Pear-Shaped At Potters Inlet

17

Pear-Shaped At Potters Inlet

    Jack had briskly despatched Iain and Veronica to go and see Laurie. They walked slowly down Potters Road, not speaking. Iain because he was both too excited and too bloody nervous to speak, and he could only hope her silence was because ditto and not because she was wishing herself anywhere but in the company of little Iain.

    Eventually he said: “Sorry that this is all a bit public, Veronica.”

    Veronica swallowed hard. “It is, really,” she croaked.

    “Mm. They mean well,” said Iain with a laugh in his voice.

    “Even—even your friend Jack,” she croaked.

    “Hardly know the man!” said Iain with a laugh.

    That didn’t exactly make it better. Veronica swallowed hard again, and was silent.

    They’d passed the entrance to Jardine Holiday Horse Treks before he got up the courage to utter: “Would you rather be anywhere but here?”

    “No!” she gasped.

    “That’s good,” he said mildly. “Oh—I might not get the opportunity to say this later, so I’ll say it now. I’m sorry about my mother. I’m damn’ sure she put on that turn deliberately, the day we were meant to have our date, though I can’t prove it. That’s her speciality, I’m afraid. Pretty little Ellie always has to be the centre of attention.”

    “Yes,” said Veronica faintly. “Very attractive people are sometimes like that.”

    “Mm. Fortunately good old Jacqueline seems to have talked some sense into her. –Well, her and some others: I don’t think Roz minced words, yesterday.”

    “No. I don’t see how she could possibly forget— I mean, even if she wasn’t sure what ANZAC Day is, how could she forget it was the day you and Mr Sugden had to get up and go to the dawn service?”

    “Very, very easily,” said Iain drily. “Um, look, it’s far too soon to say this, but, uh, well, I’m pretty clearly going to have the responsibility for her for the rest of my life.”

    “Yes,” said Veronica calmly. “I’ll probably have Mum, too, eventually. At the moment she’s still—still very vigorous. Um, that doesn’t sound like Mum, but I mean she’s very young for her age, she’s only fifty-two, she was only eighteen when she had me. She’s an actress: Thea Johnson-Wright, she calls herself, but it’s really only Johnson. Um, I’m not like her at all, she’s the sort of person who’s always managed her life exactly the way she wanted it. Um, well, maybe apart from having me, but she could have had an abortion, only she decided not to. She’s very independent and she’s got two boyfriends. Mac’s a long-distance lorry driver and John’s a politician. They, um, don’t know about each other. She makes them ring her to see if it’s convenient to come over, and—and if they want to come for a meal she makes them bring something, steak, usually, or else take her out. Mac’s divorced, he wants to marry her, but she doesn’t want that. Well, what she always says is that she doesn’t want to be a grass widow while he’s off with his lorry, but really she likes her freedom and—and having two strings to her bow.”

    “I see. –The politician’d be married, would he?”

    “Yes, of course,” said Veronica simply.

    Iain’s eyes twinkled. At least she didn’t have a precisely conventional background: she would hardly be shocked by any little snippets about Rudi, just as a for-instance, or about Mummy’s goings-on over the years. Or about his, probably—though, true, they paled by comparison.

    “Yeah,” he said: “I guess everyone comes with baggage. What did your mother feel about you coming out here, Veronica?”

    “Well, it was my idea originally, but once I’d mentioned it she was even keener than I was. I began to feel like one of those baby birds that get turfed out of the nest by the parent bird. Well, I was staying with her, and it’s a small flat, but it wasn’t that, she was just so keen to see me doing something different. Giving myself a chance in life, is how she put it. She’s not a clingy mother at all, but—well, you know. Things might be different by the time she’s seventy.”

    “Mm, of course. Any other relatives, Veronica?”

    “No. Um, I don’t know who my father was, Mummy was living in a commune at the time,” said Veronica, looking at him nervously. To her relief he just nodded, so she went on: “My grandparents were elderly, they died when I was only little, I can’t really remember them: I’ve just got a vague picture of a house with a wilderness of flowers behind it. Mum says it was a perfectly ordinary suburban garden, but Grandpa went in for delphiniums and irises, they probably did look like a forest to a three-year-old!” she added, smiling at him. “Mum was a late baby and I think they must’ve spoilt her dreadfully, that’s why she’s always assumed she can have everything her own way all her life. And luckily for her she’s strong-minded enough to do it,” she ended wryly.

    “Mm. Well, you know my Aunty Meggie, of course: there’s only her and Mummy on that side. Er—we owe Meggie a Helluva lot: I worked out that over the years she must have given us a permanent home for something like ten years—there were a couple of really long stretches, when Ellie was in between men. Um, well, Meggie’s very independent, of course, but ’tis on the cards that I might end up responsible for her as well, one day.”

    “Of course. It’d be nice if she could come out here, wouldn’t it?” she said thoughtfully.

    “It’d be lovely, but I don’t think she’d like to leave her cottage. I might suggest it, though.”

    “Why not? You could implant the idea!” she said eagerly.

    Iain smiled. “Mm, let it take root, eh? Well, as I say, there’s only her besides Mummy on that side. I’ve got scores of relatives on my father’s side—dunno if Meggie ever mentioned the name’s really Duff-Ross? My oldest uncle owns a huge dump up in Scotland. –Don’t worry, I’m not in line to inherit it, he’s got a couple of sons!” he said with a laugh.

    “I see,” said Veronica on a weak note.

