up, anyway!”

    They looked limply at him. “No,” they agreed.

    “Real stinker,” he concluded.

    “Yeah. Um, Pete, why were you hanging round the ecolodge’s punters, anyway?” asked Jan.

    “Eh? Aw. Wanted a word with Andrew. Told ’im if Libby’s feeling crook, I’ll sail the good ole Taupo Shores Tallulah meself, and to lay off Polly, here. And if ’e wanted to argue about it, I’d bring her over to the jetty here and leave the key in me pocket. –She is still mine,” he reminded them.

    “Good on you!” said Jan fiercely.

    He blinked. “Ta.”

    “Mm. Thanks, Pete,” said Polly in a tiny voice. A tear ran down her cheek. “Sorry,” she said, wiping it away.

    “You bawl all ya like, love,” returned Pete grimly.

    “I’m all right, really,” she said wanly, trying to smile. “It’s just… I dunno. It was all worked out, Mum coming up to Glen Osmonde, and everything… I had to ring Matron and apologise: it was awful! And then the poor woman asked me if there was anyone else I’d like to recommend! I felt the most complete worm!”

    Pete looked frantically at his helpmeet.

    “Polly, you were only doing your best for your mum. Anyone woulda done the same in your shoes,” said Jan firmly.

    “Yeah,” Pete agreed gratefully. “She’s right, Polly, love. Now, don’t you worry, I’ll keep Andrew off your back, and there’s no need for you to go anywhere near his ruddy punters!”

    “Thanks, Pete. It’s just… I don’t think it’s losing Mum, so much. I mean, I didn’t see very much of her, really. I dunno… Everything was settled, and now… I just feel unsettled.”

    Pete looked helplessly at Jan but she was just looking kinda limp. So he said quickly: “Well, ya would. It’s natural. Never mind. Just have a quiet time, eh?”

    “Mm,” she said, sniffing and blowing her nose. “It is lovely here.”

    Assorted Morrisons and Bundys apart, thought Pete grimly, not to mention ruddy Andrew. “Might take her out of herself”? Silly tit! Couldn’t he see she just needed to be left alone, she didn’t need to be bothered with the flaming middle-class, mealy-mouthed retirees he’d crammed the ecolodge with. Which reminded him—

    “Guess what?” he said airily to Jan.

    “Um, what?” she replied warily.

    “Ruddy Andrew’s booked in Guess Who for next week.”

    Could be anyone! Jan looked at him wildly.

    “Give you a clue. Flamin’ safari shirts.”

    Polly had been sneakily wiping her eyes again, but at this she looked up with a wild surmise.

    “We’ve had a few of those over the years, Pete,” said Jan feebly. “Not those Canadian dames that were into hiking?”

    “Nah! Nothing like ’em! Give you another clue…” His eyes narrowed. “Yeah,” he decided. “Kilimanjaro.”

    Polly gasped and clapped her hand over her mouth.

    “Well, we’ve had one or two—” began Jan. It dawned. “Oh, my God! Not bloody Keith and Erin Arvidson?”

    “Yep!”

    Polly gave a mad shriek of laughter. “I knew it! Wait till I write to Jenny and Tom!”

    Pete was looking pleased at the success of his effort; nevertheless he rolled an eye enquiringly at Jan.

    “Um, the nice couple she stayed with in Australia, I think, Pete.”

    “Don’t tell us they’ve had the Arvidsons inflicted on them, too?” he croaked.

    “Yes!” gasped Polly. “At their weekender: their bach by the sea. They’ve got all this ground, you see, and sometimes people ask if they can camp there. Tom said he wanted to kick him, too, Pete!” she beamed.

    “That right, love?” he said weakly. “Well, good-oh!”

    Some time later he came back into the kitchen looking cautious. Jan was inspecting her risen dough. “Well, bung it in,” he advised. “It can go in the compost if we can’t eat it.”

    “Or the ducks can have it, yeah. Okay, here goes nothing.” She shoved it in the oven.

    Pete eyed this 21st-century artefact thoughtfully. “Andrew ever figure out how that bloody clock on the stove actually works?”

