Falling Apart

11

Falling Apart

    “Come on, it’ll be fun!” said Daffyd Owens with his booming laugh.

    Laurie smiled weakly. He was one of those relentlessly cheerful men, why hadn’t it dawned before? Well, her hormones had been going berserk that time in the back of the car, she hadn’t been up to noticing anything, much, and he’d been talking music non-stop with his mates—but looking back, he had been very cheerful that evening, too, only she’d put it down to Springer House Restaurant’s booze and food. He’d been relentlessly cheerful ever since he got here. It was better than having a captious, complaining boss, true.

    Not only was he relentlessly cheerful, he was an organiser. The sort who managed you, cheerfully but relentlessly, into doing stuff for your own good. So far he’d carted her down the Potters Inlet pub with Jack and Nefertite, carted her off for a lovely drive to a place that sold goats’ milk soap, and carted her over to Jardine Holiday Horse Treks.

    At the pub they’d had to talk to a man called Steve who ran the local scouts, or was it the local Lions? Or maybe both? Anyway, something like that. It turned out he also organised the local Christmas carollers and, not seeming to realise who he was talking to, he cordially invited Daffyd Owens to join them this year, which he happily agreed to. Jack and Nefertite appeared to take it in their strides but Laurie felt like sinking right through the dusty wooden floor of the Potters Inlet pub.

    At the place that sold goats’ milk soap Daffyd had bought mountains of the soap and as they also sold cheese, mountains of that and made her, Laurie, taste some of the fresh stuff. Ugh! It only looked like cottage cheese: it tasted, surprisingly enough, of goat. Some of it had been rolled in ash. Laurie didn’t ask why, she just said very firmly: “No. As it is you’ll be lucky if I don’t chunder all over the car on the way home.” Then having to translate, evidently “chunder” wasn’t part of the Welsh vocabulary. He only laughed, of course. She didn’t actually throw the stuff up but she could taste it all the way home.

    At Jardine Holiday Horse Treks he’d made her get on a horse. Fortunately Gil, the handsome man with the stiff arm who was in charge of them, seemed to realise that that was all she was capable of, because he just led the thing gently round the paddock and then let her get off and go back to the house and sit on the verandah with his sister-in-law, Honey, and eat scones and jam. Daffy, however, complete with a real Akubra, where he’d got that from Laurie wasn’t up to asking, after cheerfully demonstrating by riding a stoutish black thing all round the paddock that he could be trusted on a horse, went off for a ride with him and some fancily dressed people from the ecolodge.

    “He’s always like that,” Laurie said dully to nice Honey Jardine. “Relentlessly cheerful.”

    “I see. It must be rather tiring, Brenda,” she replied thoughtfully.

    “Yeah,” said Laurie gratefully. “It is.”

    By the Sunday night she’d have jacked it in if she had the choice, but of course she didn’t, really. There was no transport to Barrabarra, even if the bus that got into the city at some ungodly hour of the night would actually be going, the night before a public holiday.

    This evening his plan was to join up with Bernie and Ann Anderson, who ran the crafts centre. They were having a casual drinks evening and the people from Jardine Holiday Horse Treks wouldn’t be able to stay for long because they had a lot to do for their bunkhouse full of guests. Laurie couldn’t see she’d be much of a replacement for them, but it was pointless trying to argue with Daffy Owens with the bit between his teeth. The Andersons were really nice—well, he was another Brit, the place seemed to be a home away from home for them, but she was just an ordinary Aussie, thank God. But having to remember she was Brenda all the time was gonna ruin what could have been a nice laid-back evening!

    Nice Ann had already told her not to get gussied up and when Laurie asked weakly what the others would be wearing had replied: “Well, if the weather was warmer Nefertite’d be in a muumuu over nothing very much—it’s kind of frightening at first but ya get used to it, and the blokes enjoy it—only it’s not that hot yet, so it’ll either be a cardy and a pair of old slacks or a model frock, take ya pick. Honey’ll be in old jeans, ’bout as glam’ as yours truly, really. If Rosemary can spare the time from the kitchen she’ll either be in daggy jeans or a model frock. Wear anything, in other words, Brenda!”

    Aw, gee. Ann was in daggy jeans and a washed-out tee under an old cardy, Honey was in daggy jeans and a faded blue tee, Rosemary, Gil’s fiancée, was in newish jeans and an old pink jumper—mind you, she was such a pretty little thing it didn’t matter what she wore—and Nefertite was in a glowing silk wrap-over blouse in a bright pattern of emerald, lapis lazuli and gold above a skin-tight pair of black stretch pants that with her figure Laurie wouldn’t have dared to get round in in public. Over nothing very much. Well, demonstrably over a lot, but nothing very much in the way of undergarments—no. A bit of bright blue lace, in fact. When Laurie and Daffy arrived there were three blokes there besides Bernie, the host: Gil Sotherland, Jack Jackson and bloody Dan Sutcliffe! Jack’s was legitimate, so to speak, after all he was the bloke that was living with her, but the others certainly seemed to be enjoying it as much as he was. Judging by the silly grins on their mugs every time they addressed her.

    Luckily polite chat didn’t seem to be the purpose of the evening, getting kaylied seemed more to be the purpose of the evening. Okay, Laurie was up for that! She let Bernie give her an enormous Bundy and Coke. Easy on the Coke. And the ice. Maybe she’d feel fortified enough after she’d got it down her to ask Dan Sutcliffe what the Hell he was doing here with that grin on his mug.

    “I think you know Dan Sutcliffe,” said Bernie nicely.

    Laurie awarded the smirking Dan a glare. “I don’t know him. We’ve met.”

    “He said you kindly gave him lunch,” said the mild-mannered Bernie with his nice smile.

    “Well, I didn’t. He gave me lunch,” said Laurie flatly.

    “Mea culpa,” agreed Dan, grinning.

    “They’re camping on our place, up near our border with you,” explained Gil.

    So he was the one the bloody man had suckered! “Just watch out they don’t start a bushfire,” she said sourly.

    “Uh—I think Dan’s quite competent,” said Gil feebly.

    Laurie eyed him drily. “This’d be competent as in got them both lost, would it? They had to ask me where they were.”

    At this point Dan collapsed in splutters, gasping: “Don’t pursue it, Gil!” And the tactful Bernie hurriedly offered top-ups all round.