    “I never see them these days. Uncle Hector did send me to school, but that was a kind of weird noblesse oblige thing—quite impersonal. Hardly ever bothered to have me home for the holidays—except on a couple of occasions when Mummy couldn’t be contacted and the school rang and asked him,” he added drily.

    “Had she—had she wandered off?” faltered Veronica in horror.

    “Nope: gone off with the man of the moment,” said Iain cheerfully. “The story would be ‘Darling, I’m so sorry, I completely forgot your holidays were coming up!’ but even at fourteen or so I was fly enough not to believe a syllable of it.”

    “That’s awful, Iain,” said Veronica, swallowing. “I mean, I was never at boarding school, but Mum always tried her best to do something special during my holidays. Of course in the Profession you can’t pick and choose: if a good part comes up you have to take it, but I can’t remember a single holiday where she didn’t manage something. At least a trip to the zoo—that sort of thing.”

    “Uh-huh. I’ve been to the zoo twice,” said Iain reminiscently. “Once with Meggie—she didn’t own the cottage at that stage, but she was renting it. I’d’ve been about eight, I think. We had a whole day and night: caught the train up to London from Portsmouth, spent the day at the zoo, then kipped in a mate’s flat—almost as exciting. Looking back, he was a gay mate, and the flat was like an Aladdin’s cave, full of brass trays and rugs hanging on the wall, with an enormous parasol in one corner with a lamp behind it. The furniture consisted mainly of two large mattresses on the floor: one in the bedroom and one in the sitting-room, which was where the parasol was. Oh, and there was a sort of hanging garden of Babylon on the ceiling! I think it must’ve been a piece of Indian fabric, or possibly a tablecloth!” he said with a laugh. “It had a pattern of elephants all over it: red and green elephants.”

    “Red and green elephants? With palm trees?” gasped Veronica. “That’s Ronny Gates’s flat! I’ve stayed there!”

    “Gosh, not really? We do have something in common, then! Remember the parasol?”

    “No; it must’ve been gone by then. I was eleven, and Mum had a part in one of those late revue things, she didn’t want to leave me alone until four in the morning—it didn’t end that late but she wouldn’t’ve got home till then. So Ronny said we could stay with him. –That’s right, they were filming a commercial together; that was during the day, of course.”

    “To think we could’ve bumped into each other way back then,” said Iain.

    “We almost did, I think. I’d’ve been twelve: we went to stay with Meggie for a week that summer, and she was really cross, something about your mother, I think, and she said your horrible uncle had grabbed you and you wouldn’t be coming to the cottage after all. I was relieved, I didn’t want to meet a strange boy,” she admitted.

    “That would’ve been one of the times the school had to ring Uncle Hector. How old are you?”

    “Um, thirty-four,” said Veronica, blushing.

    He nodded. “That fits, I’d’ve been just fourteen. The first time it happened Uncle Hector and Aunt Louise had gone off abroad somewhere, so the school fell back on Aunt Liz—Uncle Hector’s sister, married to a frightful holier-than-thou clergyman known to most of the extended families on both sides as ‘Holy Paul’. That was the glowing occasion of the second trip to the zoo!” he said, grinning. “Let’s see—I’d have been twelve. Aunt Liz and Holy Paul were seriously into demos, ban-the-bomb, that sort of thing—these days they’re fervent Greenies, of course—and so I didn’t actually see much of them at all, and my cousin Colin was told off to keep an eye on me. He’d just finished school, was due for Sandhurst—the subject of terrific family rows, I might add, Holy Paul was a pacifist into the bargain—but anyway, I was dumped on him. It never occurred to me that a big grown-up cousin might not want a brat dumped on him—and if it occurred to his parents they certainly didn’t let it stop them—but as it turned out it was the best holiday I ever had! Not only the zoo, but he had an old heap of a car, took me to see a couple of castles, including Windsor, bought me a book about the same, told me a terrific lot about medieval warfare, and to cap it all, took me to the Tower of London and then the Imperial War Museum! –We tactfully didn’t impart that to my aunt and uncle,” he said, grinning.

    “He sounds really nice,” she said kindly.

    “Yeah, he was. Everyone liked Colin: he was the sort of person who really liked people and took a genuine interest in them,” said Iain with a sigh. Veronica was looking at him doubtfully so he explained: “Got shot up in Iraq, back in 2003: badly concussed, few broken bones. Everyone thought he was okay—we were more concerned about the leg than the head, actually. But he died of a blood clot on the brain almost two years after it happened. Very peacefully—just went out in his sleep. Left a new wife and very new baby, though.”

    “I—I’m very sorry, Iain,” she said in a trembling voice.

    Iain made a face. “Yeah. Thanks. Only one of my damned relations on that side I could stand. –Come on, this must be it,” he realised, seeing they’d reached a steep driveway of solid clay dotted with a few sharp stones and headed by a broken-down apology for a letterbox.

    He strode up the drive at a tremendous pace. Veronica did her best to keep up, but had to stop to pant.

    “Sorry,” said Iain sheepishly.

    “You must be—very fit!” she panted.

    “Uh—well, do my best to keep fit, I suppose,” he said in a vague voice. “Usually get out for a run in the mornings. Didn’t get much exercise in France, though—apart from heaving furniture around!” he admitted with a sudden laugh.

    Very glad to see he wasn’t brooding about his cousin’s death any more, Veronica beamed at him and said: “Of course! Daph told me all about the funny old neighbours!”