    “Clock cum timer cum five-year almanac, more like,” replied Jan. “No. Never mind, the thing can keep on flashing gently and telling me it’s twelve point zero, zero, I don’t mind. If I want to time something I can look at my watch, can’t I?”

    “Yeah, or set that nice big manual hour-glass Polly gave you yonks back,” he agreed comfortably. “How is she?”

    Jan glanced out of the window to a view of the jetty at the end of the ecolodge’s Rewarewa Trail and Polly sitting on it. “Okay, I think. Feeding the ducks.”

    Pete took a wrathful breath. “Eh? Are those buggers loose again?””

    “No, they’re not Molly’s and they’re not from Taupo Organic Produce, either. Wild ones.”

    “What are they doing round here?”

    “Don’t ask me, I’m not an ornithologist. Escaping from the crowds of tourists up at the town end?”

    “That or come over from Turangi to escape them conservation ning-nongs from the DOC that’ll’ve decided to ring them,” he replied brilliantly.

    Unfortunately this shot misfired and Jan looked at him blankly. “Wring their necks, you mean? Not if they’re natives, surely?”

    “No, ya dill! Put little rings on their flaming ankles!”

    “Oh, good Lord! Yeah. My wits are wandering,” she said feebly.

    He lounged over to the window. “No wonder, love. –What’s she feeding ’em with?”

    “The crust of the loaf and the rest of those really peculiar crackers Jayne gave us.”

    “Them gritty ones? Good. Had a ruddy seed stuck in me teeth for hours, drove me flaming barmy,” he noted. He stared out of the window, frowning.

    Jan came up to his side and leaned against him, sighing. “She just needs time, Pete. It’s all been a bit much for her, her mum dying on top of losing Jake.”

    “Yeah.” He put his arm round her sturdy figure. “That Dorothy and Thomas that come down for the funeral, they seemed okay.”

    “Yes: they’re the ones that live quite near to her, just the other side of Carter’s Inlet. And the two lovely women with the deep red hair that came together, with their husbands, they’re her cousins, Beth and Michaela. They live somewhere along the Inlet, too.”

    “That’s good. Still, that bach of hers is ruddy isolated, Jan, from what I remember.”

    “Mm.—That was a good day out, wasn’t it?—No, well, Pete, the alternative woulda been to stay in that ruddy palace Jake plonked on the cliff at Pohutukawa Bay, half a mile from the rest of the settlement. It and its flaming grounds!”

    “Yeah. Just as well she’s got rid of it,” he acknowledged.

    “Mm. And at least turning it into a children’s hospital will be doing some good.”

    “Yeah.” He cleared his throat cautiously. “Listen, love, she really likes it down here—”

    Jan sighed. “I know, Pete; I’ve thought of that, too. But it’d be another big change for her: I think it’d be the wrong move, just now. She’s unsettled enough as it is.”

    “Yeah, you’re right. I’ll bear it in mind, though. I do still own the property,” he reminded her a trifle grimly.

    “You’d have to get planning permission to put up another dwelling, Pete.”

    He sniffed. “With Bert Sneed on the Council? Piece of cake, with what he knows I’ve got on him!”

    “Old Sneed? I thought he popped off.”

    “Nah! ’Is son! –Dirty dog,” he added, on a certain appreciative note.

    Jan blinked. Okay, Pete had something on one of Taupo’s Council smoothies. Jolly good. …And come to think of it, with Polly’s income from that ruddy great trust fund Jake had set up, she could well afford to have a place down here as well as the bach up Carter’s Inlet. Ye-ah… That’d be ideal, actually. “Yeah,” she said with a great sigh, leaning heavily on his stringy frame. “Let’s bear it in mind.”

    “Yeah. …Wild duck, eh?” he said with relish.

    Oh, boy. That was it, then. When they started calling ’em “duck”, singular— She'd better see what Jane Grigson had to say in the game section of her English Food!

    The big lake glimmered in the summer sunshine. It was very quiet, with only the constant background zinging of the cicadas and, from way down towards the town, the faint roar of a motor boat. Right out on the water towards the Turangi end, tiny triangles of white sails shone against the blue.

