Poissons d'avril

15

Poissons d’avril

    “Gidday!” grinned Scott, relief spreading over his wide, naïve features. “Thoughtcha musta missed it! What happened, did Customs grab ya?”

    “Something like that,” agreed Iain weakly. What with one thing and another—Bresson’s mate that wanted Rudi’s bloody desk not turning up when promised had been the least of it—they hadn't managed to leave the frozen North until the very end of March, and if the pilot’s announcement had been correct it was now April 1st. April Fools’ Day—exactly. And boy, did it feel like it!

    “It was ridiculous!” burst out Ellie aggrievedly. “All I said was it was a fish—you know, an April fish—and the horrible people positively tore my luggage apart!”

    “Uh—yeah. She left out the key word ‘chocolate’ in her excitement,” said Iain limply. “This is my mother, Ellie, Scott. Mummy, this is Scott Harris, and I won't ask what he’s doing down in Sydney.”

    “Come to meet you, ya nana!” he grinned, shoving a large, meaty fist at Ellie. “Gidday, Ellie! Great to meet you at last!”

    “Lovely to meet you, too, Scott!” she fluted. –Didn’t have a clue who he was: right. Iain didn’t bother to say he was Daph’s son, it’d be in one ear and out the other. In fact it was quite on the cards she wouldn’t remember who Daph was.

    Scott was looking in some awe at the ’orribly frilled lightweight garments Ellie had insisted on changing into on the plane—that was one of the things that had held them up, yes—but at the same time managed: “Chocolate fish, eh? Think they got them in New Zealand, Jack was saying the little kids love ’em. Over here it’s mainly frogs. Marshmallow one, eh?”

    “No,” said Iain heavily. “A hollow fish, all chocolate, yay big.” He held his hands a good eighteen inches apart.

    “Cripes,” said Scott, goggling.

    “It was going to be for your mother,” he noted heavily.

    “Exactly: for Daph!” fluted Ellie, just as if she’d remembered all along—oh, forget it. At least he’d managed to get her on a plane and forced her to remain on it all the way to the other side of the world. He hadn’t managed to stop her buying crap in the various emporia encountered in airport lounges, unfortunately, but then, he wasn’t superhuman.

    “Um, she does like chocolate, yeah,” said Scott on a weak note.

    “It’s a French tradition for the first of April,” said Iain heavily, “and Mummy’s been living in France for so long that she’s forgotten it never crossed the Channel and percolated out to the Colonies.”

    “Yeah, hah, hah, very funny. Ya better not say ‘Colonies’ in front of Pop,” he reminded him. “So, um, is it kind of like an April Fool’s Day trick?”

    “No, the French offer one another large chocolate fish, perfectly seriously, on the first of April, they don’t have April Fool’s Day as such. I suppose it’s more like our Easter—chocolate eggs for Easter, chocolate fish for April 1st.”

    “Weird,” he decided comfortably. “So did they let it through in the end?”

    “No, the age of miracles is long past, Scott,” said Iain sourly.

    “I swear that frightful woman’s eating it as we speak!” burst out Ellie. “It was beautifully packaged, Scott—Meggie and I just popped over to Paris, you see, it seemed simpler, really, rather than Iain having to come all the way to London just to catch a plane that was going to Paris anyway—and I went to the lovely little sweetshop Rudi always went to, and they wrapped it extra-carefully!”

    “Yeah—uh—I did make it over to England at one point, but then I had to go back to the cottage: the type who was supposed to collect Rudi’s giant desk couldn’t make it—you don’t wanna know,” groaned Iain. “Never mind, we made it. Minus almost everything Mummy brought for the family, I grant you, it all seemed to be unsuitable milk products guaranteed to give the Australian cows foot-and-mouth and mad cow disease combined, but at least they let us in. With a renewed assurance that she won’t get the Pension, I might add.”

    “Eh? You only have to be sixty-three if you’re a lady!” he objected.

    “I know,” said Iain heavily. “She’s a foreigner, you see. But they’re letting her in because she’s self-supporting and got family here—don’t ask, it’s been a nightmare,” he sighed.

    “Right,” he acknowledged. “They wouldn’t of let you in at all if you were Chinese,” he said kindly to Ellie. “See, Harry Wong, his ole Grandma, she’s in Hong Kong, they wanted to bring her out, I mean, heck, Mr Wong’s been out here for years, he’s paid enough in taxes, you’d think they’d take that into account, but nope, the buggers wouldn’t have a bar of it.”

    “The Wongs live down the road from Daph’s: Scott and Harry were at school together,” explained Iain. “However, the colour bar is still alive and well in Australia.”

    “Darling, it’s just as bad at home: what about those poor Gurkhas?” she said eagerly.

    “Yes. Uh—case in the papers, Scott. Aunty Meggie was very het up over it. Don’t think it’ll have made the media over here. Gurkhas who actually fought in British regiments and their widows have been told they’re not entitled to British citizenship, never mind the law that says servicemen and their dependents are entitled. Know the actress Joanna Lumley?”—Scott was looking blank.—“Uh, what the Hell did they call that show, Mummy?”

    “I’ve forgotten, darling. I thought it was overdone. Meggie always watched it, though,” said his mother serenely.

    “Yes. Um, Ab Fab?” ventured Iain dubiously.

    “Aw! That! Yeah, I know, the blonde lady! Not the real weirdo, but she was mad, too, eh? —Lemme take that trolley, Ellie.” Scott grabbed Ellie’s laden trolley, handing her the small case off the top of it, as the pile was wobbling madly.