    She did eventually discover that the reason the nephew wasn’t with him this evening was that he’d been taken on as temporary assistant barman at the ecolodge: they were terrifically short-staffed: Vern’s cousin had arrived on the Friday as scheduled but evidently the new assistant housekeeper hadn’t turned up.

    “Came down with a horrible cold at the last minute. Rung Annabel and apologised,” explained Jack. “She told her to stay in bed, no sense in coming up here and giving it to all the guests. Anyway, Iain, the temporary butler joker, he’s been pitching in, spelling Vince on Reception and helping Annabel with the cleaning until young Helen arrived. –Thought ’e might not pull ’is weight, to tell you the truth, only he’s okay, doesn’t mind what he turns his hand to.”

    “Of course,” said Gil with a little smile.

    “Yeah, well, you were right about him, Gil,” he conceded. “Mind you, he thinks the whole thing’s a joke.”

    “Isn’t it?” he murmured.

    Jack collapsed in splutters, having to wipe his eyes and blow his nose after them. “Too right!”

    “Those giant raw clay arches holding up nothing are my favourite,” said Daffy with a grin.

    “Yeah. Well, they are pretty good, yeah!” Jack agreed.

    “Defining the space, Daffy, darling!” said Nefertite with her deep, gurgling laugh.

    “Don’t start me off again, love,” warned her partner in life unsteadily. “No, well, of course it is a joke, Gil, only poor old Vince won’t like it if your mate Iain lets on to the guests that that’s what he feels about it.”

    “I think he’s safe for the immediate future, Jack,” Gil replied calmly. “I don’t know that I’d recommend taking him on long-term, though.”

    “No, pretty much what I thought,” he agreed. “Well, he told Vince himself that he only wants to do it short-term. Likes the variety of temping. Well, I did, meself: ya see a bit of life, eh? Only poor old Vince is gonna be left without a butler again at the end of the week, and the busy season’s coming up.”

    Laurie opened and shut her mouth.

    “What?” said Dan mildly.

    “Nothing!” she gasped, turning puce. “Um, well, I was only gonna say, surely the temp agency can find someone?”

    “They’re trying. Not that many people wanna live all the way out here,” replied Jack simply.

    “We love it,” put in Nefertite, beaming.

    All of the blokes without exception were now looking at her with identical silly smiles on their silly male mugs!

    “What?” said Laurie dully to her hostess, jumping.

    “Fancy some salt and vinegar chips?” repeated Ann, smiling at her.

    “Uh—haven’t they all gone?”

    “Nah, there’s another packet that I’ve been saving. Want some, Nefertite?” offered Ann generously, retrieving them from a pot cupboard.

    “Mm, love some, darling!”

    “Ooh, goody; me, too, please!” cried Rosemary. “We love salt and vinegar, don’t we, Honey?”

    The ladies ate salt and vinegar crisps in the crafts centre’s big kitchen-living room what time the males, gratefully accepting Daffy’s offer of a cigarillo, not that he smoked, escaped to the back verandah.

    “Thanks. I don’t smoke, either, mind,” warned Dan, taking a cigarillo.

    “Me, neither, gave it up yonks back. –Ta,” said Jack, lighting up. “Not you,” he said heavily to Gil. “Not with a lung missing.”

    “Ooh, you are mean, Mummy! No, well, better not, Daffy, thanks all the same,” he admitted.

    On the verandah a peaceful silence reigned for some time. In fact Bernie and Dan sat down on the steps on the strength of it, while Daffy and Gil took the two sagging basket chairs and Jack propped his back against a verandah post.

    “So you’re getting on okay with Brenda, Daffy?” said Gil at last.

    “Of course!” said the singer with his jolly chuckle. “She’s spoiling me horribly, in fact! We had pancakes for breakfast this morning.”

    “She strikes me as a nice woman,” said Jack temperately.

    “Well, you’re the one that hired her, old mate,” noted Bernie cordially.

    “Not really, I just told Gail what Daffy wanted, and she found her. Or one of her obbos, there’s several placement consultants.”

    “This was an agency, was it, Jack?” ventured Dan.

    “Eh? Yeah, RightSmart, they’re called. Used to do some temping for them meself. They found some staff for Blue Gums, too.”

    “I see. So, uh, you don’t know anything about her, yourself?”

    “Nope. Well, like I say, strikes me as a nice woman. You got anything against her? They’ll of vetted her, they always check out their candidates’ references.”

    “Uh—I’m sure they do. I haven’t got anything at all against her. But I just wondered if... Well, I asked her if there was a Mr Worthing and she pretty well slapped me down. S’pose it was none of my business, but it was a natural question, after all. You wouldn’t know anything about her background, then?”

    Jack scratched his chin slowly. “Nah... It was young Christie who rung me up, she’s the one that placed me in my first job for them. Said she hadn’t found her, one of the others had, but she was snowed under with cooks or something. I think she said it was Mrs Worthing, but I could be wrong. Told me a bit about her experience and I said that sounded okay.”

    “Er, Dan,” said Bernie cautiously, “if there’s a busted marriage in her background she may just prefer to forget it.”

    “Yes, you’re probably right,” said Dan slowly. Her reaction had been really odd, looking back. “She did say she’d never been married.”

    “Oy, Jack, that was addressed to you, I think!” said Bernie with a laugh in his voice.

    “Eh?” he said vaguely. “Had us over for tea the other day, done a really nice trifle, didn’t she, Daffy? Bit like my mum used to make. –Um, well, I dunno, Dan. Seems like a pretty genuine type to me. Ya can’t fake good home cooking, ya know.”

    Dan gave a sheepish laugh. “No!”

    In the gloom Daffy gave him a shrewd glance, but merely said mildly: “She hasn’t mentioned her circumstances to me, and I haven’t liked to ask—after all, she’s working for me, her private life is her own affair. But Jack’s right: she seems completely genuine, Dan. It wouldn’t be surprising, at her age, if there is a broken marriage, like Bernie says.”

    “Yeah,” agreed Jack. “You sounded her out about Christmas, yet, Daffy?”

    “She doesn’t think she’ll be free. I did put forward your idea about her living in the house and looking after the place while I’m away, but she doesn’t fancy it. And I’ve got a recording session in Vienna in early January: I don’t know that I’ll be able to make it after all, Jack.”

    It was Gil’s turn to give Daffy a shrewd look, but he said nothing. If the chap didn’t really fancy the house after all, that wasn’t surprising: it must be thirty years since he’d had to live that simple a life—more: he didn’t look it, but he was well into his fifties. But he was bloody sure that owning a run-down property in rural New South Wales wouldn’t drive Daffyd Owens bankrupt. Sleeping dogs could lie for a bit.