    Livia Briggs had come over, and she and Jan had taken a rug and some suitable refreshment out to what had become their favourite picnic spot, a grassy area right on the lake shore which was reachable only (a) through Pete’s and Jan’s garden which Pete had now, regardless of Andrew’s sensibilities in re suitably environmental ambiances for the ecolodge, firmly fenced off with “Private Property” notices all up and down the said fence, or (b) through the impenetrable bush that stretched for about five hundred yards between it and a section of the ecolodge’s long Rimu Trail. Heh, heh. Or by boat, of course, but as in the last twenty-five years no ecolodge punter had ever expressed a desire to potter round in one, they were safe enough.

    Livia sipped a Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc, and sighed.

    “That all right?” asked Jan uneasily. It had been on special at Liquorland.

    “Mm? Oh—yes, delicious, Jan, dear. Um, I hate to say this, Jan, but I’m afraid Wallace has been making noises about ‘going bush’, as they say. Of course I told him he’s to do no such thing, but…” She sighed.

    Jan took a deep breath. “Thanks for the warning, Livia. I wasn’t gonna say this, but as matter of fact ruddy Pete took off, with his hunting rifle, at around four this morning.”

    “Oh, dear!”

    “Yeah. Well, I think in this instance he’s only after those wild ducks that seem to have adopted us lately, but it’s a bloody bad sign, isn’t it?”

    “Yes. Um, unless he sort of works it off, Jan?” She looked at her hopefully.

    In sharp contrast to Jan’s usual washed-out tee-shirt and elderly jeans, the petite Livia, of course, was in her summer picnic gear. Well, some of it: naturally there were innumerable variations. Today the skin-tight long pants were a very bright pink, while the gauzy blouse, open over a pale pink singlet thing with a bit of pink lace on the bazoom, was a charming confection of bright puce, pale grey and pale green. Sort of floral. As usual a bit of lacy bra, this one was puce to match the blouse, was visible above the singlet thing’s neckline and so was a bit of pushed-up Livia. Well, pushed up and propped up, sort of thing: the implants were saline, these days, Wal had long since made her have the silicone ones replaced. The feet were clad in Livia’s usual summer wear, when grass or sand were in question, of high-heeled wedgies. These, Jan thought, were new: pale grey. The usual amount of jewellery was tangled round one wrist and the small, neat ears were adorned with small pearl studs. Tasteful. The artfully silver-streaked primrose curls were as usual pulled up rather high. Today under a pink-peaked visor.

    Limply Jan admitted: “I suppose slaughtering innocent feathered creatures might work it off, but even after all these years co-habiting with the blighter, I just can’t say.”

    “No…” she agreed sadly. “Well, I shall do my best to restrain Wal… I don’t know, Jan! It was understandable that they’d react badly when dear Jake went, of course, but now?”

    Jan scratched her short, cropped grey hair. “I can only think that Mrs Mitchell’s funeral has, um… made it worse, or something?”

    “Jan, dear, one would expect that it would make it worse for poor Polly, of course: but for the men?” she cried.

    Jan sighed, and poured them each another belt of Sauvignon Plonk. –Good one, that, she noted dully, she must work it off on Polly. “I’m no psychiatrist… Brought it home to them or some such? Anno domini?”

    “I suppose so. But Wallace was adamant about attending the funeral, and of course one wanted to support poor darling Polly!”

    “Yes, ’course.” The plonk wasn’t improving as its chill wore off, so she opened the Tupperware container. –It was Tupperware. Genuine. She’d had it since the late Sixties. Andrew had recently tried to foist some engineer-designed new plastic containers with special engineer-designed clips on her. Clips that the average female hand, Jan had discovered, gasping over the bloody things, could not get to snap down, and when one had given in and asked one’s male belonging to work the things, one then discovered that they weren’t nearly as airtight as good old Tupper’s plastic pots, and the biscuits had gone soft. True, not a bad thing, in the case of the Aussie Arnott’s Scotch Fingers to which Pete had lately become addicted, God knew why: otherwise they were so dry they caught in your throat and made you cough, but—yeah.