    “Yes, well, she’s involved with the protests, evidently her father was an officer in a Gurkha regiment. A few years back she did a documentary on their region of the Himalayas—can't remember much about it except that it was very highly coloured and she wasn’t as highly coloured as I’d expected.”

    “Terribly nicely spoken, too, dear,” prompted his mother.

    Iain avoided Scott’s eye. “Mm.”

    “So she’s very concerned about the poor little Gurkhas, Scott,” concluded Ellie, “and it just shows, England’s still as prejudiced as ever!”

    “I get it!” he agreed. “Seems really mean, eh? Crikey Dick, if they actually fought for ya country?”

    “And so say all of us,” Iain agreed wryly. “Scott, it’s not that we don’t appreciate being picked up—we do, very much—but why are you in Sydney? Don’t tell me you’ve packed in that job at Blue Gums Ecolodge!”

    “Nah, ya got the wrong end of the stick, Iain. Me and Jack, we finished that job back in February, see?”

    Iain’s jaw sagged.

    “You been away longer than ya think,” said Scott mildly.

    “Yuh—uh—Jesus,” he muttered.

    “Mum couldn’t come, she hadda go to work,” he added.

    “Yes, of course.”

    “And Pop woulda come, only that ole nong Ken Dickinson—Dickhead, more like—he’s come up with some weirdo scheme for ANZAC Day that most of the RSL members, they don’t want, so he hadda get round there and support ole Mr Jenkins and them.”

    “Darling, how fascinating, it’s like another language!” said Iain’s mother brightly at this point.

    “Shut up, Mummy,” he croaked. “Just substitute ‘British Legion’ and ‘Remembrance Day’.”

    “Yeah, an’ just be thankful it’s not the bowling club, or Pop’d really be steamed up!” added Scott with his cheerful laugh.

    “Lawn bowls, Mummy,” murmured Iain. “Er—when you say most of the RSL members don’t want this scheme, Scott, it is just the local members, is it?”

    “Yeah, ’course. Well, dare say ole Dickhead mighta tried going over their heads, too, that’ll’ve helped. Only ’e can’t, see, it’s gotta go through the committee.”

    Iain winced, though he wasn’t surprised to hear it. “Right, got the picture!”

    Scott winked. “Yep, Hell on wheels ’ud pretty much sum it up! Anyway, I was telling you about Blue Gums. See, we finished the clear-up job—hadda bring those bloody rammed-earth arches down in the end, they weren’t safe, you shoulda been there! Ka-boom! Just as well Jack knows what he’s doing. Jim Thompson rung up and said ole Sir Maurice got the insurance, all right: trust him, eh?”

    “Y—er—oh, yes, Thompson’s their local manager: that it?”

    Scott sniffed. “South Pacific, so-called: yeah. Well, the Sotherlands, they had a scheme for Phil’s dad’s rich wife to buy the dump, only it never come off, she might of taken it over as a going concern but once it had burned down she wasn’t interested. Mind you, this lawyer bloke come up from Sydney, fancy suit and all, think it was an Armani, how’s that grab ya?”

    “Armani in Potters Inlet? It grabs me!” admitted Iain with a snigger. “So nothing came of it?”

    “Nope. He just gave the place the once-over and said it was a write-off, all right, and asked us if there was anywhere decent he could put up for the night. The B&B was full, of course—middle of their busy season—so Jack gave him the choice of a bunk in Gil’s bunkhouse or the three-hour drive back to Sydney and funnily enough ’e pushed off.”

    “Couldn’t he at least have been encouraged to pay for a meal at Springer House Restaurant?” he said faintly.

    “Nah, it was booked out, party of foodies that booked yonks back.”

    “But Scott, dear, why discriminate against the poor man just because he was wearing Armani?” asked Ellie on an eager note.

    Scott eyed her drily and replied: “That is why,” and Iain, alas, collapsed in awful sniggers. He laughed so hard that he didn’t realise until they were on their way that Scott had led them out to the carpark. Ellie, of course, belonged to the socio-economic group—at least over the last few years and before that had aspired to it, amounted to the same thing—that waited while one’s male belongings fetched the car.

    “How far is the car?” he ventured feebly.

    “Not far. Not too humid today!” replied Scott cheerfully to the sub-text.

    “Darling, one is positively soaking! What can it be like when it is humid?” gasped Ellie.

    “’Orrid. Slow down, Scott, you tit, Mummy isn’t used to the climate.”

    “Aw, right.” Scott slowed his pace, admitting: “Mum did say that Mrs Tate, she’s a new client, she’s been moaning because her air-con won’t cope with the humidity: she’s English, too.”

    “There you are, then.” Running her air conditioner at this time of year? Er, true, March in Sydney could be very hot, but... “How long has she been out here?” asked Iain feebly.

    “Dunno. Yonks, but she still moans about the humidity. There’s two of them, they’re like sisters-in-law. The other Mrs Tate, she’s an Aussie, she’s not so bad, but Mum reckons they both got more money than sense. Two huge new houses next-door to each other, in one of those new developments, miles up the boo-eye, so Mum told that new lady at RightSmart she’d take them on if she could do them on the same day and not otherwise.”

    “I should bloody well think so!”

    “Yeah. The lady, she tried to argue but Mum said it was take it or leave it, so she spoke to the clients and jacked it up.”

    “Is this that Penny woman who was helping them out before Christmas?”

    “Nah, she was only temporary, it’s a new lady. Gail’s trying her out but Mum reckons she won’t last long.”

    Iain agreed with feeling: “It doesn’t sound like it, if she didn’t jump at the chance to give a pair of clients Daph’s services!”