    “Yeah, that’s right: old M. and Mme Mercier. Living demonstration of the fact that there’s some good in everybody! Well—almost everybody.” Somehow Iain found he was telling her all about Skin-Flint McMurtrey and the bloody uncut diamonds.

    “Help,” said Veronica in awe at the end of the tale. “I’m awfully glad you’re safely back here, Iain.”

    Iain grinned. “So’m I, actually! Come on,” he said, taking her arm gently, “I’ll try not to go too fast for you.” His eyes twinkled, but he didn’t add “metaphorically as well as literally,” because he rather thought that she was bright enough for it to dawn.

    It did dawn, after a few moments during which Veronica was incapable of any sort of thought at all: he was holding her arm quite firmly, just above the elbow, you might not think that could be sexy but it was, terribly. She went bright pink all over again, but it was a relief, really, to know he realised he might’ve been going too fast for her. Because they didn’t really know each other at all—but she was awfully glad he’d got home safely and those awful Russian mafia people hadn’t got him and the French police hadn’t found out about the diamonds—and very, very glad that he hadn’t been killed in the horrible Iraqi war and had got out of the horrible Army. The ANZAC Day march had really brought it home to her that he could have been killed, and the story about his poor cousin certainly reinforced it.

    “Oh, boy,” said Iain as they reached the top of the drive and the old MacMurray house was revealed. “Thought Jack was supposed to have done this place up, a couple of years back?”

    “Um, it does look like new paint.”

    “Yeah.” The old wooden bungalow was painted a nice boring cream, even to the trims. “Maybe the old boy it belonged to wouldn’t let him add any fancy touches. But when you consider what’s been done to Springer House!”

    “Um, I haven’t seen it,” she reminded him shyly

    Iain’s shoulders shook. “It’s very colourful indeed! About the same vintage as this old place: 1920, thereabouts, I think. Basically a deep blue, with the verandah posts in a heavy yellow, sort of a fruity yellow. Seen a ripe pawpaw? Uh, sorry, papaya. No? Well, that’s what I always think of. It’s got a picket fence in the same yellow, but the really good touches are the front gate and the front door: bright lime green. Highly artistic, in short!”

    “That sounds a bit too much. But I think I would have done something, maybe painted the verandah posts in a different colour?”

    “Me, too.” He went up onto the verandah—for a change, its floor was painted a boring dull grey—and knocked on the cream front door.

    It was opened by a flushed Laurie in a skimpy shoe-string-strapped red thing over manifestly nothing—well, a good deal, but no bra—and a long, very bright, widely flaring cotton skirt in shades of red and orange. And bare feet.

    “Hullo, Laurie!” he said with a grin. “You’re looking blooming! Pixie Pearson was right: those are your colours, all right!

    “Hullo, Iain!” she gasped, shoving the mass of brown curls back behind one ear in a distracted manner. “Nefertite thinks so, too: we went to a garage sale in Barrabarra and she made me buy this skirt.”

    “Jolly good show! Let me introduce Veronica Johnson: this is Laurie Hanson, Veronica: met her through RightSmart.”

    “How are you, Veronica?” beamed Laurie. “I used to work for them, you see, as a placement consultant, but I gave it up and just did temping for a while. Me and Iain did a job for Mr Pearson just before Christmas.”

    “Yes. Mr Pearson is a person of extreme good taste,” said Iain, looking prim, “and he gave Laurie a lovely silk scarf in just those colours.”

    “It was much too much, really,” she beamed, “because it was only four evenings making canapés for him—you know, little nibbles. He always has his friends round just before Christmas.”

    “I see, so you did the cooking,” said Veronica faintly to this flood of information. “What did you do, Iain?”

    “Served up the nibbles, poured the grog, wore me dinner jacket in order to cause the friends accesses of jealousy. Butlering, in short.”

    “That’s right. Come in, quick, I was just stirring something—” Laurie vanished down the passage.

    “Go in,” said Iain, ushering her in.

     Numbly Veronica went in.

    “Down to the kitchen, I think,” he said, taking her elbow again and steering her gently in that direction. Numbly Veronica let herself be steered into a completely strange lady’s kitchen by Iain Ross.

    Laurie had now swathed the view in an a large smeared apron and was stirring something at the stove.

    “Ooh, what an extraordinary and wonderful smell, Laurie! What is it?” asked Iain eagerly.

    “Tomato chutney. It’s all right, it’s not sticking,” she said, turning the heat down. “It does sometimes, it’s the sugar, I think. I’m using up the last of the tomatoes from Ann’s and David’s gardens: they left them far too long, really, though we haven’t had any frosts, yet, but they won’t ripen now.”

    “I see, your neighbours?”

    “Yes: Ann and Bernie run Springer House Art & Crafts Centre, and David’s the chef at Springer House Restaurant. He’s never made chutney, though he probably could if he tried, but anyway I said I’d do it. He’s half-Greek: he learnt most of his cooking from his Greek aunties and I don’t think chutney’s a Greek thing, is it?’

    “No, absolutely not! British Empah, by Jove!” replied Iain stiffly.

    “Exactly!” she agreed with a giggle. “Sit down, Veronica. The chairs are clean, just old. Old Andy MacMurray left most of his furniture. It’ll have to be done up or something before I can take in any guests, of course. Did Jack tell you the plan, Iain?”

    “More or less, mm. We sort of thought the idea might be you’d like Veronica to help you with the housekeeping and cooking.”

    “Yes, but I can’t cook, really!” gulped Veronica.

