23
Return To Lallapinda
Pete sat on the side verandah at Lallapinda, slowing rolling himself a fag. Musing.
A thin line of blue smoke was curling up into the still, warm air when a gloomy-looking figure emerged onto the verandah and came and drooped beside him.
“Siddown. Take the weight off,” said Pete kindly.
Nev Bailey sat down with a sigh.
“Air-con working good, now, is it?” said Pete kindly.
“Shuddup!” he snarled.
Obligingly Pete shut up.
After quite some time Nev predicted sourly: “He’ll sack me, that’s what.”
“No, ’e won’t, ya drongo, the Kitten won’t let ’im,” replied Pete calmly.
Nev swallowed. “Pete, they’ve got God knows how many guests coming for Christmas: the place’ll be unliveable without air-con!”
Put it well. Not that Lallapinda hadn’t been designed back in the days before air-con had ever been heard of. “S’pose the old ceiling fans have long since gone,” said Pete reflectively.
“Eh?”
“Ceiling fans, Nev. Big whirligigs that go round and round above your head, stirring up the air,” explained Pete kindly. “Whoppers. In each room.”
“What the fuck are you on about? I’ve never seen a ceiling fan here,” he sighed.
Put paid to that bright idea, then. “Right.”
“Uh—even if we ordered them right now we’d never get them installed before Christmas,” Nev added on an uncertain note.
“This is true.”
“Shit, we’d never even get them delivered before Christmas!”
“Noddif them Adelaide shops are on form, no, leddalone the Port Augusta ones.”
“Then why bring up the idea?” he snarled.
Pete drew in smoke slowly. He expelled it slowly. “Aah! Well, had a mad idea that maybe there’s a shed full of nice old ceiling fans somewhere on the property that Dick Manning could illegally wire in for ya.”
“Um, Mrs W. told Chris that he’s a registered electrician,” replied Nev uncertainly.
Pete sniffed slightly.
“Well, um, it is his profession, Pete.”
“Yeah. Sloane tell you about the electric jug that went bang?”
“No,” he said blankly. “Musta been the element. We had one that did that. Chris screamed and ran out of the kitchen; dunno what good she imagined that was gonna do.”
Pete coughed slightly. “Right. No, point was, this was the new element that Dick had wired up, ya see.”
Nev Bailey was heard to gulp, hah, hah.
“Yeah,” said Pete with some satisfaction. “No, well, if there aren’t any old fans around anyway, doesn’t matter, eh?”
“No.”
Pete smoked reflectively. Eventually he said: “Might be worth asking Dick to take a dekko at the air-con, though. Might be something simple that us hoi polloi can’t see. Well—on the lines of a blocked fuel line, or something.”
“Us what?”
“Good one, eh? Got it off Cal. He read it in a book, see. It’s Greek. Just means us ordinary yobs, apparently.”
Nev sighed. “Then why not say so?”
“Practising for The Invasion of the Nobs.”
“Look, Pete, will ya for God’s sake just stop saying that? Caught meself saying it the other day—and it’s all over Nearby Bay. Heard flaming Ted Perkins sniggering over it with Kym’s mate Andy in the pub the other day.”
“What the Hell were you doing at the pub when you’ve got umpteen visitors due and no air-con?” asked Pete, goggling at him.
“I’d been looking for a flaming electrician that wasn’t booked up till Christmas of NEXT YEAR!” he shouted.
Pete just let the shout ring on the still South Australian air.
“Sorry, Pete,” said Nev heavily.
“That’s all right, mate.”
“Maybe I will ask Dick. Will he mind?”
“Dick?” croaked Pete, removing the remains of the fag and goggling at him.
“No, I mean—well, heck, it’s a bit of an imposition,” he muttered. “And isn’t he busy designing some computer management system for Cal?”
“Yep, deep into breeding records, last report I had. No, actually I think Cal and Sloane might be glad to get rid of him. He’s got obsessed with this computer thing, ya see.”
“Aw, right. Okay, I’ll ask him. Thanks, Pete.”
Pete refrained from sighing. Silly tit. “Any time,” he said grandly.