    “Yeah.”

    “So they haven’t found you anything new, then, Scott?”

    “Eh? Yeah—no, I’m trying to tell you, see!”

    “I think he is, dear,” put in Iain’s mother. “Just stop interrupting and let him tell it.”

    Iain rolled his eyes wildly but let him tell it.

    “See, nobody wanted to see the place split up and turned into holiday homes for yuppies or like that, and that ole Sir Maurice, he’d of sold to anybody, didn’t care about anything except getting ’is price. So Bob Springer, he chewed Gil’s ear a bit and got him to get onto all ’is old mates back in Pongo in case some of them had a spare few hundred thou’ lying around—well, the land isn’t worth all that much, but there’s the cabana and the staff block, see? Well, its paintwork got a bit scorched but me and Jack, we stripped it back and gave ’er a fresh lick, looks good as new. The wine in the cellar was okay, only Jim Thompson, he sent a bloke with a truck to take that away,” he added in a regretful aside. “Plus and all that bottled water. There was a Helluva lot of other stuff, too, tins and stuff, and fruit juice, like that, only he reckoned it wasn’t worth collecting that, so he said me and Jack could put on a garage sale and if we couldn’t sell it, junk it. Alfie, he reckoned some of his chef mates ’ud come up from Sydney for some of the stuff, but none of them did—well, six hours’ drive all-up? Not worth the petrol. So it was mostly nosey-parkers from Potters Inlet and Barrabarra. We didn’t bother to price the stuff, we just let them make an offer, and we got rid of all the fruit juice and most of the jam except some of the low-cal stuff and the lilly pilly—well, half of them thought it was bush tucker and the rest could remember their grans making it. That pretty much left us with half a truckload of tomato juice and two dozen bottles of Angostura bitters, which might of been good if Potters Inlet and Barrabarra had of been into fancy cocktails, hah, hah. Anyway, Bob Springer come along and took that, gave us five bucks, better than a poke in the eye with a burnt stick, eh? He reckons it doesn’t go off and Deanna, she’s got a book of flash cocktail recipes and the punters’ll lap them up, only gotta put a little umbrella and a piece of pineapple on a stick in them and they’d drink anything, the brighter the better. –’E’s not wrong,” he added thoughtfully. “See, they had us over for New Year’s—Mum and Pop, too: decent, eh? Wouldn’t let us pay for the meal or anythink. Mum had the bedroom in the cabana, she used my stretcher, ’cos ole Sir Maurice, he made them grab back all the furniture, and we put an extra foam mattress on it for her, and me and Pop, we used the lounge-room: put a couple of foam mattresses down for ’im, and the ole joker slept like a log. Deanna, she done these fancy cocktails with orange and passionfruit juice—you can get it in cartons down the supermarket, but I don’t like it much. She reckons they’re called ‘Tropical Itch’ because once you’ve had one you can’t let ’em alone, but Bob reckons it’s because they’re guaranteed to give you hives. Equal parts Bacardi, bourbon and an orange liqueur, over crushed ice, and fill the glass up with the orange and passionfruit juice. Except Bob wouldn’t let her waste Bacardi on the punters, so it hadda be Bundy, so it come out a bit dark; and he said considering the price of bourbon she could put half that. He let her use the Cointreau, though, he said it’d be going down their gullets one way or another.”

    “Actually that sounds rather nice, Scott, dear!” beamed Ellie. “Quite exotic!”

    “Yeah, it was exotic, all right, Ellie, especially with the slices of orange and pineapple on the rim and them little purple umbrellas and the new curly swizzle sticks she got down her aunty’s mall—glass ones, reusable, Bob said it was an investment, really.”

    Iain choked, in spite of himself.

    Scott eyed him drily. “Yeah. Still left the best part of a carton of caviar, but; only David, he made us an offer on behalf of the restaurant we couldn’t refuse and Jack said what the Hell, it’s that or nothink. Well, there was one lady punter from the B&B that had bought one tin for twenny bucks, but nobody else wanted a bar of it.”

    “How much?” said Iain faintly. –He couldn’t see the sardonic David Walsingham voluntarily putting real money into Sir Maurice’s—or rather, YDI’s—pocket.

    “Ten bucks cash for the lot and he’d do us and Nefertite whatever we liked for our teas.”

    “What?” gasped Ellie, standing stock-still in the middle of the vast reaches of the carpark.

    Scott leaned on the handle of his trolley, looking wry. “Yeah. Well, heck, it was a hot day and we’d been on our feet since seven o’clock and nobody else wanted it! And Nefertite, she’d been helping out all day, she was really bushed. So Jack said done, and he’d just put ‘tins of fish’ on the sheet for Jim, and that was that. It was too hot for a roast, so we just voted for cold salmon salad—real baked salmon, dunno what he puts in the dressing, but it was ace—and three flavours of ice cream. I had strawberry, he does it with real strawberries, it’s great, good as Aunty Roz’s, and chocolate, think that one’s got eggs as well as real chocolate in it, and Nefertite, she loves both of them, so she had them, too, and Jack had chocolate and mango, and we all tried the apricot nectar one, ’cos it was new. –Nobbad, but you got the tinny aftertaste, so David said he wouldn’t use the nectar again,” he reported. “Meant there was no chocolate left for the punters and half of them couldn’t have the salmon, but too bad, Bob’ll never have to buy caviar again, that’s for sure. –David opened a tin for us for starters, had it with ’is homemade brown bread and a cut-up lemon. It really grows on ya, flamin’ Potters Inlet and Barrabarra don’t know what they’re missing!”