    “That’s okay, it’ll only be breakfasts and maybe scones for morning and afternoon tea: I’ll only need a bit of help to prepare stuff, and clear up afterwards,” said Laurie, smiling at her. “It’s help with the housekeeping and serving the guests, really.”

    “I can manage that,” she said, brightening.

    “And if you wanted to start now, or as soon as your current contract’s up, that’d be great, because I really can’t do interior décor at all. Bernie and Deanna are both very artistic and they’ve been giving me all sort of advice, conflicting, mostly, and I can’t do it! I just can’t envisage how things are gonna look, at all! And there are some jobs to do, like a little bit of painting and, um, maybe renovating some of the furniture, I need help with that, as well. Um, but I couldn’t pay you very much until I get some guests: I bought the place outright, it seemed stupid to have to pay off a mortgage, but now I haven’t got much left. But you’d get your keep, of course, and you’d be close to Iain if he’s working at Blue Gums Ecolodge!”

    Veronica had turned puce. “Um—yes!” she gasped.

    Iain cleared his throat. “Think Jack’s given you the wrong impression in his matchmaking eagerness, Laurie. Well, been a bit previous, let’s say. But from my point of view I have to admit having Veronica up here’d be a huge plus, yes.”

    Laurie looked at Veronica’s puce face and had to swallow a smile. “I see. Sorry, Veronica. But do you think the job might appeal?”

    “Yes, it—it sounds lovely, Laurie,” she said shyly. “I’d really like to try it.”

    “Great! It’ll be through RightSmart, of course, so you’ll need to talk to Gail. But if you’d like to work just for your keep and pocket money, you could start as soon as you like.”

    “My current contract’s still got a month to go. It’s only for three days a week, but it is quite good money. Um—but I’ll be leaving Daph in the lurch!” she realised in dismay.

    “That’s okay, she’ll soon find a new boarder, if she wants one,” said Iain quickly. “She is used to having ’em come and go.”

    “Is she? Good,” said Veronica weakly. It seemed to be settled. She watched numbly as Laurie, declaring the chutney done, produced a tray of hot jars from the oven, and as Iain sprang forward to help her put the big pot of chutney on a chopping-board on the table. And as the chutney was then competently poured into the jars with a little Pyrex jug. Heck, she must have bought it specially, it didn't look like the sort of thing one would automatically have in one’s cupboard!

    … “She’s totally disorganised, but very nice: I think you’ll enjoy working with her,” said Iain with a smile as they picked their way back down the drive, leaving the flushed and beaming Laurie and her chutney to cool down.

    “I thought she seemed very organised,” said Veronica dubiously.

    “No, that’s just when she’s got her cook’s hat on!” said Iain with a laugh. “Split personality, maybe? Completely disorganised on a personal level, sort of woman who has to hang on tightly to her handbag or she’ll leave it on the bus, but totally on top of her cooking. God knows why she went into personnel placement—though I can see she must have been very good with Gail’s cooks and housekeepers,” he added thoughtfully. “Damn—forgot to ask her how they’re managing at Springer House, with Deanna’s baby on the way. Actually I think you could probably help out there, too. I must ask Jack: don’t let me forget.”

    “Um, no. That’s the B&B, isn’t it?”

    “Yes. It’s quite a lot bigger than Laurie’s bungalow: they’ve stuck several bathrooms into it and turned one of the biggest rooms into a dining-room cum restaurant. It only seats about a dozen, but they’ve been doing bloody well out of it.”

    “I see.” If Laurie was a disorganised lady underneath—and come to think of it, organised ladies didn’t wear flowing skirts and skimpy tops and bare feet to do stuff in the kitchen, did they?—then Veronica thought she would like working with her, yes. Anyway, she’d give it a go, if it was what he wanted!

    “Um, Iain, do you think your mother will be all right during the week if you're working up here?” she ventured as they neared the bottom of the drive.

    “I think she actually might! Well, she may well plunge herself into the massage business with Jacqueline, but let’s face it, there are worse things she could be doing, and she’s got pots, and if Sotheby’s manage to sell Rudi’s bloody icon for what they reckon it’s worth she’ll have even more pots. And she is the sort of person,” he added slowly, “who needs to latch onto a stronger personality. It’s never been a woman before, and some of them have turned out to be broken reeds, but it’s precisely the same sort of thing. If it wasn’t Jacqueline it’d be someone else.”

    “I see,” said Veronica in a small voice, wondering if she might be that sort of person, too. Because Iain certainly had a very strong personality, didn’t he?

    “Anything wrong?” he said in mild surprise.

    “N—ooh, help!” she gasped, skidding on the scattered gravel at the bottom of the drive.

    Iain grabbed her frantically, managing to bring her to a halt against his—gosh!—chest. Ooh, boy! His heart hammered madly, his vision blurred and he didn’t care if it was too previous or— She was looking up at him with those great velvety dark eyes, her lips slightly parted, and it was more than a chap could— He kissed her.

    “Oh, boy,” he said after quite some time.

    “Yes!” gulped Veronica, very, very shaken.

    “I’m gonna do it again,” he warned.

    “Mm.”

    He did it again, this time not neglecting, since the softness of her belly was right slap-bang against it, to arch his back and press the hard-on—

    “Jesus!” he gulped, releasing her. “Better stop or we’ll never get back to the ecolodge at all!”

    “Mm!” agreed Veronica, nodding very hard, inadvertently catching sight of the bulge in his pants, turning puce and looking hurriedly away.

    Excited though he was, Iain’s lips twitched. “Mm, ’tis,” he agreed very mildly, taking her hand. “Come on. We’ll have to figure out how to do something about it, mm?”