Nev lapsed into silence, staring blankly before him at the red-brown SA dust. “Ya know,” he said finally, “it felt like all me Christmases and birthdays had come at once, frankly, when Mr Kent asked me if I’d like to come back and manage Lallapinda for them.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, she was keen to get back to the Big Smoke, at first, only there were no jobs, and then her bloody sisters started putting the knife in. Not to mention her bloody mother.”
“Thought she was in a home?”
“Nice retirement village, thanks. In a nice retirement village, putting the knife in, geddit?”
“Ouch,” replied Pete obligingly.
“Yeah. Me flamin’ brother-in-law got in on the act, too. Thought I’d clock ’im if I heard the words ‘mid-life crisis’ one more time.”
“Eh? Wasn’t your fault, Nev: the job give you up, you didn’t give it up.”
“Nah, he reckoned that was why I come out here in the first place, see. But it wasn’t, that job gave me up, as well!” he said aggrievedly. “Redundancies, they called it. The flaming overseas owners pulling the plug, more like. Turns out they’re based in Singapore, mate, wouldja believe?”
“That right?” he said mildly.
“Yeah. Not that I was wildly interested in floor tiles, actually, but a job’s a job.”
Floor tiles based in Singapore. Okay, the world was mad, but Pete Dawkins had always more or less been aware of that. He sniffed, removed the fag end, removed a shred of tobacco from his lip and replaced the fag end.
“Is it true Kent wants to start up a wind farm?” asked Nev dully.
“Think so. Well, Lallapinda’s got plenty of wind, and the land’s just sitting here doing nothing. So there’ll probably be a few technicians round the place—permanent, I mean, not the blokes that’ll put the things up. Be a bit of company for you.”
“Yeah. Well, the bunkhouse is available. –Chris reckons the vibrations send ya mad,” he revealed gloomily.
“Don’t worry, the Kitten won’t let Kent put the ruddy things anywhere near the homestead!” said Pete with a sudden laugh, chucking the fag end on the ground.
“Really? Thank God! She’s been bending me ear unceasingly!”
“Have a fag,” offered Pete kindly.
“I will, actually. Thanks, Pete.”
Nodding, Pete rolled him one, rolled himself one and lit them both scientifically.
“Thanks,” said Nev with a sigh, accepting one. He inhaled deeply. He blew out a cloud of blue smoke. “Boy, that’s better!”
Presumably Chris panicking over the flaming wind farm had been a strong factor in the gloom, then. Pete smoked peacefully.
“Um, what are you doing over here, anyway, Pete?” asked Nev on a weak note, when the cigarettes had been half smoked.
“Mrs W. sent me over with a load of cardies in case the air-con was gonna be too cold for your lady guests.”
Nev turned an alarming shade of purple and choked on his fag.
“No! Honest!” said Pete quickly. “Gimme that.” He took the fag off him and chucked it onto the ground.
Nev was still coughing helplessly. Kindly Pete banged him on the back.
“Stop!” he gasped, his eyes watering.
“Better?”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry. It’s true. She’s like that,” Pete reminded him feebly.
“Yeah.”
“Um, if Chris starts worrying whether she can borrow one, the answer’s she can keep the lot.”
“Shut up, Pete,” he warned.
It was true, but Pete shut up anyway. Well, once a tit, always a tit. Not that Nev was entirely a bad joker, but—yeah. Tit.
Cal gave a shout of laughter. “Get away!”
“Nope,” said Dick smugly. “True.”
“Wait till I tell Pete,” he said unsteadily. “Cripes, how long was he in that job at Lallapinda?”
Dick shrugged. “Long enough not to have asked himself where the magic electricity that came through the wires and made the air-con go, actually came from, apparently.”
“Yeah!” he gasped, breaking down in horrible sniggers.
Sloane came into the farm office looking hot in a crumpled apron with smudges of flour here and there on her person. “What’s the joke?”
Dick grinned. “Flaming Nev Bailey. Been doing his nut for days because he couldn’t get the air-con at Lallapinda to work—”
“Yes, I know, Dad.”
“Yeah. Thought it was the wiring, see.”
Cal made a spluttering noise.
“Yeah. Only what he hadn’t realised,” said Dick with relish, “was that on an Outback station the electricity doesn’t just come magically through the wires, courtesy of the power company and that ruddy great bill every three months. –Well, does it?”
“Um, no, you have to have a generator,” said Sloane, looking uncertainly at Cal.