    Dan hadn’t really thought there’d be a chance of getting Brenda to himself that evening. On the other hand she hadn’t seemed all that keen on Owens—that was a plus! He walked back to his camp under the stars very slowly. He had it completely to himself, Vern was kipping in the empty acres of staff accommodation up at the ecolodge.

    He woke with the birds and martyred himself by taking a dip in the creek. You had to walk along the cliff top for a bit until you found the big rocky outcrop that forced the path to detour. The way down to the creek was just at the back of it. At this time of year the creek was about as full as it ever got: about knee-high on him. It ran for several miles through a sort of mini-ravine, which must have been its path down to the inlet for thousands of years, but further up, where the terrain flattened out, it was possible to ford it easily—and in fact he and Vern had seen the place where young Phil Sotherland and his trekkers sometimes did ford it, on the rare occasions when there was a bunkhouse full of guests who could really ride. Sitting on a rock drying himself, Dan reflected that it wasn’t a bad life. He was mad, wasting his time in the bloody city, only getting away in the weekends for a bit of fishing or backpacking! Owens hadn’t seemed all that excited about that dump he’d bought, had he? Would he sell it, maybe? From what Gil had said, a fair bit of land went with it. Not productive land, no: on this side of the creek it was all lowish scrub interspersed with scattered taller eucalypts and a lot of rocks. Unproductive clay soil. Some of it had been farmed back in the nineteenth century—little more than subsistence farming, it would’ve been—and further inland there’d been logging, which certainly explained the degraded look a lot of the country had—but these days there was no agricultural activity apart from a pig farm a few miles out of Potters Inlet, over to the west, and a couple of poultry factory-farms nearer to Barrabarra. The sort of places that made you decide never to eat bacon and eggs again...

    Yes, well, he could swing the purchase, but in order to live up here he’d have to give up the job, and then he’d have nothing to live off, would he? Bugger. Well, there was his superannuation—could he cash it in? He had a feeling you weren’t allowed to do that, these days. He’d check it out, anyway. Worst-case scenario, the super would have to stay in the fund until he was sixty-five. Ugh, that was a fair stretch of time with no income. Was there anything at all that could bring in cash dough in the wilds of Potters Inlet, within cooee of the Black Stump? B&B, like those neighbours of Gil’s? Ugh. They had a parking-lot full of nice silver Mitsubishis, Holdens and Toyotas, the owners thereof having been seen at the crafts centre cooing over Bernie’s bloody studies of eucalypts that he admitted himself were pot-boilers, and buying up the charming quilted pot-holders decorated with sprays of English wildflowers. Ann had revealed cheerfully that these were made by Deanna Springer using a floral sheet she’d bought at a sale, and were only machine-quilted: they’d discovered that the punters didn’t care. The big quilts they had on display were hand-quilted, but it was usually only the rich tourists from Blue Gums Ecolodge who asked about those.

    But Dan didn’t have any craft skills at all. Well, uh, bite on the bullet, accept that he was only gonna get the relentlessly nice sort as clients, and start another B&B? The chatty Ann had told him Bob and Deanna were busy most of the year, now, word had got around. But of course their restaurant was a big draw, there was no way Dan could compete with that. Nor did he want to, frankly. So—bed and breakfast with the option of lunching and dining at the restaurant, the attractions of the crafts centre and, uh—the piggery? Er, how many punters a year would he have to get to pay his rates, his electricity and water bills and feed himself? The B&B game was really only suited to retired couples with a hefty super lump sum under their belts. Um, make it more of a fishing lodge? The fishing in the inlet wouldn’t be exciting, though, and they were a long way from the open sea: the network of inlets wound inland for miles... Still, with a decent launch—might be possibilities.

    He wouldn’t want the Springers to feel he was setting himself up in opposition to them, though. Um... would they wear a partnership, perhaps? Not a full partnership, maybe, but the sort of arrangement where he ran, let’s say Springer House subsidiary, and the Springers were responsible for the advertising and stuff? But again, the place’d have to generate enough business to feed him and pay its bills...

    Dan wandered slowly back to his campsite and made billy tea, chewing it over carefully but not coming to any conclusion at all. Except that Bob Springer was a bloody lucky bloke to have found a nice little second wife who didn’t mind living miles from anywhere and could put up with the middle-aged, middle-class sort. True, the girl was pregnant, he wouldn't fancy starting a second family at his age—Bob’d be within a few years of his own age, for God’s sake. Dan had only met the two of them briefly, but Bob had struck him as terrifically easy-going. Probably you did have to have that sort of temperament, not just to put up with the idea of being a dad all over again in your fifties, but to put up with his bloody customers.

    There was nothing to eat at the campsite. Uh, try Brenda? Owens’d be there, though. Dan made a face. Undoubtedly Gil would feed him but he had no intention of grafting off him, especially on what must be one of their busiest mornings of the year. Pity he didn’t know one end of a horse from  the other: he’d be happy to help groom the things, but he wouldn’t know where to start, frankly. Um, maybe if he went over to the B&B and, um... Looked hungry, yeah. Offered to do some odd jobs? What was the time? Oh, bugger.

    Okay, he’d just sit here and brood...

    “There’s some bacon and eggs going, if you’re interested,” said a voice from behind him.

    Dan leapt and gasped. “Uh—thanks very much, Jack,” he said feebly. “That’d be great. Uh—do you always get up at crack of dawn?” he added feebly, scrambling up.

    Helpfully Jack dowsed his campfire with the remains of his billy tea. “Pretty much, yeah. Well, always been an early bird, ya see, worked in the building trade most of me life, and Nefertite, she has to sing her morning chorus.”

    All around them the birds were certainly singing theirs. Dan looked at him uncertainly. “What?”

    “Sings like a bird. Sounds a bit like the maggies, actually. You’ll see,” he said cheerfully, forging off into the hinterland.

    Feebly Dan followed him.

    “I see!” he said with a feeble laugh as they neared the three little bungalows and the liquid notes discernible on the still air resolved themselves into magpies on the bit of lawn outside the crafts centre building and Antigone Walsingham Corrant singing her morning chorus.

    “She reckons it’s only scales,” said Jack neutrally.

    “Like Beluga caviar’s only fish eggs!” retorted Dan with feeling.