    “Yes,” she agreed.

    Ooh, really? Well, hip, hip, hooray!

    Halfway back to the ecolodge he managed: “Thought you might not fancy little Iain, after all.”

    “I’ve always fancied you,” replied Veronica, pink but determined.

    “Uh—oh. Right, got it. I have turned over a new leaf, I promise.”

    “I know. I mean, I’d sort of turned you into something much worse in my head than you were!” she gasped.

    “That explains rather a lot.”

    “Mm. Well, I’d had a very bad experience. I hadn’t really got over it, when we were working at Stoner’s—you know, when you were the Easter Chicken. I thought I had, you see, and I thought I was being very sensible and logical.”

    “Mm. It’s all right,” said Iain, squeezing her hand very hard.

    “Yes,” agreed Veronica with a deep sigh.

    Gail grinned. “Saw Laurie, did you?”

    “Yes, looking completely blooming!” Iain replied.

    “Thank God. I’ve had a few sleepless nights wondering if I’d stuck my oar in where it wasn’t needed.”

    “Uh—was it all your idea?” he croaked.

    “Not all. I knew she liked the house and I knew that her brother—a very decent bloke, by the way—had let her have half of the money from their grandfather’s estate that the bloody mother had passed on to him. –She can’t stand Laurie: I think it’s largely because she looks very like the father, who deserted her: he was a Frog, went back to France shortly after the brother was born. Completely unreasonable prejudice, but she’s that sort of silly hen,” said Gail with one of her shrugs. “Anyway, being Laurie, she wasn’t gonna do anything about the house because she’s never owned property before, unquote, so I gave the brother’s wife a bell. Intensely ladylike dame, but salt of the earth underneath it: supported the hubby all the way in his decision to give Laurie half the moolah—it came to about a mill’ and a half, all up, and he split it down the middle. Can’t say my brother’s ever given me as much as a red razzoo, in fact our bloody grandfather used to slip him a fifty at Christmas, and my sister and I never got a sniff of it. Not that we believed we were entitled, naïve little feminine things that we were,” she added very drily indeed. “All bloody Mum ever said was ‘It’s because he’s the only boy, dears,’ and we actually accepted it!” She shook her head. “Germaine, where were you then?”

    “Uh—yeah!” said Iain with a startled laugh.

    “Sorry, advancing age, you tend to blah on,” said Gail with a grin. “Which reminds me, having a party next month for my fiftieth, would you fancy it? Bring Veronica, of course.”

    Gosh, did the Colonel not see him as just another Candidate for Placement, then? “Uh—yes, I’d love to. Thanks, Gail.”

    “They won’t all be gay,” said Gail on a dry note.

    “I don’t care if they are,” replied Iain simply.

    “No, that’s one of the things that have begun to dawn, actually. Laurie gave me an earful about the way you handled Pearson.”

    Iain bit his lip. “I couldn’t force the thing back on the poor little man—”

    “No, of course not. –Here,” she said, writing her address on a piece of scrap paper and passing it over. “Anyway, Laurie’s sister-in-law very competently took over and that was that. I don’t know how she got her to admit she really wanted the house, because it was beyond my poor powers, but she dunnit! Taking the overflow from the B&B seems to have been the owner’s idea—what’s his name, again?”

    “Bob Springer.”

    “That’s it, yes.”

    “Has he contacted you?” asked Iain.

    “Yes, he has, thanks very much. The baby’s due any day now, and her mum’s gonna come up and stay with them for a few weeks. They’ll need a waitress after that, when they reopen. I thought we’d make it a maximum stated number of hours for Veronica, if it suits her.”

    “Yes, she’s keen, we had a look at the B&B and she adores it!” said Iain with a laugh. “Highly artistic colour scheme an’ all! Have you been up there?”

    “Mm, we made it to Antigone Walsingham Corrant’s concert in March. Personally I find that colour scheme a bit bloody much, stuck out in the middle of the bush—and they certainly haven’t managed to get much of a garden going in the front behind that picket fence, have they? Potato vine apart.”

    “That scraggy-looking thing with the white flowers?”

    “Yeah. They’re tough as old boots, store water in their tubers—they are some sort of Solanaceae, but definitely not edible—and they flower for ages, but you won’t have seen it at its best. We didn’t spend the night: couldn’t face the thought of socialising with the wrinklies, just had a meal and took in the concert. –Well, good, if Veronica fancies working there it’ll work out well. Let’s see: if she comes on duty at six-thirty, say a maximum of four hours a night?”

    “That’s twenty-eight hours a week when they’re fully booked, it’s too much, Gail, if she’s working for Laurie as well,” said Iain firmly.

    “Well, three hours a night?”

    “No. Make it a maximum of fifteen hours a week and she works it out with Bob when she does them.”

    Gail eyed him drily. “All right, done. You drive a hard bargain, mate. Ever thought of going into the placement business?”

    “Me? No!” he said with a startled laugh.

    “Then think about it now. You’ve got people skills. What did we say when I first took you on?”

    “Uh—what did you say, I think it was. Are you serious?” he croaked.

    “Well, bloody Janette has been a disaster—Laurie’s replacement—and Drew and Jase have both admitted they can stand you. Christie can more than stand you, so you’d need to watch that, though we think the new boyfriend may be a goer. I’m serious about thinking you should think it over, Iain, yeah.”

    Gosh. Be a Placement Consultant? With a little notice on his desk, an’ all?