Cal went off in another sniggering fit.
“Yep, that’s right, love,” said Dick happily. “This significant fact—nay, crucial fact,”—Cal gave a howl—“yes, crucial fact,” Dick went on with relish, “had never occurred to Mr Bailey.”
“But Dad, the electricity’s on at Lallapinda!”
“Uh-huh. It sure is. That’s the main generator, put in yonks back. The fully ducted air-con, super-controllable only from the managerial office by your friendly Lallapinda host in person, was put in later by the Lallapinda Management Corp after your welcoming Lallapinda gracious homestead had been charmingly refitted—good word, eh?—to accommodate select guests. With its own generator.”
Sloane gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth.
“Yeah. She turned over sweet as a nut and Bob was yer uncle,” said Dick, horribly bland.
Cal collapsed in minor hysterics.
“I—I can't even laugh,” Sloane confessed weakly.
“No,” Dick allowed. “Well, Pete’s word for the man has always been ‘tit’. Can’t think of a better one, really.”
“Dad,” she said in hollow voice, “who have you told?”
“Eh? Well, Cal and you. Um, well, saw old Wes Perkins, just as I was getting into the ute to come back, told him. Think ’e’s gone walkabout, doubt if he’ll be telling anyone.”
“Cripes, his wife’ll be rabid, they’re having the mob over for a really big Christmas wing-ding this year, it's their fortieth wedding anniversary,” said Cal weakly.
“That right? Good on ’im, any bloke that’s got the guts to get out of that sort of do’s got my vote. Anyway, I haven’t told anyone else yet, Sloane: why?”
“Because if you do tell anyone it’ll be all over flaming Nearby Bay before you can turn round, and poor Nev Bailey’ll be a laughingstock for the rest of his life!”
Dick scratched his head. “You’re probably right, but would it matter?”
“Dad!”
“Look, if a bloke’s that feeble doesn’t he deserve to be laughed at?”
“No! Tell him, Cal!”
Cal cleared his throat. “Um, well, Dick’s got a point, love.”
“What?”
“Well, uh, can I just tell Pete?” he asked weakly.
“Only if you promise to make him swear not to tell anybody else!”
Weakly Cal promised.
“Good,” she said, exiting without saying why she’d come in in the first place.
Dick cleared his throat.
“Shut up, Dick,” warned Cal unsteadily.
“Our trouble is we’re not New Age men that show their sensitive feminine side, mate,” he explained in a friendly way.
“Shut up,” he warned, shaking slightly.
Suddenly Dick dissolved in helpless sniggers, gasping: “They’re all like that, mate!”
“Yeah,” said Cal, grinning sheepishly. “Apparently.”
A miracle had occurred and Karen had got away from work several days before Christmas instead of just before the stroke of midnight on Christmas Eve. She had of course refused to let Dick pick her up from anywhere, let alone the airport at Port Augusta, and had competently hitched a ride with Murray Keating as far as the airstrip—what passed for an airstrip—at Nearby Bay. As Joe Hickson, the publican, was there to pick up a load of sundries from Murray, apparently mainly cartons of potato crisps, she gave him a hand to load them up and then accepted a lift with him as far as the pub. This left her nicely placed to discover who if anyone might be heading to Muwullupirri or Lallapinda today. The answer was a lemon. Undeterred, Karen accepted a light-beer from Joe and a cheese, tomato and lettuce sandwich from Mrs Joe, and headed for Mitre 10, where she pinned the squirming Andy down under her huge claw foot, or so at least her son was later to report, and got out of him just who was now running The Junction servo, plus and what facilities it offered. Then she went over there and bullied George Wells into letting her hire his emergency loaner for a purely nominal sum, and drove herself competently out to Muwullupirri, arriving in good time to criticise her daughter’s, husband’s and future son-in-law’s idea of afternoon tea.
“I know she’s your mum, love, but why’s she come out early?” said Cal weakly to his fiancée when, having approved the lovely antique opal engagement ring as “Very pretty, dear, if you feel you have to have a ring,” drunk a cup of tea and eaten half a scone without butter or jam, Karen had hefted her suitcase and headed upstairs with the declared intention of unpacking it, trailed by Dick looking helpless.