    “Yeah,” he said, grinning at him. “Gil said that, too. Good, eh?”

    It was more than good. “Super-good!” owned Dan with a laugh.

    “Yep. Never get sick of listening to her,” he said happily. “Come in, you can hear her good from the kitchen with the passage door open.”

    He led the way round to the back door of the little yellow bungalow behind the chef’s house. You could hear her good, all right. It went on for some time, during which neither of them did anything about bacon and eggs.

    “Yeah,” said Jack finally. “Think that’s it, that was the new song. She’s doing a couple of concerts with Daffy down in Sydney next week. We were hoping he’d make it out for Christmas, but sounds as if he’s gonna chicken out, eh?”

    “Uh—mm. I sort of got that impression last night,” Dan admitted.

    “Yeah. Want tomatoes?” he asked, getting up.

    “Yes, please!” said a liquid contralto voice from the doorway. “Hullo, Dan.”

    Dan found he’d gone very red, what a tit! “Hullo, Nefertite. I’m afraid I’ve been listening to you practise.”

    “That’s okay!” she said with that liquid, gurgling laugh.

    “Beats shelling out your dough for the bloody Opera House, eh?” put in Jack comfortably. “If ya come up here next month you can get a whole concert for free, too. Usually does a big concert with some mates from the orchestra or a string quartet or something in late November, and then again in March. Sort of under cover, it’s that big carport arrangement over the way. We cordon off the seating area but ya can’t stop sound waves, eh?”

    Dan looked limply at the singer but she merely nodded and beamed encouragingly at him. “Thanks. I’ll bear it in mind,” he said feebly.

    Quantities of bacon, egg, tomatoes and toast had been consumed, together with a pot of excellent coffee that certainly removed the last, lingering memory of that bloody billy tea, by the time the phone rang. Daffy for Nefertite. She didn’t manage to get many words in edgeways but it didn’t look like good news.

    “Chickened out?” said Jack as she hung up.

    “Out of which, darling?” she replied glumly, sitting down.

    “Aw, cripes. Go on.”

    “It’s the house as well as Christmas. Well, winter’s always a busy time of year in Europe, and you know what it’s like, fitting in recording sessions. And one doesn’t turn down a request to record with the Vienna Philharmonic,”—here Jack winked at Dan and he swallowed involuntarily—“but he’s decided not to keep the house on, after all!”

    “It is a bit of a dump, love,” said Jack fairly.

    “But goodness gracious, Jack, when we rang him about it originally he went on about getting back to his roots and—and the simple life!”

    “A bit too simple,” said Dan drily.

    “Well, I think he might’ve decided to stick with it if it was in Europe, but it’s too far: he can’t just pop over when he feels like a weekend away from everything,” she said sadly.

    “That makes sense,” Dan admitted.

    “Yeah, but the thing is, him owning the property was supposed to stop hordes of trendies from building bloody glass-walled holiday homes on it,” explained Jack sourly.

    Dan winced. “Oh, boy.”

    “See, we’re too far out for a comfortable commute—you’d be leaving home around five in the morning and lucky to get back, what with the bloody Sydney rush hour, before nine—but it’s handy for a weekend, even for a working couple: leave work early on the Friday, you’re here by seven-thirty, in nice time for dinner. Then ya drive back after dinner on the Sunday, get home by midnight or so. The B&B’s been doing really well out of Sydneysiders that fancy a weekend of decent nosh. With real wood fires in winter.”

    “I see...” said Dan thoughtfully. “Any idea how much Owens would want for the place?”

    “Uh—I can tell you how much he paid for it, dare say he’d only want his price back, but there’s a fair bit of land goes with it.”

    “Go on, how much?”

    Looking very neutral, Jack told him.

    “Yeah. Well, I could swing it. Have to get a mortgage, mind you. Unfortunately it’d mean seven hours’ driving per day, minimum, if I want to go on earning a crust.”

    “Yeah,” said Jack with considerable sympathy. “Had a bit of that, meself, till the job at the ecolodge come good.”

    “Could you perhaps have a timeshare arrangement, Dan?” ventured Nefertite.

    Who did he know that would fancy part of a weekender—well, a good-sized house but functionally a weekender—halfway to Outer Woop-Woop? A weekender that was not gonna be trendified, because that’d completely spoil the object of the exercise!

    “Well, uh...” Dan made a face. “Trying to think of someone that doesn’t want a glass-walled monstrosity. So far the answer’s a lemon. But it’s a bloody good idea, Nefertite.”

    “Bob might know of someone. We’ll ask around,” decided Jack.

    When Dan had departed for his campsite Nefertite said slowly: “Do you think he’s really interested in the MacMurray place?”

    “Um, dunno,” Jack admitted, scratching his chin. “He’s genuine about liking it, yeah. Um, think he’d of gone for it if it was just the house and the strip of land it’s on. But it’s about a hundred hectares, all up: that really bumps the price up. Dare say the council might wear subdividing it—well, they were happy for YDI to buy that chunk of Bob’s property for Blue Gums Ecolodge, eh? But once they start subdividing it’s the beginning of the end.”

    “Mm. Well, I dare say Daffy won’t want to sell it straight away.”

    The good-natured, energetic Daffy had struck Jack very forcibly as the sort of person that liked to polish things off. Rush into them, very likely—yes. But definitely polish them off, see them properly settled, once he’d rushed. “Mm. Well, let’s hope so,” he said heavily.

    Dan had been walking for some time, and had completed a loop up as far as the ecolodge and returned as far as Jardine holiday Horse Treks, when he spotted her. Sitting on the cliff top above the creek, again. Looked as if she was brooding. Hell. He approached with caution.

    “Hullo, again. Anything up?”

    Laurie swallowed a sigh. “Not exactly. Daffy’s decided to pack it in and spend the week at a nice comfortable Sydney hotel.”

    “He’s got several concerts on, hasn’t he? Can’t blame him for not wanting to drive for three hours at dead of night to get home.”

    “No. He wanted to pay me for the whole week, but of course I can’t let him, the contract specifies that he might not need the extra week. He’s giving up the house, too.”

    “Yeah—I was over with Jack and Nefertite when he rang with the bad news. They’re afraid the area’ll be subdivided for trendies to put up glass-walled holiday palaces.”

    Laurie shuddered. “Ugh!”

    “Mm. Well, uh—walk it off? It is a lovely day.”