    “Have a chicken tartlet, Livia. In fact have several. I did a roast chook the night before last, but Polly hardly ate a thing and Pete seemed to be off his food, too—symptomatic, I should have realised,” she noted grimly. “I did make a chicken salad for lunch yesterday but Polly wasn’t hungry and Pete just took a drumstick and wandered off with it. So I turned the rest into these. Minced up with some sour cream that was in the fridge because Jayne gave me a really easy genuine Mexican recipe for an avocado and sour cream dip that I thought we could use those seedy crackers with, only I forget to buy any avocados and then we discovered that Pete hates those crackers.”

    Livia bit her lip but managed: “I’m sure these’ll be delicious, Jan!” and took one. “Yummy!” she approved.

    “Good,” said Jan dully. She bit into one. No, well, tasted of chicken and sour cream with a bit of thyme out of the garden, but yeah. Palatable enough. The lemon that she’d been going to grate delicately into the mix was still sitting in the fruit bowl. Oh, well. True, it wasn’t yet eleven and the things weren’t exactly morning-tea fodder, but too bad. The alternative had been those blasted tinder-dry Scotch Fingers of Pete’s. “The pastry’s turned out okay,” she admitted. “Actually, that ruddy marble board that Andrew gave me ’ud probably be better for pastry,” she recognised.

    “It’s big, isn’t It? It looks very heavy,” ventured Livia.

    She wasn’t a cook, of course. “Mm, it is. Oh: that reminds me: Polly told me a hilarious story she got off her German friend—you’ve met her, haven’t you? Gretchen Sachs.” She related with relish Gretchen’s story of the mum, the male-presented redundant new meat hammer, the veal schnitzels and the good old marble rolling-pin.

    Livia obligingly giggled, declared that it was a good sign if Polly had told a funny story, and then added nervously: “Er—where is she this morning, Jan?”

    Jan swallowed. “Volunteered to do the supermarket shopping for me.”

    “Really? That’s a good sign!” she cried.

    “Yuh—um, yes, it is. It was. Only then it turned out the ecolodge needed some things, too, and Janet volunteered to get them, and go with her.”

    Livia stared at her in dismay.

    “Yeah,” said Jan heavily.

    “Oh, dear! She’s so—so gloomy, Jan!”

    Put it well. “Yeah. Well, Polly does understand it’s partly her nature, partly her history and very largely her working-class Nonconformist small-town background. That doesn’t mean the bloody woman’ll do her much good, though.”

    “No, quite,” she agreed in a hollow voice.

    Sighing, Jan refilled their glasses. “That’s why I thought we’d better drown ’em.”

    “What, dear? Oh! Yes, quite.” Looking determined, Livia took another chicken tartlet and raised her glass. “Perdition to her, Jan, dear.”

    Jan smiled weakly. Poor old Janet, all those years that she’d been a tower of strength in the ecolodge’s kitchen… “I’ll drink to that,” she admitted.

    As it usually did, supermarket shopping with Janet Barber had devolved into morning tea at Graceland. She would make for it, talking of homing pigeons, reflected Polly wryly, like a homing pigeon.

    “I’m really not very hungry, Janet,” she said weakly.

    “Nonsense, Polly, dear. You need to keep your strength up.” Gripping Graceland’s tongs fiercely, she deposited a club sandwich on the plate she’d just put on the tray she’d selected for Polly. The traditional dainty Enzed two-centimetre wide, finger-length club sandwich, of course. Unfortunately, Polly registered dully, it was one of Grace’s curried egg and grated carrot combos. Oh, well, it was better than— The grated carrot and tinned asparagus version which Janet was now also favouring her with. She didn’t want a slice of carrot cake (apparently), because it wouldn’t be as good as Jan’s. No, those things—sniff—were for the tourists, Polly! Polly was of course aware that the word “tourist” was a pejorative term to the local inhabitants, even though most of them made their living, one way or another, from the tourist trade, so she didn’t remark on this strange warning, though she did silently wonder why perfectly ordinary-looking little cupcakes, not even with the huge swirls of icing that you saw on the cooking shows, but just nicely iced in pink with a small piece of preserved cherry on each, were only worthy of the enemy. Janet then took a slice of ginger cake, though noting darkly that it wouldn’t be as good as dear Jayne’s—Polly registering with considerable amusement Jayne’s promotion to Jan’s level—and warned Polly off a nice-looking little strawberry tart whose pastry was like cardboard. She was sure that there’d be lemon essence in the lemon tea-loaf but grudgingly let Polly have a slice. They had to wash this beanfeast down with tea, of course, but then Polly had been expecting that. “A pot, thank you, Grace,” Janet added firmly.