    “Scott, it all sounds wonderful!” said Ellie eagerly.

    “Yeah, nobbad,” he agreed complacently.

    “Scott, for God’s sake, what’s the story with Blue Gums?” cried Iain

    “I’m getting there,” he said with dignity. “Gotta set the scene. And you’re the one that said your mum doesn’t wanna hurry.”

    Ellie’s big blue eyes twinkled but she agreed solemnly: “That’s perfectly right, dear. You just tell it at your own pace. So you got rid of all the stuff from the larder, did you?”

    “Store-room—yeah. Well, there was some stuff left but Jack said grab anything I fancied, Jim had told him to biff it out. It was mainly low-cal jams and tomato juice, but I thought Lou could make use of them if Mum didn’t want them. –That’s my sister,” he explained kindly. “She’s quite into diet stuff, and these were awfully expensive ones.”

    “That’s nice!” she smiled. “But didn’t the B&B want the tomato juice?”

    Jesus, she’d taken it in! Iain’s legs went all wobbly and he had to hang on very tight to his laden trolley. –More of her stuff, of course. The excess baggage charges had been astronomical.

    Scott was explaining: “Bob took a few, but most of his punters aren’t into it. Dot, she sometimes has a Bloody Mary, so David took a few for her.”

    “That’s his wife,” explained Iain.

    “Darling, that did dawn!” she reproved him. “But what about the ecolodge’s linen, Scott? Did it all get burnt up?”

    “Not all,” he said temperately. “A lot of it did, though, ’cos see, they kept cupboardfuls of it over there, much easier for making the beds—and Jack reckons they went through the towels like nobody’s biz, eh, Iain?”

    “Mm.”

    “The rest, it vanished in the first hour: Nefertite was in charge of that stall, but Jack rung up Dot and got her over to help once he realised what was going on. I managed to get some sheets and towels for Mum, but it was a close-run thing: some of those ruddy moos were looking behind the stall, wouldja believe?”

    “Terrible! It sounds just like that ghastly fête in Meggie’s village: do you remember, Iain?”

    Iain was now looking round for the car—they’d come so far, it must be around here somewhere, surely? “I mainly remember toffee apples and lucky dips, but I’m sure you’re right.”

    “The year that that factory owner donated—what was it? Tinned something. Peas, I think. You know, Iain, the fat man who bought the big house and put in a swimming pool.”

    “No, but I’ll take your word for it.”

    “Voracious,” said Ellie impressively to Scott.

    “Good word for ’em,” he agreed. “There was a bit of cutlery, too, but that all vanished like the dew as well. Bob took what was left of the plates, he reckons their breakage level’s sky-high.”

    “There’s him and Deanna and David,” said Iain dazedly. “Or does David occasionally lapse into the chef thing and hurl plates at his co-workers?”

    “That’d be about as likely as doing the Greek thing and hurling ’em at the floor,” replied Scott drily. “No, just normal wear and tear, plus he reckons Deanna’s got drop-it-itis, and it’s got worse with the baby coming. –Thought you wanted to know what’s happening with Blue Gums?”

    “I never spoke,” he sighed.

    “So that was pretty much it,” said Scott to Ellie, pointedly ignoring Iain, “so me and Jack thought we better get on down to RightSmart and see if they had any jobs on their books, pronto.”

    Iain goggled at him. Jesus God Almighty, had Jack’s work ethic actually got to the boy? Hallelujah, give the man a medal!

    “Anyway, we done that, and we saw Gail, and she said she’d do her best for us and she couldn’t say she was sorry to have Jack back on her books but she was awfully sorry it hadn’t worked out better for him up Potters Inlet. Only two days later she rung Jack back and said hold everything, Fee’s boss might of found a buyer for the place. –That’s her partner, she works for a merchant bank. They’re really into venture capital and that sorta stuff, y’know?” he said on an airy note. “So Mum said maybe I better get back up there, just until we know what’s happening, so I did—well, Gil and Phil can always do with a hand, they got fourteen horses for their punters, plus two ponies for the kids and a donkey as well as Phil’s Palomino.”

    “Um, yes, I see, dear,” said Ellie dazedly.

    “See, normally Jack’d be giving Gil a hand, only he thought he better help Bob out, Deanna isn’t supposed to do too much and the doc had told her to put ’er feet up more.”

    Iain had forgotten, if he’d ever known, when Deanna’s baby was due, but fortunately he didn’t have to interrupt in order to ask, ’cos Mummy was doing it for him! End of this month, was the answer. Er—well, the B&B wasn’t quite as busy during the winter, but the restaurant now had an established reputation, and with a baby in the house, Deanna wouldn’t be up for all the waitressing she used to do, would she? And Dot had two little ones under four, she wouldn’t be able to be on deck much, either. It sounded as if they’d need full-time help. He made a mental note to mention it to Gail.

    “Anyway, next thing we know this bloke’s on the blower to Jack: can we show ’im over the site? So me and Jack get on over there and blow me down flat! Up rolls this Bentley!”

    “Up that drive?” said Iain in spite of himself.

    “Exactly! It’s three of them, see: a lady and a man and a young bloke, and he says to Jack he probably doesn’t remember him, only he was up here at Labour Weekend, gave them a hand behind the bar.”

    “Y—uh, hang on. Vern Something?” groped Iain.

    “That’s it: Vern Halliwell. Not a bad joker. See, he works for this bloke, and the lady, she’s his wife, and they’re looking for an investment.”

    “Uh—hang on. You mean Vern works for the same merchant bank as Fee?”