    “Look, I know we haven’t signed contracts yet, but I’m committed to Jack for the rest of the year, Gail,” he warned.

    “I know,” she said calmly. “That’ll give you plenty of time to think it over, won’t it?”

    “Uh—yeah. Okay, I will think about it seriously; thanks.”

    “Goodoh. Jase has drawn up your contract for the Blue Gums project, I’ll just haul him in.”

    Iain sat back limply as she rang Jase. Gee, they didn’t come in threes, did they? They came all in a ’uge great rush, bundles of ’em! Well, thank God he didn’t need to make a decision yet!

    “Can I have a word, Gil?” said Jack, appearing at Jardine Holiday Horse Treks’ back door at something perilously near crack of dawn on a very damp May Monday.

    Oh, God: whatever it was, it didn’t look good. Gil got him sat down at the kitchen table with a mug of instant—quicker than making a pot of the real McCoy.

    “Uh—the others not up yet?” he asked awkwardly, having sipped.

    “No, Rosemary’s still asleep. No punters in this week, so Phil and Jen are spending the week in town with Honey.”

    “Aw—right.”

    “I think you’d better just out with it, Jack, whatever it is,” said Gil firmly.

    Jack licked his lips. “Yeah. Thought you might of heard from your mate, Guy.”

    “There could be an email. What’s up?”

    “Half of the investors are pulling out of Blue Gums,” he said sourly.

    Oh, shit. “Uh—can they, legally?” he ventured.

    “Mm. Well, dissolving the partnership. –The thing is, you can argue back and forth about the legal position till you’re blue in the face but if half of them aren’t keen any more it’s not gonna work, is it?”

    “No, you’re right. Just hang on, I’ll get the laptop.” He fetched it and, insouciantly disconnecting Jardine Holiday Horse Treks’ phone, plugged its modem cord into the jack. There was an email from Guy, all right. Didn’t have the moolah to buy the other partners out—no, quite. His pal Jimmy was keen but didn’t have the—quite. “Guy just says that he’d like to buy them out but can’t afford it, Jack.”

    “Yeah, thought so. Well, Mr Letherby, he’s the really rich one, he’s got pots, he’s buying up his mates’ shares but he’s not interested in running the place. Well, it’d be a case of putting a manager in, someone like Vince, but he’s still not interested in owning it as a going concern.”

    “No: he’d have to find someone really reliable to manage the manager, wouldn’t he?”

    “Yeah, that’s it,” Jack agreed. “They had a vote, I think—well, anyway, they’ve agreed to let him take over and sell the place. See, once reality set in they realized there was no-one to make the hard decisions, and none of them had the time or the inclination.”

    “Mm. Um, Guy’s got about a tenth of it, I think, not much voting power.”

    “No, right.”

    “And the building project?” croaked Gil.

    “Letherby thinks he’ll get more for it if the building’s finished but he’s decided not to touch the staff block at all—they were gonna turn most of it into bunkhouse accommodation,” he reminded him. “And he’s decided that I can’t take on any more blokes, just finish the shell, forget about the interiors. Well, bung the wall linings in, yeah, but that’s it. No fixtures.”

    “Ouch. Well, better than a poke in the eye with a burnt stick, Jack,” said Gil kindly in the local vernacular.

    “Yeah, but it’ll mean there’s no job for your mate Iain, after all.”

    “Oh, shit: thought those papers had been signed!” said Gil in dismay.

    “So did I,” agreed Jack sourly.

    A glum silence fell in Jardine Holiday Horse Treks’ kitchen.

    Finally Gil ventured: “And that lovely Veronica?”

    “Dunno,” said Jack dully. “She was due to start with Laurie next week.”

    Well, yes. And the B&B was due to reopen in mid-June, Baby Andrew, after Deanna’s Dad, having duly arrived. Though whether the punters would fancy being roused in the middle of the night by the piercing wails was another matter.

    Gil rubbed his chin. “Yes. How’s Baby Andrew?”

    “Loud,” replied Jack drily.

    “Uh-huh. Bob getting any sleep?”

    “Not much. Well, heck, if he hadda go and start a second family at his age!”

    True, Bob and Jack were around the same age, but then Gil was well into his forties and Rosemary was half his age. Swallowing a laugh, he replied primly: “Silly fellow, mm.”

    “Uh—sorry, Gil, matey!” said Jack with a sheepish grin. “But heck, it’s usually retired couples that manage B&Bs, eh?”

    “Exactly.”

    “Um, well, Sydney’s a big place, of course, but, um, me and Nefertite were thinking...”

    “Word gets around?” suggested Gil wryly.

    “Well, yeah! I mean, shit, Bob was saying himself that half their custom’s word of mouth!”

    “Right: one silver-rinsed couple with a silver Mitsubishi passes the word to the next silver-rinsed couple with a silver Mitsubishi.”

    “Or a silver Toyota,” agreed Jack solemnly.

    “Yeah!” said Gil with a laugh.

    Jack drank half his cooled instant rapidly. “No, but seriously, Gil, whaddaya reckon? I mean, the B&B’s only just got off the ground, it could all go pear-shaped if the bloody wrinklies start spreading the word that there’s a baby bawling all night!”

    “Yes. Don’t tell me this is daft before you’ve thought about it: I really think,” said Gil slowly, “that the best idea might be for the Springers and Laurie to swap houses for the duration.”

    Jack had picked up his mug again. It remained suspended in mid-air.

    “Well?” said Gil, his eyes twinkling.

    “Blow me down flat. You’ve got it, Gil!” he cried.