    Polly was quite sure that poor Grace had been going to give them a pot in any case. She smiled apologetically at her. Janet then provided her with a cake fork—noting in sort of vicious hiss that they’d moved them—and they could at last stagger off to a table. Well, Polly felt as if she was staggering; Janet didn’t even need to get her second wind.

    A keen survey of their fellow morning-tea-ers then took place, Janet’s sallow, rather underhung face with its slightly bulging, washed-out pale blue eyes expressing nothing but a sort of loftiness, though hovering at the back of it you could sort of feel the contempt. She sniffed. Polly quailed.

    “Melanie Hooper,” she said. “Well, we all know about her!”

    Polly didn’t, and actually she didn’t feel as if she wanted to. There were several women at the table Janet had indicated by a swift, practised nod: all perhaps in their forties or early fifties, all quite pleasant-looking. They were all much more smartly dressed than Janet—not difficult, true—but they didn’t look like “tourists”, though she couldn’t define why. They all had conservative but attractive hairdoes and were nicely made up. Probably these two factors alone would have damned them in Janet’s eyes, she recognised silently.

    Janet then inspected the teapot, presumably decided its contents were not yet stewed enough, as she let its lid fall again with a sniff, and bit viciously into a club sandwich. She chewed fiercely, directing a bitter glare at a table which was clearly full of “tourists”. Three generations of them: a grandma, youngish parents, and two little kids, the little girl, about six, loudly refusing to eat an asparagus club sandwich—good on her—and the little boy, perhaps eight, stolidly munching his way through a large, greasy sausage roll. It was twice the length of the sausage rolls of Polly’s youth, and Mum, for one, would not have recognised it as such. These sausage rolls had shared a hutch at the counter with other hot offerings such as slices of rather juicy-looking quiches (choice of tinned asparagus, ham, or, possibly a concession to the 21st century, sun-dried tomato), the endemic meat pies of both Australia and New Zealand, more than large enough to make a decent meal, being at least ten centimetres in diameter, and some small savouries which Polly knew Grace made herself and which she’d been hoping but not expecting she might be allowed to choose. The grandmother was placidly eating a large cake thing composed of two puffy hemispheres welded together with artificial cream and smothered in icing sugar, preparatory to embarking on a slice of the despised carrot cake. The mother, who looked both tired and discontented, was eating a piece of quiche, but not as if she was enjoying it. The father was manifestly sulking: perhaps he’d been forbidden to have a pie? He was poking sourly at his quiche.

    Janet finished her sandwich. She didn’t make a move towards the teapot, so Polly ventured: “Shall I pour the tea, Janet?”

    Sniff. “I don’t suppose it’s brewed properly yet, dear, that woman doesn’t use boiling water.” She inspected it. Then a miracle occurred and she conceded: “Well, you could try it if you’re thirsty, Polly, but it’ll be awfully weak.”

    “I like it weak,” said Polly—weakly—and poured. It certainly wasn’t stewed within an inch of its life and when she added some milk it didn’t turn dark orange, so in Janet’s terms it hadn’t brewed, of course. Most people would have considered it quite acceptable.

    Janet bit fiercely into her second club sandwich, her eyes on the door. Polly followed her gaze uncertainly An unremarkable retired couple were going out, and another woman was just about to enter; after some confusion the pair did go out and she came in. Janet’s lips tightened. “It’s a wonder some people dare to show their faces,” she noted grimly.

    The woman was a cheery-looking, plump, brassy blonde; not young, she’d perhaps be in her mid-fifties. She exchanged smiles and nods with several people, notably the tableful that held the woman Melanie Something who had earlier incurred Janet’s disapprobation, and went up to the counter. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with her—well, possibly very tight stretch pants in a rather loud jade green weren’t entirely appropriate on that figure, but at least she was making an effort: there was a toning blouse in shades of jade, pink and apricot, open over a bright pink cotton-knit singlet of the sort Livia Briggs often wore, with some lace adorning its low neckline. She was obviously not Janet’s type, they had nothing in common save their gender, but why shouldn’t she show her face? In fact, thought Polly, she looked the sort of cheerful, kindly, helpful woman who’d be a very good neighbour. The sort who’d always be ready to help out in any emergency, large or small.