    “Yes, and the weekend hasn’t ended yet,” said Laurie with a forced smile, getting up.

    They wandered along in silence. After quite a while he ventured: “Seen the Springers’ famous ‘Bush Ramble Track’ with its sign? Real pokerwork.”

    “Fifteen of them have already mentioned it to me, and you don’t even live here!” replied Laurie crossly.

    “Sorry I spoke.”

    “No, I’m sorry,” she said heavily. “It is a beautiful day.”

    After a while—Dan was aware they were now off Jardine Holiday Horse Treks’ property and on the old MacMurray place but he wasn’t too sure she was—the track became considerably rougher and he said on a desperate note: “For God’s sake let me take your arm or I’ll have a conniption worrying that you’re going to trip!”

    Laurie sighed. “I’m wearing sneakers, there’s no reason I should be the one to trip and not you, but go on, if you must.”

    Dan bit his lip but took her elbow, and they walked on in silence once more.

    After quite some time he ventured: “You’ve been getting on okay with Owens, have you?”

    “Yes. He’s okay, as a boss.”

    “But?”

    “If you must have it, he’s one of those relentlessly cheerful types!” she said crossly.

    “Oops. Merry and bright over the breakfast table, is he?”

    “Yes. And the rest of the time. And he’s been pushing me into stuff.”

    They walked on silently.

    Finally Dan said flatly: “It hasn’t turned out like you expected, then.”

    Laurie swallowed. “No,” she admitted hoarsely.

    “I’ve heard his Sachs,” he said thoughtfully. “I don’t think he could’ve been acting, after all. Uh—sorry: Die Meistersinger. Sachs is a merry and bright sort of personality.”

    “I see what you mean. I’m not into Wagner, but my boss is, I’ve heard her rave about his performance in that. I’ve got a CD of him doing Papageno. All that—that cheery, simple soul: it really is him.”

    “Mm.” Her boss? Okay, one of his earlier suspicions seemed to be confirmed and she must be moonlighting: earning a bit of extra dough in her holidays. He wasn’t going to ask: he was bloody sure she’d shut up like a clam. “Mozart fan, are you, Brenda?” he asked nicely.

    “Um—not really. I mean, I’m not really musical. I can’t read a note of music.”

    “Listening doesn’t require that,” said Dan mildly.

    “No-o... I just like... pieces.”

    “That’s good,” he said very, very mildly. “The bush smells good, eh?”

    “What? Um, yes. –Ooh!” she gasped, stumbling and grabbing at him.

    “See?” said Dan very, very mildly.

    “I can see it’s a miracle I didn’t pull you over with me!” gasped Laurie, very shaken.

    “Balls. Not a nine-stone weakling.”

    “Um—no,” she said on an uncertain note, releasing him.

    Cautiously Dan took her arm again.

    “What if I do pull you over?” she said in a muffled voice, not looking at him.

    “I’ll arrange to fall on top of you, it’ll be an experience I’ll remember till I’m ninety!”

    “Shut up,” she growled, turning scarlet.

    “Listen,” said Dan with a laugh in his voice: “what say we join forces and buy the property off Owens?”

    “I haven’t got any money,” she replied simply.

    Ouch! “Sorry,” he said weakly.

   “I’ve been earning—” Laurie broke off.

    “Mm?” ventured Dan.

    “Um, nothing, I mean, some of the jobs I’ve had have paid quite well, but rents are horrendous in Sydney. I suppose I should have taken Mum’s advice years back, and got a giant mortgage the minute I was offered a permanent job, but I could only have afforded a dump and I didn’t fancy two hours on the train or the bus to get to work.”

    “I see,” he said nicely. “Your parents couldn’t have helped you, then?”

    “There’s only Mum. Dad never married her: he was French, that’s why I—” Laurie broke off with a gasp: she’d nearly said “That’s why I was named Laurence, it’s a girl’s name in French.”

    “Mm?” murmured Dan.

    “Nothing! Will you stop interrogating me?” she replied fiercely, pulling her arm out of his grasp.

    Oh, shit. Dan didn’t think he'd been interrogating her: wasn’t it the normal question in the circumstances? He walked beside her in glum silence until the house was in sight and then said goodbye. Funnily enough she didn’t seem sorry to see the back of him. Well, bugger!

    Jardine Holiday Horse Treks’ Labour-Weekenders had all gone and there were no more bookings for a whole three weeks—at which time they could expect an influx of post-exam university students looking for a cheap break before they started their holiday jobs. Cheap and very, very energetic. Oh, well, Phil was young and fit, he could take them on some long treks. And his Jen would have finished her own university course by then, so she’d be on deck to help out! Gil went and sat on the verandah on the strength of it.

    “Ooh! Uh—hullo,” he said weakly, waking to find someone was sitting beside him. “You still up here, then?”

    “Yeah. Provisionally,” replied Iain on a wry note.

    “Oh, lawks. Go on, break the bad news.”

    “There’s no definite bad news as yet, but Vince is going round with a face like a fiddle and Annabel’s assistant housekeeper isn’t coming after all.”

    “Uh—didn’t the woman come down with the flu or something?” said Gil hazily.

    “Yes, but Annabel’s been told to tell RightSmart that she won’t be needed after all, and Vince isn’t allowed to hire a new receptionist.”

    Gil raised his eyebrows. “Mm. Writing on the wall, eh? It is a year since they opened.”

    “That’s right: the money boys at YDI’s Head Office will be doing their sums and coming up with a lemon as the answer. Would they be likely to give the place the chop after only a year?”

    Gil rubbed his nose. “Dunno.”

    Iain gave him a dry look. “Isn’t your pal Tarlington one of their project managers?”

    “Well, yes, but we don’t exchange breathless telephone gossip every evening. Added to which, he’s in Development: once the ecolodges are up they’re the responsibility of Hospitality. –That’s capital D and capital H.”

    Iain choked slightly. “Yeah.”

    Gil smiled just a little. “I could contact him if you’re worried about Vince, Iain.”

    “I—” Iain made a face. “Yeah, okay, Gil, could you? Thanks.”

    “Has he mentioned a fellow called Terry?”

    “Uh—yes, friend from, um, Western Australia, is it?”