Sloane’s eyes twinkled. “Well, I’m not sure, but when I rang Ingrid last night she said she thought she might be going to check up to see that everything’s okay at Lallapinda for Kitten and Hugo and their guests.”
“Eh?”
“You may well say eh,” replied Sloane primly.
“Cummere!” He gathered her into his arms and kissed her soundly.
“Well,” said Sloane, emerging from the bear-hug flushed and smiling, “that’s what Ingrid thought.”
“Cripes. Um—doesn’t she trust the Baileys, or what?”
“I think it’s more like she doesn’t trust the entire SA infrastructure, Cal,” said Sloane primly.
“That rates another one!” he replied with a loud laugh, swooping on her again.
“Crikey, are you two still snogging?” said a disgusted voice from the direction of the back door.
Cal released Sloane without haste. “Still early days, mate!” he said airily.
“Somethink like that,” replied Kym, grinning. “Ooh, scones!”
“Look out,” warned Sloane drily. “Mum’s here.”
“Aw, heck! She’ll never let us have butter, Sloane!” he wailed.
“This is true. Well, she hasn’t quite got into her stride, yet. So far she’s merely criticised it.”
“Severely,” put in Cal, grinning.
“Severely,” Sloane agreed. “And the jam. Both sorts, Kym.”
“Yeah, hah, hah.” He looked round nervously. “Where is she?”
“Upstairs, unpacking.”
“Why the Hell’s she here so early?”
“Your sister Ingrid thinks she wants to check up that things are ready for the guests over at Lallapinda,” reported Cal smoothly.
“Eh?”
Sloane collapsed in helpless giggles.
“Yeah,” said Cal, grinning widely, “so if I was you, old mate, I’d grab the rest of them scones and the butter and jam, and head for the bunkhouse, pronto.”
“Hang on!” said an aggrieved voice from somewhere behind Kym. “Leave some for me!”
“Do, pray, come in, Mr Dawkins,” returned Cal graciously.
“Look out, Pete, Mum’s here,” warned Kym, scraping the butter onto the platter that held the remaining scones and picking up the strawberry jam.
“Right, goddit.” Pete picked up the apricot jam and retrieved a carton of milk from the fridge. “Come on, there’s plenny of tea in the bunkhouse, put a new packet out there meself only the other day.”
With that they exited.
Sloane sat down weakly at the kitchen table. Cal just watched her, a little smile on his face. Eventually she admitted: “I was gonna say, what a pair of wimps, but actually, you can’t blame them.”
“No!” he gasped, breaking down in helpless gales of laughter at last.
Sloane smiled weakly. “Oh, dear,” she murmured.
“I’ve never seen so many bathrooms in my life!” declared Karen roundly.
Chris Bailey smiled weakly. “No. Um, ensuites, Mrs Manning,” she murmured.
“Karen,” Karen corrected firmly.
Chris swallowed. True, Dick was completely unpretentious, a really nice guy, but actually she’d never even met his wife before today! “Um, yes, Karen, of course. Um, well, the house was remodelled as, um, a hospitality venue, you see.”
Karen sniffed. “How on earth did you manage the laundry, stuck out here in Outer Woop-Woop?”
“Well, actually, that was tricky, but—” Chris launched into it.
Karen listened, nodding sagely. “Good,” she concluded. “We’d better check the machines out, then. –I suppose Dick hasn’t looked at them?”
“Um, no. Dick? Um, no,” replied Chris blankly.
“He is a qualified electrician,” said Karen mildly.
“Oh! Their electrics! Um, yes, it might be as well, actually, after the air-con do.”
“What was that?” asked Karen kindly.
Chris led the way to the laundry shed, regaling her with the saga of Nev’s boo-boo over the air-con.
Karen Andersen Manning didn’t laugh. “They’re all like that,” she said simply. “Dick might know about electrical stuff but he’s a complete no-hoper in other things. How are you off for water? Cal tells me it’s bore water at Muwullupirri.”
“Um, yuh-yes, I think it is here, too!” she gasped. “Um, I think Pete mentioned it once…”
“Uh-huh. Hard. You need laundry softeners.”
“Heck, I never knew that!” gasped Chris.
“Don’t worry, I got a carton off Mrs Wainwright for you. And she said to tell you she’s very sorry she never thought to mention it before. –Not that it would have mattered, with only short-term guests, but I dare say Hugo won’t want his good English shirts and underdaks ruined by hard SA bore water. –It’s very alkaline. That’s why it has to be filtered,” she added briskly.