    Janet poured tea grimly. She added milk and sugar and stirred fiercely. “That woman,” she stated, “is notorious.”

    Polly by this time was imagining anything. Perhaps the woman ran the local brothel? If so, she’d take a bet it’d be the nicest, most hygienic one in the country. “Who is she?” she said faintly.

    Janet sniffed. “I’m not the one you should be asking, Polly. Bob Kenny could tell you all about her!”

    Polly goggled at her. Pete’s daughter Libby’s lovely Bob? What in God’s name was she on about? The man was devoted to her!

    Janet siphoned up tea and gulped down the last bit of her second club sandwich, which had got rather neglected. She picked up her cake fork and pointed it at Polly. ‘”If I told you everything that woman’s got up to it’d make your hair stand on end!”

    “But who is she?” she faltered.

    “Suzanne Finch.” Janet stabbed her piece of ginger cake. “Bob wasn’t the only one, by any means. But if you think that excuses him, personally I don’t!”

    “Janet,” said Polly in a trembling voice: “Bob adores Libby, you must know that. He wouldn’t do anything to hurt her, I’m quite sure.”

    Janet had a special voice for imparting really unpleasant gossip: rather lowered, but all too clear, and she was using it now. “Not now, no. I dare say Jan’s right and he has turned over a new leaf. But back when him and Coral were breaking up— Well! You can call it playing the field if you like, but rank indecency would be more like it. Suzanne Finch wasn’t the only pebble on his beach, by no means! As for her—! Well, he was round at her place every night for weeks, everyone knew about it. And maybe poor Jim Finch had left her, but the woman had been asking for it for years. Everyone knows that last kid of hers isn’t his!”

    “Not—not Bob’s?” she faltered.

    “Well, no,” Janet admitted reluctantly. “I’m not saying that. Though l believe she did try to palm the kid off on him at one stage.” She sniffed. “That was probably when he chucked her out—indecent yellow negligée and all!”

    The unfortunate Polly gulped.

    “Middle of the night screeching her head off, all the neighbours getting a free show— The woman thought she’d take him over, you see. Moved in on him.”

    “I see,” she said faintly. She drank tea blindly while Janet scooped up ginger cake with a sort of horrid satisfaction. One could only hope that when she’d finished it they could go.

    “Um, Janet,” she ventured, “if Bob and Coral had already broken up, it—it sounds as if he was a free agent, and well, um, why shouldn’t he?” she ended faintly.

    Janet sniffed. Polly winced, and ate lemon tea-cake blindly. Not more!

    “I dare say,” she said in the voice, “he was then. But he wasn’t when he was mixed up with that Melanie Hooper, I can tell you.” She directed an evil glare at the table in question. “And nor was she. Not that she was the only one—what those Hooper brothers have had to put up with, over the years—! Both as weak as water, of course.”

    Polly licked her lips uneasily. “Jan has mentioned that Bob and Coral’s marriage was very unhappy for years, Janet. I really think we should cut him some slack. They married very young, didn’t they? It’s often a mistake.”

    Janet looked superior. “I dare say. But that doesn’t excuse Melanie Hooper. –Look at her!” she hissed. “Large as life and twice as natural. –In that frightful blue thing, Polly,” she prompted.

    Polly looked, perforce. Mrs Hooper’s dress was blue, yes. Just cotton, as far as she could see. It was sleeveless, rather high-waisted, definitely tight, and interestingly draped over the bust, producing a neckline which was possibly a bit low, but far from extreme. She had a very nice figure, why shouldn’t she show it off?’

    “Dyed,” added Janet with another sniff.

    Well, yes, the thick, wavy, shoulder-length hair was tinted a deep auburn, but it looked rather good. She was, really, a very attractive woman, and back when Bob and Coral had still been together, had doubtless been even more so. Polly couldn’t blame Bob: stuck in a loveless marriage with, so his father-in-law had indiscreetly revealed, a wife who wouldn’t give it to him when he needed it.