    “Er—brain-storming level only at this stage, Jack,” said Gil cautiously.

    “Brain-storming my arse! Gimme the phone!”

    “Will they be up?” replied Gil uneasily.

    “Put it like this, flamin’ Letherby had just rung me, and Nefertite was burning the toast on the strength of it, when Bob rung to say that that gale last night has blown that bloody picket fence of his down and did I think that that ruddy yellow paint’d give off toxic fumes and poison the baby if he burnt the thing in the fireplace, so yeah, I think they might be up, Gil!”

    Grinning, Gil disconnected the modem from the phone jack.

    The conversation from their end went like this:

    “Hullo, Bob, it’s Jack here. –Yeah, dare say. –Yeah, I can, I reckon they can hear him down the Big Smoke, let alone Barrabarra; anything up? ...Aw.—The baby’s bawling his head off but Bob reckons he’s been fed and he’s dry and it’s not colic,” he said to Gil.—“No, too early for a tooth, ya dill! –No, well, they do, you’ve forgotten in the last twenny-five years,” he said very, very drily. “—I know, but just be thankful they got disposable ones these days! ...Bob, if you’d shut up about the cost of bloody nappies for half a second, I’ve got something important to say! Um... shit. Well, might as well just out with it. –Will ya shut up and listen? Gil reckons—well, we both do—that if you and Deanna hang on there with guests in, the bloody wrinklies’ll spread it all over Sydney, make that New South Wales, that the place is uninhabitable with the baby roaring all night long, and you’ll go under. –Shut UP, I’m coming to that! See, what you and Deanna oughta do—this is Gil’s idea, can’t take the credit for it, but I’m backing him all the way—what you oughta do is swap houses with Laurie for a bit.”

    The phone was presumably emanating a stunned silence, because he lowered the receiver and said to Gil, not bothering to put his hand over it: “Boy, that’s shut ’im up. Never thought I’d live to see the day!”

    Bob was rather like that: yes. Gil’s shoulders shook.

    Grinning, Jack put the receiver back to his ear. “Eh? No, ya nana, why’d she wanna run the dump for ya? You nip over there every day after breakfast! ...Well, I dunno where you can put these extra guests you reckon’ll be queuing up all winter, Bob, though I could make a suggestion, but not in a house with a bawling baby, if ya wanna stay in business! ...You can talk to ’im right now, I’m over at his place.” With this he handed the receiver to Gil.

    “Well?” he said as Gil hung up at last.

    “I think he’s over the amazement and the ‘Why didn't I think of that?’ and the—”

    “Yeah, but is he gonna do it?”

    “Yes, terrifically keen!” Gil admitted with a laugh. “Ringing Laurie ASAP!”

    Jack scratched his jaw, looking sheepish. “Ye-ah. He’s gonna talk her into it, whether or not she fancies it, ya know.”

    This was undeniably true, but Gil replied calmly: “She's a very good-natured woman, I think she’d be happy to do it.”

    “You’re right,” he decided in relief. “Well, ta for that, Colonel!” he added with a wry grin. “Couldn’t sort out the Blue Gums disaster for us, could ya?”

    Gil had pretty much exhausted all avenues on that one the last time round, hadn't he? He made a face. “Cap in hand to Myra and Julian again? Er—I know Father’s got the dough, but he’ll never forgive me for coming out here without his gracious permission and approval, you know.”

    “Wasn’t suggesting that,” said Jack quickly.

    “No, ’course you weren’t, old man—sorry! Well, uh, fancy some toast? What about bacon and eggs?”

    “That’d be great, ta, Gil,” he said gratefully.

    The macho men were getting themselves round huge platefuls of cholesterol and salt when the kitchen door opened and a small, curly-haired figure swaddled in a large pink quilted dressing-gown said accusingly: “What are you eating?”

    And after the grovelling apologies and the muddled explanations and more grovelling apologies—Gil’s “Saturated-fat therapy, darling!” hadn’t gone down at all well—she pinned Jack to his chair with her eagle eye and demanded: “Why are you here and not at home with Nefertite?”

    “She’s in the front room doing scales,” he muttered. “She does that, I’ve discovered. Um, response to stress or something,” he offered.

    “Jack, it’s not gonna help the relationship if you clear out while she does it!” said the pint-sized Rosemary loudly.

    “Um, no,” he recognised glumly. “Well, um, wanted to get Gil’s advice, ya see, and, um, Iain is his old mate— All right, I’ll go back,” he said glumly, stumbling to his feet.

    “And put the hood of your mac up!” she ordered as he stumbled out into the rain.

    Not pointing out that the expression “mac” was not generally heard in the Antipodes—other than as a proper name—Jack stumbled off into the rain, putting his hood up.

    Then a certain silence reigned in Jardine Holiday Horse Treks’ kitchen.

    “Sorry,” Gil managed at last. “Puerile. Playing Parent and Child while Mummy’s back was turned—sorry.”

    “At least you can recognize it,” she noted grimly. “Honestly, Gil!”

    “Um, Jack’s metabolism can take— Sorry. Won’t happen again.’

    “Well, I certainly hope not,” she said mildly, “because I’d quite like you to still be here for our children’s twenty-firsts. And I’m afraid it had better not be roast lamb for dinner tonight after all, Gil.”

    Ooh, ’eck. “No, very sensible,” he muttered.

    Rosemary went over to the bench and began making wholegrain toast. “I was thinking, Gil: would your father come round if we had a boy?”