It was difficult to know which part of this speech to respond to first. “Uh—does it?” faltered Chris. “Um, thuh-thank Mrs Wainwright very much for me, won’t you, Karen? And—and thanks so much for thinking of it.”
“No worries,” said Karen briskly, turning a washing-machine tap experimentally and sniffing slightly as a trickle of water ran out of the said tap’s innards. “Thought so. The washers dry out in the SA climate, Dick reckons.” She strode over to the door and bellowed: “DICK!”
Chris hadn’t realised Dick had come over with her. She gulped.
“DICK! GET OVER HERE!”
After a few moments Dick appeared, wiping his hands on an ominously black-stained rag.
“Well?” said Karen.
“Well, it’s a ruddy great fifty-year-old generator that nobody’s done any maintenance on for yonks, but she’s running sweet enough, love.”
“Why they have to be ‘she’, don’t ask me,” said Karen to Chris in an acid tone.
“Um, no—but they always are, aren’t they?” she replied with a nervous giggle.
To her astonishment Karen winked at her. “Yeah. –Take a look at these flaming washing-machines, wouldja, Dick? Just make sure their electrics are okay and the ruddy hoses haven’t perished yet and Chris and Kitten aren’t gonna electrocute themselves when they try to use them. And the driers,” she added before he could draw breath.
“Righto,” agreed Dick, finishing wiping his hands and shoving the filthy, greasy rag into the pocket of his jeans. Chris swallowed, but his wife didn’t seem to notice.
“That tap’s dripping,” Karen noted instantly as he reached for one.
“You’re right. Be the flaming washer. What’s the betting that that Mitre 10 dump over in Nearby Bay won’t have anything to fit? Flaming Andy Miller or not.”
“Fifty to one,” replied Karen laconically.
“Yeah. –Put it on the mail-order list,” he suddenly ordered Chris.
“Whuh-what?” she faltered.
“Washing-machine tap washers—better specify the make and model, too. God knows whether this lot will’ve come with the machines or not.”
“I—I think only the hose thingos do,” she faltered. “I mean, when my sister got a new machine, the men just screwed it into the tap thingos, they were already there.”
“That’d be right,” agreed Karen. “Is there a brand name on the taps?”
“No,” reported Dick.
“Bloody typical,” she noted grimly.
“Yeah. Just put washing-machine tap washers, then,” Dick ordered Chris.
“Yes, but—but where from?” she faltered.
“Eh? Your usual supplier,” he said blankly.
“But we’ve never had one! I mean, everything was here, really, I just had to buy ordinary stuff, like groceries!”
“Right.” Dick produced a notebook from his back pocket and a pen from his shirt pocket and made a note. “Muwullupirri’ll order them for ya.”
“Good,” approved Karen.
Chris just looked at them helplessly.
“Meantime, Dick, get on with it,” his spouse ordered.
“Gimme time to get me tools, love,” he replied mildly.
“Go on, then, but stir ya stumps!”
Looking very mild, Dick went off in the direction of the front sweep.
“Have you made the beds yet?” Karen then demanded of Chris.
“Nuh—uh—for the guests? Not yet, Mum always said don’t leave a bed made up, they get damp!” she gasped.
“In SA’s climate? Bullshit! Come on, I’ll give you a hand.”
“You don’t have to, Karen,” said Chris weakly as she strode out.
“Rubbish, she’s my mad daughter, isn’t she? Wishing a load of guests on you with practically no notice!”
“Um, yuh-yes, but we were so pleased to have our jobs back!” gasped Chris, scrambling in her wake.
Karen paused. “Yeah, but I can tell you, Kitten was bloody relieved to know you were still available. So don’t imagine you’re doing them any favours! Come on.”
Limply Chris came on.
Nev Bailey came very cautiously into Lallapinda’s big modern kitchen. Chris was at the bench, in the act of putting some slices of wholemeal bread in the toaster. “Um, will toast be all right for their breakfast, love?”
“Why not?” she replied blankly.
He winced. “Don’tcha remember the fuss that went on over the chief Nob’s—” He coughed. “I mean, the boss’s breakfast, last time? Special croissants and, um, special coffee as well, wasn’t it?”