    “Don’t you want that sandwich, dear?”

    Polly jumped. “Um—no, I’ve had enough, really. Would you like it?”

    This was the wrong move entirely, for not only did Janet accept the asparagus and grated carrot sandwich, she poured herself another cup of tea and freshened Polly’s!

    “Mind you, it didn’t last, of course. She had other fish to fry.” She snorted. “Stanley Smith!”

    Polly gasped and dropped her teacup.

    When Grace had shot over, been apologised to, assured her it didn’t matter at all, mopped up and brought her a clean cup, Polly quavered: “Janet, did you suh-say—” She swallowed hard. “Stanley Smith?” she finished in a tiny voice.

    “That’s right, dear. He’s gone now, of course. He was the Mike Short type—swanned round the place in a huge American car. Melanie Hooper thought she'd catch him, I suppose, not that she was the only one. There was that awful Maori girl—where was it they lived? Across the street from the Callaghans, I think. Let the place go to rack and ruin, and they weren’t the only ones.” Sniff. “No, well, she was pretty enough, if you like that sort of thing. But there were at least a dozen others—all ages, too. Couldn’t let him alone. Disgusting.”

    “Whuh-what did he— Did he—” Polly’s heart was thumping so hard she felt quite breathless and could hardly squeeze the words out. “What did he do?”

    “Vanished into the wild blue yonder, flash American car and all,” replied Janet with sour satisfaction.

    “Um, no, I mean, what was his job?”

    “When he bothered to work, you mean? Well, his dad owned the big boatyard—it’s gone, now. Hired out boats and charged people a fortune to moor there. He was supposed to help in the repair shop but no-one ever saw him do anything more than take the customers’ money. Then he inherited the lot, sold up, and took off. And good riddance!”

    “Yes,” said Polly with a shaking jaw. “Did he—did he like fuh-fishing?”

    “Him! Too much like hard work. He liked taking silly women out in his dad’s boats, if you call that fishing.”

    “Oh,” said Polly in a tiny voice.

    “Ginger hair,” said Janet in a tone of infinite taste. “Ugh! Nasty freckles, too.”

    “Oh,” she said, very weakly. It couldn’t be the same Stan Smith, then. “Was he tall or short?”

    “Tall. Over six foot, I suppose. But I never thought he looked in the least like Charlton Heston!” finished Janet with a sort of vicious glee. “Shall we go, dear?”

    Polly jumped. “Mm,” she agreed wanly. Unfortunately she had no option: Janet had insisted on driving them in the ecolodge’s station-waggon.

    “Are you all right?” asked Jan as she came into the kitchen with the shopping.

    Polly tried to smile, the more so as Livia was there, too, and failed.

    Jan took a deep breath. “Look, whatever the silly cow may have said to you, ignore every word of it!”

    “It was just…” Her voice faded out and she sat down limply.

    Livia bounced up. “Where’s the brandy, Jan?”

    “In the sideboard in the sitting-room; ta, Livia.”

    Livia hurried out and Jan said tightly: “I knew I should have put my foot down. The last thing you needed was a load of gossip from Janet. Who’d she have a go at this time? Pete?”

    “No.” Polly sniffled slightly and rubbed her eyes. “No, ’course not.”

    “It’s been known. She’s a man-hater from way back. Look, just ignore every prejudiced syllable the cow utters!”

    “Drink this, Polly, dear,” said Livia, coming back with a hefty slug of brandy in a whisky tumbler.

    Polly took the glass in a shaking hand. It chattered against her teeth.

    Livia’s rosebud mouth firmed. “Polly, darling,” she said firmly, sitting down beside her and patting her arm, “the woman’s spite isn’t worth your time. She told poor Jayne the most incredible rigmarole about Wallace and reduced the poor thing to tears. And I have to say it, even if she has her facts right, and half the time they’re twisted anyway, nobody needs to be told things so spitefully!”

    Polly sipped the brandy. “No. It was just that… I mean, she was absolutely awful ab-about Libby’s luh-lovely Bob, and I mean, he’s the sort of man who looks after you when you’ve got cramps and—and gives you a huh-hottie and everything… Jake used to, too.” A tear ran down her cheek.