    “Yeah, ’course. The lady, she’s not that interested—likes the views, mind you—but the bloke, he wants to see everything, and Vern, he takes notes about everything. So turns out what they’re envisaging is a more down-market kind of ecolodge, like what Gil thought ole Sir Maurice oughta gone in for in the first place, with fishing and that, and drop the fully organic crap. And it’s not just them, it’s a group of investors, and see, Vern, he's English, and turns out his cousin, he’s in the British Army with a bloke that Gil knows!”

    “Halliwell?” said Iain dubiously.

    “Can’t remember. But he wants to be in it, too, and that’s it! They’ve bought the place, gonna keep the name Blue Gums, ole Sir Maurice, he tried to make ’em pay through the nose for that, only they said he better throw it in or the deal was off, and he gave in—Gil reckons he woulda got onto their Japanese owners and they’d of put the hard word on ’im, see—and it’s all systems go and Jack, he’s doing site foreman and he’s got the architect’s plans and we’ve levelled the site and pegged out  already!” he beamed.

    Iain waited until Mummy had finished clapping her hands. “Er, halfway decent architects are usually booked up well in advance, Scott.”

    “Yeah—no, ’cos see, this idea, they’ve had it in the pipeline for yonks, they had the plans all ready, just looking for the right place to plonk it: easy distance from Sydney, catch the weekend trade, is the idea. Loads of massages and stuff for the ladies while the blokes do a bit of fishing—see? Think they’ll charge about a tenth of what ole Sir Maurice used to.”

    “That sounds more like it. Good show! And are they employing you and Jack through RightSmart?”

    This aspect of the commercial life had obviously not struck Scott as significant. He blinked. “Um, yeah, they are, actually. S’pose that was Fee on the job, think Mum said she has got an interest in RightSmart, come to think of it. –Jack’ll give you a job any time you like, Iain!” he finished, beaming.

    Three hours out of Sydney? Iain avoided Mummy’s eye. “Great. Er, any idea where the car might be?”

    “Yeah, come on: just over here.” He strode off at a great pace, apparently forgetting he was sparing Ellie.

    “Um, Iain—” she began.

    “Yeah,” he said heavily. “We’ll sort it out later, Mummy. There’s no hurry.”

    “No,” she agreed gratefully. “After all, I’m quite well off now, darling: you don’t need to work!”

    Iain winced. Was there any hope at all she wouldn’t voice that thought in front of Daph and—horrors—old Bert? None at all, really. Oh, lawks.

    Some hours later that day Daph said sympathetically over the coffee mugs: “I suppose Scott talked the hind leg off a donkey, did he?’

    “Pretty much, Daph,” Iain admitted, grinning.

    “He’s missed you,” she said simply. “Mind you, he loves working with Jack—and it’s doing him all the good in the world. I dunno what he said—or if he said anything, actually, it might just of been his example—but it’s actually sunk in that decent blokes look round for any sort of job that’s going instead of sitting on their bums and living off the dole, not to say off their mum!”

    “Mm, got that!” he agreed.

    “But it’s not the same, Jack’s old enough to be his dad, of course,” she finished placidly.

    Uh—yeah. Help, did this mean he was being classed with the young and callow set?

    Daph drained her coffee. “Aw—I better warn you: Dad’s flamin’ pantry’s stuffed full of jars of lilly pilly jam, no-one else wanted it.”

    Iain had to swallow. “Right.”

    “Mind you, it’s not bad, just boring,” she said judiciously.

    “Got it! Um—I have got the name right, have I? The same stuff that Roz’s back hedge is, um, made of? If you can say that of a hedge.”

    “Yeah, that’s it. It’s still popular as a hedging plant. Back in Dad’s day everyone had hedges of the stuff and lilly pilly jam was a good old standby if you were flat broke.”

    “And it’s been brought back for the organically conscious trendy set? I see!”

    “That’s it, the organically conscious trendies and Dad!”

    Iain collapsed in splutters.

    “Aw—and don’t mention Malaysia.”

    “Uh—no.”

    “Or Korea.”

    “Oh! No, I won’t, Daph!” he promised fervently.

    “Think that about wraps it up,” said Daph, grinning broadly. “You’re fully briefed now, Captain Ross!”

    “Almost,” said Iain on a weak note. “You still haven’t mentioned Veronica.”

    “Waiting for you to ask. She’s fine. Doing another temp job for Emco’s. It’s data input again, waste of her talents, but she doesn’t want responsibility, she loves the freedom of temping.”

    “Mm, I can understand that.”

    “I thought you could all come over for tea tomorrow. Didn’t want to make it tonight: thought you and your mum might both be jet-lagged.”

    Iain nodded. “Yes.” As they spoke Ellie was fast asleep in Bert’s best spare room. He’d decided to stick it out grimly and go to bed at bedtime, because if you didn’t get into the right routine soonest, your body clock took forever to readjust. Or that was the theory.

    Daph was looking at her watch. “Right, that’s it,” she said grimly. “He’s been down there all flamin’ day!”

    “Um, no, he came back this afternoon!” said Iain quickly.

    “Yeah, for five minutes, was it?”

    It hadn’t been much more, no. Iain smiled feebly.

    Old Bert’s phone jack was conveniently situated in the draughts of the passage, as was normal with houses of this vintage, but back when they were clearing old Sybil Wetherby’s house Iain had rescued a phone that Scott had been going to biff in the skip and bought a long extension cord, so now there was an extension in the kitchen. Daph picked it up and dialled, looking grim.