    The thought had occurred to Gil, too. Anybody else’s parent— “Not unless you, I and the heir returned to England and that bloody dump of his and grovelled, and let him put the heir’s name down for—”

    “No, I didn’t really think so,” she conceded. “If you want to try to rescue Jack again, darling, you’d better write to your Mummy.”

    Gil bit his lip, and didn’t point out that Jack at least still had the construction job. She was right in essence, because who knew what could happen once Blue Gums Ecolodge was sold again: there was no guarantee at all that Jack’d ever get another job there, was there? Or, indeed, that the new owners would want to run it as a hospitality concern at all, instead of turning it into a giant holiday palace. “It is Dwight’s dough, sweetheart, not Mummy’s.”

    “How old is he?” replied Rosemary baldly.

    “Uh—well, late seventies, I suppose, but, uh, dead men’s shoes?” he quavered.

    “Don’t be silly,” she said calmly. “He could put a good sum in her name now: I’m sure they have death duties in America, don’t they?’

    “Uh... Think so. Inheritance tax, think they might call it,” he groped. “Well, at least for those in Dwight’s income brack— Oh!”

    “Exactly.”

    “Crumbs,” he muttered.

    “Would your mother mind suggesting it?”

    Not in the slightest least! Gil cleared his throat. “Do it like a shot, but I’m afraid I’m not up for suggesting she does. I’ll write to Dwight.”

    “Good. The place will still need a proper management structure, of course,” she said thoughtfully. “What about your friend Guy?”

    “Still in,” Gil reminded her feebly. Lieutenant-Colonel Guy Vane’s Army career was, as witness the recent promotion, going places.

    “Yes, I know, Gil, but why is he so interested in Australia, all of a sudden?”

    “Uh... Wouldn’t say that. Been sending me the odd email, off and on, ever since I—”

    “Honestly! Men are blind!” said Rosemary with immense but immensely tolerant scorn, getting a pot of David Walsingham’s chunky orange marmalade out.

     “Yuh— Nuh— Uh, thought we said we’d save that marvellous marmalade for a special occasion?”

    “This is it.” She came over to the table, set down a mug of coffee for herself, and removed the plate of congealed bacon rasher and half a congealed egg that he hadn't had the guts to touch since her entrance. “Not good special but horrid special: we need cheering up.”

    Gil cheered up immediately. “Oh, good show!” He watched avidly as she spread two plates of wholegrain toast with low-cholesterol marg and the marvellous marmalade, only coming to with a jump and remembering the subject of the previous conversation as she brought them over to the table. “Thanks, darling. Er, what about Guy and Australia?”

    Rosemary sat down, awarding him a tolerant and superior smile. “That little cousin of his in Adelaide, of course!”

    Gil’s jaw sagged. “The—the one who’s been writing to him? He’s never even met her!”

    Rosemary looked smug. “He’s seen her photo, though. And they’re only distant cousins, aren’t they?”

    “Yuh—uh—”

    “Email him, darling. Tell him the job’s available, and it’d be a challenge.”

    Gil had to clear his throat. Whose buttons, exactly, was that supposed to push? “Er—well, yes. Jolly good idea,” he said dazedly.

    Rosemary just ate wholegrain toast and chunky sweet orange marmalade, looking smug.

    “What?” shouted Iain. “Shit!”

    Gail made a face. “Yeah. Sorry.”

    “Not your fault,” he recognised with an effort. “But Hell, Gail! We’ve rearranged our whole lives to suit Blue Gums Ecolodge’s convenience!”

     Mm. Perils of the temping life, unfortunately. Gail refrained from saying it.

    “Jesus, Veronica’s all set to head up to Potters Inlet next weekend!” he added bitterly.

    “Yeah. Um, she has signed that contract, has she?”

    “It’s your bloody firm, look it up on your bloody computer!” Iain retorted bitterly. “Um—sorry, Gail,” he said feebly as it dawned she was obediently doing so.

    “Yes, signed,” she reported.

    Iain sighed. “Even if she hadn’t signed it do you imagine for one second she'd let down Laurie and the Springers after having promised to be on deck for them?”

    “No. But they don’t really need her, do they?” said the CEO of RightSmart on a hopeful note.

    “I dare say Laurie could manage without her, but the Springers can’t: someone has to help with the waiting.”

    “We could find them someone else,” she offered.

    Iain thrust his hand through his curls. “I’ll speak to her,” he said heavily.

    “Mm. –Oh, by the way, Jack said that the Springers and Laurie are going to swap houses until the baby’s a bit older—just sleep in each other’s places, I think he meant, nothing more drastic. It’ll mean the B&B’s guests get a good night’s sleep.”

    “What about Bob’s insurance cover?” replied Iain immediately.

    Gail’s eyes twinkled. “I must admit, once you’ve juxtaposed the words ‘Laurie’ and ‘house’ the next one that springs to mind is ‘fire’! No, well,” she said as he gulped, “if you’re worried about it, Iain, contact them.”

    “Very well, I will.” He got up. “That what you dragged me in for?”

    “Well, uh, didn’t want to break it to you over the phone. Um, that and to remind you about my previous suggestion,” said the CEO of RightSmart on a weak note.

    “Look, I can’t think about that right now, Gail, if Veronica’s about to hare off into the wilds of New South Wales! You do realise we haven’t even managed to get together yet, do you?” he said bitterly, marching out.

    The CEO of RightSmart cringed. “Shit,” she muttered.

Next chapter:

https://temps-anovel.blogspot.com/2022/11/william-morris-and-other-complications.html