    Livia exchanged a grim glance with Jan. “Yes, of course, my dear. Bob’s absolutely devoted to Libby, and she adores him, they’re just about the most contented couple I’ve ever met!”

    Polly sniffed, and wiped her cheek with her hand. “Yes. And he’s so attractive, so I dare say scores of women have thrown themselves at him…”

    Jan grimaced in spite of herself, so Livia said quickly: “Naturally, darling, but that was all in the past. Well, goodness, we’ve all got a past, haven’t we? I certainly have! And as for Wallace—well, all those ex-wives, and goodness knows how many girlfriends as well!”

    “Mm. Jake always said he didn’t know what they saw in him. But of course he’s a joli-laid,” said Polly with a weak smile.

    Livia wouldn’t have a clue what she meant, Jan recognised drily, but she promptly cooed: “Absolutely, darling! So just don’t give poor, silly Janet’s gossip another thought!”

    “No,” she said, sniffling slightly. “I won’t.”

    “Now, drink that up.”

    “I’ll get tipsy,” said Polly weakly.

    “Then you’ll be in good company: we sank a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and I don’t think those chicken tarts we had with it have managed to soak it up,” admitted Jan.

    “No!” agreed Livia with a giggle. “That’s better, Polly: drink it all!’

    Polly drank and set the tumbler down with a sigh. “Thanks, Livia, I do feel better… It wasn’t just about Bob,” she revealed abruptly.

    Jan and Livia might have been seen to blench: had Janet been having a go at Jake? But surely even Janet couldn’t have been that tactless?

    “She said there was a man called Stuh-Stanley Smith,” Polly explained.

    “Uh—round here? Might’ve been before my time,” Jan conceded. “What the Hell did he do?”

    “Nothing.” She fumbled for her handkerchief and blew her nose. “I mean, she said he was the Mike Short type—he’s the man who hires out boats, isn’t he?”

    “Yeah,” said Jan uneasily. Mike Short was the most notorious womaniser in Taupo.

    “Only it cuh-couldn’t have been him, because she said he was tall and he had red hair and he looked like Charlton Heston— Buh-but she said ‘fish’ and then she said ‘Stanley Smith!’” Abruptly Polly burst into a storm of tears.

    They didn’t ask, they just got her calmed down, washed her face with a cool, damp flannel, and made her lie down with a light blanket over her. And tottered back to the kitchen.

    “Stanley Smith?” enquired Livia, pulling an awful face.

    “Nope. Rings no bells whatsoever.” Jan sat down heavily at the kitchen table. “My God. I knew she was unsettled, but…”

    “I know, darling,” she cooed sympathetically. “I’ll make a nice cuppa, shall I?”

    “Thanks, Livia, I could do with one,” sighed Jan.

    … “I suppose,” she sighed when they were sipping them, “speculation is fruitless. If she’s never mentioned him to either of us…”

    “Mm. It could be someone from the past, I suppose, but I really thought I’d heard about all of them, Jan!”

    “Yeah. Well, God knows who she might’ve met when Jake dragged her off on those overseas jaunts of his. And then,” said Jan heavily, “there were all the times he took off leaving her on her ownsome.”

    “Mm.” Livia sighed. “But I thought I knew… I mean, she’s always seemed to take them so lightly, Jan!”

    “Yeah. Well,” said Jan drily, “I suppose we can disallow any Charlton Heston lookalikes that may turn up. Leaves the field pretty wide open, doesn’t it?”

    “He could be anyone, yes. Um… fish?”

    After a blank moment Jan croaked: “Down here? But they all fish!”

    “Yes. And then,” she realised brilliantly, “if there were two Stanley Smiths I’m sure Janet would have mentioned it!”

    “You’re right,” Jan agreed heavily. “Well, that still leaves the rest of the world.”

    “Quite. Oh, dear. I do wonder… Well, something must have gone drastically wrong between her and the man, Jan, dear!”

    Jan sighed again. That was pretty much the only conclusion you could draw—yeah.

Next chapter:

https://anothercountry-apuririchronicle.blogspot.com/2023/08/consolation.html