    “Who is that?” she demanded grimly as someone answered. “—Don’t give me that! It’s George Hubbard, isn’t it? This is Daph Harris, since you’re asking, George, and you can put my dad on the line pronto and don’t give me any of the usual bullshit, thanks! ...I don’t care what you were doing, Dad, get on home: you’ve been down there all bloody day and it’s Iain’s first day home!”

    “Tell him I’ll eat all the casserole if he doesn’t,” suggested Iain.

    Daph nodded fiercely at him. “And don’t think there’ll be any tea for you if you’re not back here in fifteen minutes flat!” There was a faint response and she hung up, looking grimly pleased. “He’s coming.”

    Alas, Iain collapsed in agonising splutters. “Now I know I’m back!” he gasped, blowing his nose.

    Daph went over to the door. “It usually takes a day or two to adjust, or so they tell me,” she said mildly. “I’ll tell Veronica you were asking after her.”

    “Y—um, how is she really, Daph?”

    “I said, she’s fine. I think she’s very nervous about seeing you again, but she’s stuck it out, hasn’t she? Up to you, now. –If your mum wakes up don’t forget to tell her thanks for thinking of me with the chocolate fish. See ya tomorrow!” And with that she was gone.

    Iain just sat there listening to her car start up at the end of the drive outside Bert’s crumbling garage—probably not white ants, his daughters had made him have the whole place checked a year or two back, more likely just neglect combined with the fierce Australian sun. He could replace that door frame for him, give the whole thing a lick of paint... Veronica was nervous? Well, that was a good sign, but Jesus, she wasn’t the only one!

    “Whassup?” said Bert as he declined a second helping of Daph’s miraculous casserole and the instant mashed potato that she was only letting them have with it because it was Iain’s first day back, and she was trusting him to see Dad ate a sensible diet.

    “Not as hungry as thought I was,” admitted Iain wanly.

    The old man gave him a shrewd look but said merely: “I’ll bung it in the fridge. It can have a bit of pastry on it later in the week and we’ll call it pie.”

    “Yeah. –Uh, pie with lots of green vegetables on the side, Bert.”

    “Not beans,” he warned.

    “Beans aren’t in season,” said Iain heavily.

    “They might be, up Queensland or the Territory,” noted Bert cunningly.

    “Very well, not beans,” said Iain, not bothering to argue.

    “And not flamin’ silverbeet, even if the morons do call it spinach these days!”

    “Silverbeet’s good for you, but perhaps you’d prefer sprouting broccoli?” replied Iain sweetly.

    “Hah, bloody hah.”

    “Cabbage?”

    Bert glared. “I hate ruddy cabbage.”

    “Then I’m sure I could find some ordinary broccoli, even if it’s not in season. It’s very good for you—stuffed full of whatever kills free radicals.”

    “Green poison gas,” he noted brilliantly.

    Iain choked. “Uh—yeah. Well, suggest a green.”

    “Actually, what I really like is that Chinese cabbage stuff,” said the old man thoughtfully. “Not that ruddy bok choy or mok choy or whaddever the fuck they call it: them big white cabbages with the pale green tips. See, first off ya think they’re gonna be tough as bejasus and the wind’ll keep you up all night, but actually they’re soft as a baby’s bum! The way Roz does ’em—don’t take any notice of that Lou,” he warned, “she’ll tell ya to put ’em in a ruddy stir-fry—the way Roz does ’em, you just cut ’em up in chunks and steam ’em for five minutes and add a nob of butter. Or marg if you insist. Real delicate. Not cabbagey at all.”

    “I’ll take your word for it. Okay, Chinese cabbage,” he said weakly. There wasn’t much actual green in it—as Bert said, it was only the tips—but at least it was vegetable matter.

    “Not termorrer,” he warned.

    “What? Uh—no, Daph’s asked us all over for tomorrow.”

    “I know that, ya nana! No I mean don’t buy it termorrer. Get down the markets day after, get a nice fresh one.”

    Iain sighed. “Jawohl, mein Führer. –Why don’t you get down the markets?”

    Bert took a deep breath. “Because that tit Dickinson—”

    Yeah, yeah. Iain just sat back and let it all roll over him. Boy, it was good to be home!

    … “Huh?”

    “I said, I told ’em you’d march,” repeated the old man on a note that was half defiant, half pleading.

    Oh, God. “Dawn parade, is this?”

    “Yeah.”

    “Very well, if you insist.”

    “It’s not militaristic, it’s—”

    “Remembering the fallen, I know that, Bert! I never so much as breathed the word militaristic! I just—” He broke off, frowning.

    “Don’t if you’re not up to it,” said the old man quickly.

    Iain made a face. “Thanks, but it’s not that. Just wondering what Veronica’s attitude might be.”

    “You were in the Army,” he pointed out.

    “You’re right: if she can’t stomach it, better know it sooner than later, eh? Yes, I’ll march, Bert.”

    “Good-oh. Pete Jenkins’ll be pleased.”

    “Mm. Um—couldn’t last year, was barcoding in a tin shed halfway to Outer Woop-Woop, had a six o’clock start and RightSmart had promised the client the job’d get done, public holiday or not.”

    “Yeah, ’e knows that,” said Bert mildly. “Got your medals with you?”

    Iain gave in. “Yes, Aunty Meggie disinterred them from a box of fishing gear and packed them neatly in my suitcase. When is it, exactly?”

    “Twenny-fifth, same like always!” he said crossly.

    “No, um, I meant which day of the week?” said Iain weakly.

    “Aw! Fridee, this year. All it’ll mean to most of ’em is a long weekend, but still, we been getting quite a good turnout, these last few years. Some of the tits are dead set against letting the grandkids march with their pops’ medals, mind you: ask me, they want the whole show to go down the drain!”