“Aw, that!” replied Chris airily. “Nah, that wasn’t him!”
Not bloody half. “Yes, it was, I can see that minder of his, one of the corporate twerps, standing right here in this kitchen, large as life and twice as unnatural, passing on ’Is Gracious Majesty’s demands.”
“No. I mean, he did, yeah—there were two of them, actually, ’member? We gave one of them such a flea in his ear that he never came back. No, but Kitten says that was just them, they’ve got closed minds, they interpret his every word literally. He doesn’t demand stuff to eat, at all!”
Aw, yeah? Nev eyed her warily. “Yeah? So what does he want?”
“Just a sensible diet. Kitten says at home she does sometimes let him have croissants, but only for a treat, like on Sundays, usually—she says they freeze okay, see? But she often does him half a grapefruit—”
“He can whistle for that.”
“Well, I can always suss out the supermarkets in Nearby Bay, ya never know. I think they’re growing those nice pink ones up in Queensland, these days. Ruby.”
Ruby Who? Nev didn’t ask. “And?”
“Eh?”
“After the non-existent grapefruit what does she reckon she gives him?”
“Just wholemeal toast, same as anyone. He doesn’t like the gritty sort.”
“E’s not alone there!” said Nev in heartfelt tones, feeling his jaw.
“That crown’s not playing up, is it, love?”
“Nah, just the horrible memory… So it’s toast and?”
“And what?” Chris replied blankly.
“Presumably he doesn’t have it dry. Vegemite?”
“I dunno. She said just put the marmalade and Vegemite out with the marg.”
“That it?” he croaked.
Chris stuck her chin in the air. “Why not? I s’pose he’s only human, like the rest of us!”
In a pig’s ear. How many billions was the bugger worth?
“She said she’s very glad he likes a sensible diet and she can’t stand men that let themselves go to seed in middle age, if ya wanna know!” Chris ended on a triumphant note.
Nev looked down involuntarily at his own flat middle. “Uh—right. –Well,” he said, rallying slightly, “Pete’s skinny enough, that’s true.”
“Shut up!” she hissed in horror.
He sniffed slightly. “Wonder if ’e knows?”
“Shut up, Nev!”
Nev obligingly shut up on that topic, but said: “What about coffee?”
“I’m using that new coffee-pot: Kitten brought it. Pete reckons it’s just like Cal’s Italian one that he got in Melbourne. It makes awfully strong coffee but evidently that’s how he likes it. Kitten likes hers with hot milk in the mornings, so that’s what that little pot’s on the stove for.”
“Right, goddit. Well, at least they haven’t started making unreasonable demands on ya from the word go,” he said in relief.
“I think Kitten’s got far too much sense for that, Nev.”
Gulping, he croaked: “Yeah? Good-oh,” and tottered out to the side verandah, a broken man.
“There you are,” he croaked.
“Yep,” Pete agreed.
“She’s just told me Kitten’s got too much sense to make unreasonable demands,” he croaked.
“Unreasonable demands what for, Nev?” replied Pete clinically, if not precisely grammatically.
“Eh? Well, food we can’t supply in this instance, but I mean!”
Pete smoked ruminatively for a moment. “Yeah,” he concluded, pitching the stub at the dust. “Fancy a fag?”
“You’re getting me addicted to those things. Aw, go on, then, I need it: me nerves are kinda… Not jangling, exactly. They were all set to jangle, only it’s been such a… What’s the word? Um… Anticlimax, that’s it! It’s been such an anticlimax, that now they’re sorta…”
“Unjangling? Jingling?” he offered.
“No-o… More trembling, actually. Yeah, trembling. I feel really peculiar.”
Raising his eyebrows slightly, Pete swiftly rolled him one and lit it for him.
“Thanks,” said Nev, drawing deeply. “Aah! Jesus, that’s better!”
Melodie had brightly proposed “driving over” from Sydney. Michael Stuart had looked at the map, winced, and vetoed this idea definitively. Well, in that case, if he insisted on wasting his money by flying up to Port Augusta—he didn’t think his fiancée had yet grasped the scope of his wealth: Michael just smiled slightly—they could hire a car there. But it might be better to book one in advance if they could get hold of the phone number, it was quite a small place. Michael looked at the map again. He just about dropped it. Then he checked the scale. Yes, he hadn’t had it wrong. “Melodie, sweetheart, this Nearby Bay place—it’s not even on this map, but if it's where you say it is—very well, darling, it is—it must be a day’s drive from Port Augusta!”