    “That’s right,” Gil agreed. “More than a friend, we gather. They want to open their own ecolodge, but there’s the problem of Terry’s old mum, who’s in a retirement home in Perth. Still fairly mobile, but she’s lived in Perth all her life and Terry’s her only child. If they want to start up their own place within the next few years it’ll have to be over there, and within reasonable driving distance of the city. So far they haven’t found anything that looks likely and is within their price range. Well, they’d be happy with an empty block of land provided its position was right: they’d put the place up themselves.” Gil made a face. “We’ve been sort of hoping none of it’ll happen, I’m afraid, because if Blue Gums folds that’d leave Jack without a job here, and if Vince and Terry do want to build, what’s the betting he’ll go over to lend a hand?”

    “Jesus,” said Iain numbly.

    “Uh-huh. What we need is a plutocrat to buy up Blue Gums and keep all the staff on,” said Gil drily. “Know any of them?”

    “Um—well, my stepfather’s rolling in it, but he’s ex-Russian mafia, pretty much. Added to which he wouldn’t be prepared to listen for an instant to anything I suggested. Added to added to which, awfully sorry and all that, but I’m not prepared to crawl to him.”

    “Mm. I’m in pretty much the same position with Mummy’s fifth. –Dwight. Filthy-rich Yank arms manufacturer. Decent enough chap within his lights, but—” Gil shrugged.

    “I see.” One of Martin Richardson’s long, boring stories came back to Iain at this point, so he suggested delicately: “Your brother?”

    “Myra doesn’t let him hold the purse strings, dear chap!” said Gil with a loud laugh.

    “Right, that’s it for the plutocrat idea, then.”

    “Mm. Blue Gums got any bookings this week?”

    Iain shrugged. “Another lot of Swiss arriving on Friday, just for the weekend, going on up to the Alice on the Monday, and that’s it until Christmas.”

    Gil hadn’t expected it to be that bad: after all, they were almost in summer and the weather, certainly by European standards, was very mild and pleasant. “Ouch.”

    “Yeah. I’m staying on for the week, but there’s not much to do: Annabel and I got the mountains of sheets and towels on the lines this morning. Been giving Jack a bit of a hand with checking the solar panels and cleaning out the gutters, but that didn’t take long. I did offer to clean the windows, but he’s got that scheduled for Thursday.”

    “In that case there’s nothing for it,” said Gil, shaking his head.

    “What?” replied Iain incautiously.

    “Have to get in a few cold ones.”

    “Hah, hah. Well, yeah, why not?” Iain got up, grinning. “Stay there, I’ll get ’em.”

    “Ooh, ta, Mummy!” he squeaked.

    Grinning, Iain went inside to get ’em in.

    It had been a hectic morning. Gail hung up the phone with a palsied hand and tottered along to get herself a mug of coffee. “We oughta get a proper coffee machine,” she said to Drew, who was there looking sadly into the jar of brown dust.

    “Eh? Well, you’re the boss. Real coffee would be nice!” he decided, brightening.

    “Mm. It’s not the expense, though that’s Fee’s excuse—no, it’s the fluid intake versus the caffeine intake.”

    “I’m sure I saw a programme—Getaway, was it? They said that espresso coffee’s got eight times less caffeine in it because the steam just shoots through it.”

    Gail eyed her employee drily. “Setting aside the question of why you should believe anything you hear on the box, Drew—“

    “Hah, hah.”

    “Setting aside that, that claim has been tested empirically.”

    “And?” he said, grinning.

    “Eight short blacks in a day results in not sleeping for three nights.”

    “Cripes!” he gasped, laughing like a drain.

    “Yeah. Well, that’s one stroke against it. The other is the relative fluid intake of short blacks or even cappuccinos against large mugs,” said Gail, pouring water onto the brown dust in her large mug, “of mud-coloured liquid.”

    “Aw, right: fluid intake, I get it!”

    Something like that—yeah. “Are you still coordinating the Blue Gums Ecolodge jobs?”

    “Pretty much, yeah. Well, passed the housekeeper stuff on to Laurie and the waiting and reception stuff on to Christie, but I am keeping an eye on them, yeah. I don’t think anyone’s put forward the same person for two jobs or anything like that,” he said cautiously.

    “Not that. It sounds as if the bloody place is falling apart. I’ve just had the housekeeper on the phone telling me that they don’t want Veronica Johnson as assistant after all.”

    “Came down with the flu last week,” Drew reminded her.

    “Yes, but my idea was we’d send her up as soon as she was better—had something to do with the contract they signed.”

    Drew eyed her cautiously. “Three months, renewable, but it had a get-out clause.”

    “Yeah, quite. Have we got anyone else up there?”

    “Only Iain Ross: temporary butler. Christie did send them a waitress but they only wanted her for the long weekend.”

    “Iain Ross?” said Gail on a weak note. “Who sent him up there?”

    “Um, me. Um, you did say he wanted short-term contracts.”

    “Yeah. All right, I dare say he can restrain his misplaced sense of humour for the duration.”

    “What’s funny about Blue Gums Ecolodge?” asked her innocent employee, very puzzled.

    She took a very deep breath. “Never mind, just let’s leave it that Iain Ross has got a misplaced sense of humour and next time you want to place him, short-term or not, just tell me in words of one syllable what the job is and where, would you?”

    “Okay,” he said blankly.

    Gail sighed and drank mud-coloured liquid. “Jesus, this is foul,” she muttered.

    “Um, yeah, it seems worse than usual. Um, I think someone left the lid off over the weekend,” he ventured.

    “Give it here.” She unscrewed it and tipped the contents into the sink. “Don’t look so horrified, the exchequer’ll stand a new jar of instant.”

    “I’ll nip out and buy some, if you like,” offered Drew heroically.

    It was a beautiful day and Gail wouldn’t have minded a stroll in the sun herself, actually. “Oh, go on, then. Ask Kathleen for some dough from petty cash—and if she objects, remind her that it doesn’t come hot-minted from her pocket.”

    Drew disappeared, grinning. Gail looked glumly at her mug of mud-coloured liquid, noted: “It won’t be any better, but he’s still young enough to be an optimist,” and drank it. “Ugh!”

    Stale or not, it must still have had caffeine in it, because she felt sufficiently stimulated to totter on to the next task.

    “Oy,” she said, leaning in Laurie’s doorway. “What are you doing here?”

    Actually Laurie was just doing the same as she had been since nine this morning: sitting here feeling very, very, very nervous. “Um, working.”

    “You’re supposed to be on leave all week. What happened? Your mum throw you out of the house?”

    “No—um—I didn’t go!” she gasped.