    “Yes, it’s very short-sighted. Never mind, unless this new Labor government pulls all the troops out of Iraq and Afghanistan there’ll be a new generation to remember, won’t there?”

    “Look, nobody WANTS our boys to go and die in them parts!” cried Bert, turning purple.

    Iain bit his lip. “No, ’course not: sorry. I hope Rudd does bring the boys back. Though bloody Gordon Brown seems to be planning to send more British troops to Afghanistan, dunno why the fuck, except that the bloody Yanks have lost interest in Iraq now it’s dawned that nobody wins when two opposed sets of Arabs are involved and if you get two Arabs together, that’s what you’ve got.”

    “You said it. Go to bed, you’re done-in.”

    Ian was about to object but was stopped by a tremendous yawn. “Yeah, okay, maybe I will.”

    “Ben wouldn’t even get out to watch the march,” admitted Bert sourly as he reached the door.

    Oh, good God! So that was— Poor old blighter! Iain didn’t mention the fact that his son had been holding down several jobs, he just said kindly: “That’s his generation, I think, Bert.”

    “Dare say. Well, dunno what ’e thinks ’e’s gonna find over in WA,” said the old man sourly, “unless it’s a third wife to screw a third lot of maintenance out of ’im, silly tit, but they have ANZAC Day there same as the rest of the country!”

    “Mm. But at least he’s managed to find fulltime work over there,” said Iain kindly.

    Bert sniffed. “Yeah. Well, go on: shut-eye. And don’t bother getting up at crack of dawn termorrer: nothing to get up for.”

    “I think you mean don’t get up in time to stop you breakfasting off white bread and lilly pilly jam, don’t you?” replied Iain sweetly. “Nighty-night!”

    “Silly bugger,” said old Bert Sugden mildly as the kitchen door closed after him. Daph had brought over a beautiful apple tart—French-style, an open flan, the apple slices arranged in a charming pattern, resting on a bed of pastry cream, the whole sprinkled lightly with raw sugar that had caramelised slightly in the oven. Bert was of the generation that considered an apple pie ought to be done in a deep pie dish, the interior containing nothing but apples, sugar and a few cloves, and the lid composed of a good thick layer of sweet short pastry. Lightly dusted with icing sugar if you insisted. He eyed it consideringly, finally concluding: “Pity to waste it, looks like the sort of thing ’is mum’d go for.” He got up, creaking slightly, wrapped the tart carefully in Gladwrap and put it in the fridge. Then he looked thoughtfully at his pantry door. “Why not?” Happily he got out the heel of a white loaf, a fresh pot of lilly pilly jam and a dish of butter that was sitting in there because (a) it was more or less past the ant season and (b) he hated hard butter only slightly less than he hated marg.

    ... “Thash more like i’!” he announced happily as an immense helping of jam and butter supported by a token chunk of bread vanished down the gullet. On second thoughts he got up, grabbed the phone and sat down again with it.

    “’Ullo, Freda, it’s Bert Sugden ’ere,” he said as someone answered. “Is ’e?” he said weakly. “Aw. Well, just tell ’im Iain’s gonna march, okay? –Eh? No! Daph brung over a casserole!” He hung up, looking ruffled. “Women!” he said to the lilly pilly jam. “Well, why not, since yer offering?” he added jauntily. More butter went onto another token chunk of the loaf, then a pile of the jam...

    “Delicate,” concluded Bert on a smug note, swallowing. “Delicate, that’s what you are,” he told the half-empty jar approvingly. “Them woman are talking through that little hole in the back of their necks, as per usual. Delicate.”

    Anybody who might have had hopes of seeing Veronica alone for a few minutes the following evening would have had ’em dashed, only little Iain hadn’t, really, so they weren’t. Not very much. Scott of course was there with brass knobs on, even though it was mid-week and he was probably due to rise at six tomorrow to help Jack on the Blue Gums building site. The Swettenham contingent was there in force, Lou in terrifyingly smart new designer jeans and a strange greyish-pink knit top, puckered and gathered over, or more sort of round, the tits, and low-cut between the tits, and that her grandfather helpfully informed her made her look like a tart, and Bryce, now eight, pocketed, khaki-ed and camouflaged to Kingdom Come, with to boot a large plastic weapon on the hip, plus of course little Philippa, now four and almost a regular at Day Care except it cost an arm and both legs and so she just went round to Carli’s on the days she (Carli) wasn’t working. True, they had been spared the actual Carli and her Mia—though actually Mia was a dear little girl, Iain wouldn’t have minded seeing her again.

    “Who are all these children, Iain?” faltered his mother, looking round Daph’s lounge-room in a lost way as, having made sure she really wanted a sherry and wouldn't prefer some of the lovely cherry brandy Iain had given Daph, Lou exited to help her mother in the kitchen.

    “Two,” said Iain firmly. “They’re Lou’s kids, of course, Mummy: Daph’s grandchildren.”

    “The—the little girl doesn’t seem to know you,” said Ellie uncertainly: Philippa was staring fixedly at him.

    “Of course she knows me!” said Iain with a laugh, ruffling his curls. “Ginger Meggs, remember?” he said to the little girl.

    “She doesn’t remember that!” noted Bryce scornfully.

    “Yes, I do!” she cried valiantly. She went over to the bookcase, ouch.

    “Look out, it’ll be that sissy Purple Fairy Book,” warned Bryce sourly.

    “’Tisn’t,” said Philippa on a smug note, coming up to Iain’s knee. “It’s the new book, see? An’ I do remember him, he’s jus’ like Sampson!” she informed her peer witheringly.