“Eh? Bullshit! Just a few hours! Heck, Port Augusta’s only about three hundred and twenny K from Adelaide!”
“Then would it be better to drive up to Nearby Bay from Adelaide, darling?”
“Nah. Well, I’ve done it, but Ingrid reckons it’s a much easier drive the other way.”
Michael swallowed a sigh. Much though he loved Melodie, since they’d arrived in Australia the phrase “Ingrid reckons” was beginning to grate a little. “Look, according to the weather report the temperature up there was forty degrees yesterday. I’m not risking you in a car in that heat, sweetheart.”
“It’ll have air-con, silly,” she said comfortably.
No doubt. But what if (a) the air-con broke down or (b) the car broke down? He peered at the map. “Look, wouldn’t this other town, Port Pirie, be closer to Nearby Bay?”
“Not really. There’s no road.”
Michael swallowed. “Oh.”
“I mean, ya have to go back to the highway.”
“Mm. I really think I should get someone from All-Aussie Transport to give us a lift in one of the firm’s copters, darling. We could probably land actually at Lallapinda, if the place is as extensive as you say.”
“Um, yeah, there’s plenty of room… Michael, if we see a mob of emus, ya won’t let him chase them, will you?” she said in a small voice.
Michael was about to laugh. He looked at her face and thought better of it. “No, of course not, darling,” he said, putting his arm round her.
“Oh, good! Well, a helicopter might not be a bad idea… I think it’s about another hundred K to the homestead from Nearby Bay, actually. It’s inland, ya see.”
He swallowed again. “A chopper it is, then!”
Beaming, Melodie launched into an involved tale about a crippled emu. It finally dawned that this was all at second- or third-hand: she hadn’t, apparently, actually seen it. However, she was sure that he’d love to see it, and Mr Wainwright, well, he loved showing people the aviary!
Gallantly the billionaire entrepreneur agreed he’d love to meet Ollie Emu.
Being an Australian, Ward didn’t blench at Ingrid’s cheerful proposal that they drive over to Lallapinda, but he did point out it would be a bloody waste of time, and a very long drive for James. They’d fly to Adelaide, change planes there and fly up to Port Augusta and then either someone from Lallapinda or Muwullupirri could collect them or they’d hire a car—better make it a four-wheel drive. “Well, whaddaya think?”
“Port Augusta’s pretty popular during the Christmas holidays, Ward. We might not be able to hire a car. And if there are any there won’t be much choice.”
“Aussie commercial enterprise at its best again, eh?” he said heavily. “Well, have Hugo and Kitten got anyone at Lallapinda that they could send up for us, darl’?”
“Dunno. Um, they’ve got the Baileys back. Kitten hasn’t mentioned anyone ese. Well, Dad’s over at Muwullupirri, he could collect us.”
Ward eyed her drily. “Didn’t you say Sloane reckons he’s at Muwullupirri being ruthlessly hen-pecked by Karen, morn till night?”
“Um, yeah,” she admitted.
“Poor old Dick. Nah, give the whole thing away, darl’, I’ll grab one of KRP’s copters. One of the boys from Kalgoorlie can hop over to Port Augusta: be a nice little break for him. It’ll make a much shorter day for James; just the ticket, eh?” he beamed.
“Good one!” she agreed enthusiastically.
Once again, Ward found he was silently thanking his lucky stars that he’d found Ingrid before it was too bloody late for him.
It was only shortly after crack of dawn. Nev wandered out onto the side verandah yawning widely, and found Pete there again.
“Aw, there you are, Nev. Siddown, I gotta tell ya something. Ya better have a fag.”
“What, for God’s sake?” he croaked, nevertheless accepting the fag.
Pete sniffed slightly. “There was a spate of fires over in Nearby Bay last night. Dunno whether it was Bolshie schoolkids like usual, or yobbos from the Big Smoke, or what. Anyway, first the school went up and the firies shot out there, then there was another alarm and it was the big Woolie’s—”
“Jesus!”