    “Rang up and told you not to come and she’s gonna leave the lot to your brother?”

    “She will anyway,” admitted Laurie. “Um, no, I just didn’t go.”

    Gail stared at her. “You’re not coming down with the flu, too, are you?”

    “Um, no, who’s got the flu?” replied Laurie in confusion.

    “The assistant housekeeper Christie found for Blue Gums Ecolodge. They’ve seized on it as an excuse to say they don’t want her after all. I think the whole bloody place is falling apart.”

    “Yeah—is it? Yeah,” said Laurie dully. “I’m not that surprised, Potters Inlet is the back end of beyond and there’s nothing to do there.”

    “Er—eat and sleep? Lovely crafts centre?” said Gail with a grin.

    “Nothing up-market for Blue Gums’ sort of punters,” she said heavily. “Well, the guy that runs the horse-riding place has got a Pommy accent you could cut with a knife, he’s up-market enough, but he doesn’t look it, and the place is just an old bungalow with a fresh coat of paint slapped on it.”

    “Uh—thought you avoided the riding?”

    Laurie went very red. “No—I mean, there’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

    Uh-huh. Gail had been starting to get the impression there might be. She came in, shut the door and sat down on the visitor’s chair. “Go on.”

    Laurie licked her lips. “Um, you know that job of Jack’s?”

    “Uh—you mean the one he found for us, with Daffyd Owens? Yes; what about it?”

    “I placed Brenda Worthing, but then she pulled out, her son got engaged up in Darwin and he wanted to bring his fiancée home for Labour Weekend.”

    “Shit, does that mean we left Mr Owens to fend for himself over the long weekend?”

    “No! Um, sorry, I didn’t mean to shout. No, um... I did it,” said Laurie in a small voice.

    “Eh?”

    “I went instead of her. He decided he didn’t want to commute during the week and he’d rather stay in Sydney so, um, that’s why I came back early.”

    “Oh. Oh, well, good on you, wouldn’t want to let a client down!”

    “No, um, you don’t understand, Gail. There would’ve been time to find someone else, only I... wanted to do it,” said Laurie, turning puce.

    Gail sighed. “I see. The crush on Daffyd Owens. Well, no harm done.”

    “No! Just listen! I—I did it as her!” she burst out.

    “Eh?”

    “Brenda Worthing. I pretended I was her,” said Laurie miserably.

    “Why?” she croaked.

    “Because there was time to find someone else and I thought you wouldn’t let me do it,” said Laurie miserably. “And—and even if you did I was sure you’d laugh at me.”

    Gail swallowed. “It is fairly ludicrous, Laurie.”

    “There you are, see? Anyway, it served me right, ’cos I couldn’t take him, he’s one of those relentlessly cheerful people: the sort of person that takes everything in their stride. And he pushes you into things that he’s sure you'll enjoy.”

    “Right. I s’pose it does serve you right. Well, no harm done,” she repeated limply.

    “Um, no, it’s in the database,” said Laurie miserably.

    Gail took a very deep breath. “What is?”

    “Her. Brenda Worthing’s contract.”

    Grimly Gail got up and came to consult Laurie’s computer. Aw, gee, so it was. All the contract details filled in neatly.

    “I can’t get that Tax File Number out,” said Laurie miserably. “But I never put it in there!”

    “Well, no, Laurie, because that isn’t a field your password gives you access to,” said Gail sweetly. “That’s a linked field from the wages database. Presumably we’re paying Brenda Worthing for a job she didn’t do.”

    “Um, no, it’s my Tax File Number!” she said quickly.

    “What?” said Gail very, very quietly.

    Laurie gulped. “I put my Tax File Number on the timesheet. I know the wages database adds the wages together and subtracts the PAYG from the total, so I—I thought it’d be legal.”

    “Legal as far as the Australian Tax Office is concerned, I presume you mean?”

    “Mm.”

    Gail breathed heavily for some time. Finally she said grimly: “I suppose if you had the instincts of a real crook you’d have realised that the only way to fix this is to take out Brenda Worthing’s details from the contract and put yours in. Since you can’t touch that TFN.”

    “I never thought of that,” said Laurie miserably.

    “No? Well, just for the taxman’s benefit do, pray, let me do it,” said Gail sweetly.

    Laurie watched numbly as she did it. “I’m sorry,” she said eventually.

    “I think you ought to be. Look, if you’d just admitted up-front you wanted to do the short-term contract I’d have let you, you idiot!”

    “Mm,” agreed Laurie miserably.

    “I'm going to have to think about this and talk it over with Fee,” said Gail grimly. “She does have an interest in the firm, after all.”

    “I thought you would,” admitted Laurie.

    “In the meantime you’d better go home. You’re supposed to be on leave for the rest of the week anyway.”

    “All right,” agreed Laurie miserably.

    “Go up to Queensland and see your mum.”

    “She hates me.”

    With a superhuman effort Gail restrained herself. “Go up to Queensland, Laurie. Or even further out of my orbit, preferably.”

    “I’ll stay with Hughie,” she decided.

    This was her brother, who was also in Queensland. She got on okay with him, but Leanne, his wife, was an intensely ladylike woman whom she found hard to take. “Yeah, do that. Get Leanne to give you some advice on clothes and hair, you may have to go for job interviews in the very near future,” said Gail unkindly.

    “She will anyway,” replied Laurie gloomily.

    “Yeah. Okay, I’ll see you next week.” Gail opened the door. “By the way,” she said very weakly indeed—after all, if Fee insisted she sack the bloody woman it might be the last chance she had to ask—“how come you got ‘Laurence’ but your brother’s ‘Hughie’? Or had your dad gone home to France by then?”

    “No. Hugues,” said Laurie simply.

    Gail gulped. “Right. See ya.”

   “See ya,” agreed Laurie sadly.

    It was another fine Sunday morning, with a full bunkhouse. All ’orribly ’earty, energetic ones. Gil had let Phil and Jen take them off on a long trek without volunteering his feeble help. He had managed to make Rosemary let him do a pile of washing and hang it on the line—mostly towels, the bunkhousers had been hardy enough to go for a dip in the inlet yesterday afternoon. True, they didn’t have official permission for a dozen half-naked bunkhousers to trail through Blue Gums Ecolodge’s property, go down their concrete steps and use their landing stage, but Vince had said: “Oh, blow it, YDI are gonna pull the plug anyway! Yeah, they can come, Gil.” So they’d went. Result, a dozen very damp towels. Of course by the time he got back to the house Rosemary had done a couple of loads in the dish-washing machine, washed up the remainder of the brekkie dishes by hand and to boot tidied the kitchen, and was finishing the vacuuming. So there was nothing left for Gil to do but sit on the verandah while she made scones for elevenses, was there? He thought he could manage that—mm.