    Er—yeah. Iain had bought “the new book,” aka The Church Mice Adrift, at a garage sale in self-defence, The Purple Fairy Book having got too much for him, only realising after he’d tried to read it to them that the author’s style, which you might have characterised as both elliptical and allusive if you were in a good mood, was way, way over both their heads and the only possible way to “read” the thing was painstakingly to interpret every picture, meanwhile skipping most of the so-called narrative. Though actually for his own sake he left some of it in, it was quite amusing. It wasn’t until he’d struggled through the thing three times that it dawned that that was undoubtedly the author’s intent. Sampson was a large, not very bright marmalade cat.

    “Marm’lay hair,” remembered Philippa, staring at his head.

    “Mm,” agreed Iain weakly as Bryce collapsed in sniggers.

    “That’ll do, Bryce,” said old Bert mildly. “—No reading today, lovey, your Nanna’s got guests,” he added firmly as Philippa suggested Iain read to her.

    “We could just look at the pictures,” said Iain kindly as her little heart-shaped face fell. “Come on, want to sit on my knee? –That’s right! –Mm, Sampson,” he agreed as Philippa pointed him out. “Big eyes, yes.”

    “Goggle-eyes!” said Bryce with a snigger.

    “Shut up, Bryce,” ordered Scott just as Bert was opening his mouth. “Put the TV on, if ya can’t find anything else to do.”

    “It’s only the stupid news,” he objected, pouting.

    “All right, don’t,” responded Scott calmly.

    Bryce subsided in scowling defeat but as his great-grandfather began to chat nicely to Ellie about France—the old boy knew more about the country and its history than she did, her son registered drily—gradually began to edge over towards Iain’s chair and pretty soon was leaning over the back of it, huffing heavily down his neck and pointing out quite as eagerly as his little sister: “Ugh: rats!” And: “Of course it’s a tail, all cats have got— Hey, look at his tail!” And such like. Which was what they were doing when Veronica came in, in her business suit, looking very shy.

    “There you are, love,” said old Bert before anyone else could utter.

    “Good, now we can have tea,” noted Scott simply.

    “I’m sorry; the traffic was terrible. You shouldn’t have waited for me,” said Veronica in a small voice, not looking at Iain.

    “Ignore him, of course we waited for you!” replied Bert, giving his grandson a glare.

    “Should of taken the train,” noted Scott.

    “I did,” she said, pinkening. “But Emco’s head office is a long way from the station, Scott: I have to catch a bus first.”

    “Yeah, an’ shuddup,” ordered Bert. “Go and tell your mother she’s home.”

    “It’s all right, she knows,” said Veronica quickly.

    “Then get her a drink, Scott!”

    “Righto. Whadd’ll it be, Veronica?”

    Veronica was pinker than ever. “No, really, I—“

   “Everyone else is having one. Have a sherry,” he offered.

    Iain took a deep breath. “Or not, if you don’t like it, Veronica. How are you? It’s lovely to see you again.”

    “Hullo, Iain,” replied Veronica in a tiny voice.

    He got up—perforce holding Philippa. “Let me introduce my mother. Mummy, this is Veronica Johnson. Veronica, my mother, Ellie Borovansky.”

    “How do you do, Mrs Borovansky?” said Veronica politely. “I was so sorry to hear your sad news.”

    “Thank you. It was a shock,” replied Ellie, looking bewildered. –Iain couldn’t for the life of him tell if it was genuine or some kind of defence mechanism, of which, just by the by, she had a-plenty.

    “Veronica’s Daph’s new boarder. Got my old room,” he said on a firm note.

    Ellie’s bewildered expression did not abate. “I see. But surely that’s an English accent?”

    “Ya could put it like that!” agreed Scott with his cheerful laugh. “She’s been out here about a year, now. –Here.” He shoved a brimming glass of Harvey’s Bristol Cream at Veronica.

    “Scott,” began Iain, “that’s sweet as bejasus, she may not like—“

    “Nah, she’s had it before. Can’t take a fino—found a wine shop downtown that was having a sale, got a bottle to try. None of them could touch it, not even Pop.”

    “Gnat’s piss,” said Bert stolidly.

    “You got no palate, ya mean,” rejoined his grandson without animus.

    “Where is it?” demanded Iain tensely.

    Scott grinned at him. “Sorry, mate, it was too good, I finished it.”

    “Okay, first thing tomorrow morning!” he promised.

    “Thought you were gonna get down to RightSmart first thing?”

    “Uh—” Veronica was looking at him with a sort of mild expectancy on her lovely oval face. Oh, crumbs. “Okay, I’ll do a round of the wine shops on the way back.”

    “What about the markets?” put in Bert.

    “Uh—oh. Okay, markets, RightSmart, then wine shops, how’s that?”

    “Good-oh,” they both agreed in identical mild tones.

    Iain’s eyes sparkled. “An Australian expression of assent and agreement,” he said to Veronica.

    The huge, velvety dark eyes twinkled and she was obviously trying not to laugh as she managed to reply: “Very funny, Iain.”

    Mummy was now looking from one to the other of them with strong bewilderment on her face, but Iain ignored her entirely. It was going back a fair way, now, but every instant of it was engraved on his memory—nay, his heart! But he was no longer thirteen, on his hols by the seaside, and Veronica was not dim little Megan Lewis, aged thirteen and a half, and there was no way any pantomime of Ellie’s was going to keep them apart!

Next chapter:

https://temps-anovel.blogspot.com/2022/11/the-question-of-ellie.html