    “Hullo, Gil,” said a cautious voice.

    Gil opened his eyes with a start. “Uh—Dan! Hullo! So you're back?”

    Dan Sutcliffe grounded his pack, smiling awkwardly. “Sort of. Came up on the bus.”

    Gil peered at his watch. Jesus! Even so, the man must have got a lift from Barrabarra, the bus got in around nine-thirty. Loosely speaking. “Jolly good, you’re just in time for elevenses.”

    “Morning tea, Downunder,” corrected Dan with a faint smile. “Thanks, that’d be great. Um, I looked in at the MacMurray place but it seems to be empty.”

    “Yes: Daffy’s gone back to Europe. Er, he let Brenda go,” said Gil on a cautious note.

    “Yes. I—I don’t suppose you’d know how I could get in touch with her, would you?”

    Yikes. Gil refrained from clearing his throat, but it was an effort. “Well, not exactly, no. I do know Jack got her through a Sydney agency called RightSmart. One word, I think.”

    “Yes, I rang them. They wouldn’t even give me a phone number—understandable, I suppose: I could be a bloody stalker or something.”

    “Mm. Well, Jack might have her contact details.”

    “Yeah. Would he be at home? I did ring the ecolodge but there was no answer.”

    Gil made a face. “They haven’t got any guests in at the moment, so I think Vince might have told him to take the weekend off. Between you and me and that rock at the bottom of our drive that does duty for a gatepost, we think the ecolodge is about to fold. They’ve made an indecent amount of money over the year by normal standards, at two thousand a night per head, but not enough to satisfy their owners. –Come in, help us eat the scones.”

    “Thanks,” said Dan weakly, following him in.

    About an hour after that Jack told him he didn’t have any contact number for Brenda apart from the RightSmart number. It didn’t really help that Nefertite was looking at him with tremendous sympathy.

    “Thanks anyway,” said Dan bleakly.

    “Darling, ring Gail!” urged Nefertite. “She’ll tell you!”

    “It’s the weekend, love, the place’ll be closed.” Jack scratched his chin. “I was gonna ring her on Monday anyway, Dan: gonna be out of a job. YDI have ordered Vince not to take any more bookings, and some bloody whizz-kid from Head Office is coming out: that’ll be the final chop, eh? Anyway, give us your phone number, I’ll ask her,” he said kindly.

    Smiling weakly, Dan gave him his mobile number.

    His phone rang at nine-twenty on the Monday.

    “Um, look, I got onto Gail,” said Jack on an awkward note. “Um, well, this sounds mad, but she reckons it wasn’t Brenda Worthing at all, but some other dame.”

    After a stunned moment Dan croaked: “Actually that does explain rather a lot. What was it, moonlighting for a friend?”

    “Um, not sure. Um, she said she couldn’t pass her number on but she’ll speak to her and let me know if she wants you to contact her.”

    Okay, that was as good as it was gonna get. Dan thanked him, and rang off.

    Jack rang him back two days later. Gee, the answer was a lemon. Shit! Shit, shit, shit! He did manage to thank him for his trouble, but just barely.

    “That’s okay. Don’t know anybody that wants to employ a jobbing builder in ’is fifties, do ya?”

    Oh, God. Poor bloody Jack. “Uh—not offhand, no. I’m very sorry, Jack. Look, I’ll definitely let you know if I hear of anything.”

    “Yeah, ta. See ya,” he said bleakly, ringing off.

    Gail and Fiona had talked it all out and as it was pretty clear it was one aberration and it was Laurie’s age, they’d agreed to overlook it. And Fee, who was extremely database-literate, was going to have a hard look at the RightSmart databases and see if she could build in a few more fail-safes.

    “Thanks, Gail,” said Laurie miserably. “I really appreciate it, but, um, I’m awfully sorry, but I don’t wanna be a consultant any more. I talked it over with Hughie and Leanne and—and they think I oughta tell you how I really feel. Could I—could I be a contractor, instead?”

    “Temping?” said Gail limply.

    “Yes. Just cooking and housekeeping stuff.”

    “Laurie, most of those women that want cooks or housekeepers are complete bitches!”

    “I know. I was thinking just of fill-in jobs.”

    “Look, we’d be glad to have you on our books, but how will you pay the rent?”

    Laurie licked her lips. “Mum’s given Hughie a lot of money and him and Leanne are giving me half of it. It’s all been signed. They hadda make sure it was safely in their bank account, because if she got wind of what they were gonna do she’d’ve held onto it.”

    “This is from your grandfather’s estate, is it?”

    “Mm.”

    “How much is it?” asked Gail baldly.

    “I’m not sure exactly, but Hughie said about seven hundred and fifty thousand each. Their half’ll be enough to let them pay a chunk off their mortgage and help with the kids’ uni fees, and still go on that overseas trip she’s keen on. Don’t ask me why she wants to go down the Rhine—I think she saw it on TV. She’s never heard of Wagner or mad King Ludwig, so it can’t be that.”

    Gail coughed. “Fair bit of that about. Well, great! You won’t go broke, then!”

    “No, and I can just do simple jobs,” said Laurie with a sigh.

    “Uh—yeah. Laurie, you could buy a really decent flat, you know, even at today’s prices.”

    “I don’t want to,” said Laurie simply.

    No. Gail let it go at that.

    … “Burnout or some such,” she said to Fee that evening.

    “That and the shock of discovering real life isn’t a romance novel,” she said drily.

    “I don’t think she expected anything to come of it, but you’re right: she didn’t expect that she wouldn’t be able to take Daffyd Owens’s personality in real life.”

    “Uh-huh. Did you tell her that that bloke of Jack’s wants her number?”

    Gail shrugged. “Yeah. Not interested. Part of the burnout, I’d say. God, we’ll have to replace her. And bloody Blue Gums Ecolodge has gone under, that’s a paying customer off the books... It feels like everything’s falling apart at the bloody seams!”

    Her life-partner’s answer to this one was to hand her a large Scotch and assure her it wouldn’t after that. ...Things did feel slightly less bleak, yeah. Slightly.

Next chapter:

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