“Wait for it. They sorta had it under control—the booze went off like flamin’ Guy Fawkes night, the place was full of spirits, of course, for Christmas. When I say under control, they had the blaze under control, but the building was a write-off, and then someone yelled ‘Fire!’ and of course they were about to clobber the silly drongo, only then they realised ’e wasn’t kidding and there was another great blaze over yonder, so they rushed over there, but it was a bit too late.”
Nev stared at him, his face glazed in horror.
“Not the pub,” said Pete kindly.
“Then WHAT?” he shouted.
“The Coles. Not as bad as the Woolie’s, they’ve saved the building, but all the stock’s either smoke-damaged or water-damaged. The Chinese next to it went up like a bomb, though—think they mighta had a big barrel of used oil out the back, there was an almighty bang, evidently.”
“Who told you?” he said tensely.
“Well, partly the ABC, old mate,” said Pete kindly. “The early news this morning. But Ted Perkins just turned up and told me the lot. ’E’s pushed off to Muwullupirri to let them know, now. Well, and to bludge a free brekkie, most prob’ly—but, yeah.”
“Pete, that leaves the whole town—no, the whole district—without a supermarket!”
“Yeah. Well, once they’ve made sure the Coles is structurally sound dare say they’ll re-open, but it won’t be within the week. They have got that Minimart, so-called, in Bonny Bay, but Ted reckons the word on that was, there was a queue out the front and all round the block by six ack-emma, so I’d give that one away. –But you’ve got enough in for Christmas, haven’t you?” he added kindly.
“Yeah—um—not enough milk, I don’t think!” he gasped. “I mean, there’s the baby—and Ingrid’s baby, too! I was planning to drive over tomorrow.”
Mm. Him and the rest of the district. Too bad, eh? “Yeah. Well, if you run out Muwullupirri won’t let ya starve, Mrs W.’s got enough tucker stored away to feed an army for the next five years. And plenny of meat on the hoof. But you better nip in and tell Chris no milk for adults until further notice, eh?”
“Jesus!”
“Go on, then. And chuck that fag away, mate, she’ll kill ya.”
Numbly Nev threw his cigarette in the general direction of the dust and stumbled inside.
Pete drew in smoke reflectively. He expelled it slowly. “Ye-ah…” he concluded slowly.
Sloane hung up, pulling a face.
“No luck?” said Cal.
“No, they must have left; Ingrid did say they were gonna make an early start, and of course NSW’s half an hour ahead of SA. And I’ve tried Nikki’s mobile but I can’t get through. They must be on the road somewhere.”
“Mm.”
“Cal, if both the supermarkets are out of action,” said Sloane in a trembling voice, “what about milk for the babies?”
Dick had come into the room in time to overhear this last. “Bloody Hugo Kent can get off his duff and order up the flaming company Lear jet and fly them all back to Sydney, that’s what!”
“Well, if the worst comes to the worst, but I don’t think it will,” returned Cal mildly.
Dick replied: “Your flaming house cow—or is it two?—whatever—it or they are gonna provide enough milk for Muwullupirri plus and the whole mob over at Lallapinda, are they?”
“No, actually Mum’s got loads of milk in storage.”
“Ya can’t feed a baby that revolting long-life stuff, Cal!”
“No, not that, though there are still several cartons of it. No, there’s a freezer full of fresh milk. It kind of separates a bit but you just have to let it thaw and then shake it up a bit.”
The Mannings, père et fille, were goggling at him. Dick found his voice first. “Ya can’t freeze a bloody milk carton, mate, I tried it once and it expanded so much it bust the carton!”
“They fill them too full,” said Sloane faintly.
“Mm,” murmured Cal. “But they don’t fill the plastic bottles too full, and even if they did it wouldn’t matter, ’cos Mum and I went through the lot, poured a bit off, screwed them up again, and into the bargain stuck some of that white sticking-plaster stuff round them—though mind you, those screw-on tops are pretty air-tight, but Mum insisted—and far’s I know they’re still sitting there. A whole freezer full, can’t remember how many actual bottles.”
“Where?” croaked Dick.
Cal’s eyes twinkled. “In the old dairy, mate, we thought it was appropriate. Come on.”
… “Yep!” he reported, holding up a frozen plastic bottle. “Sound as a bell.”
“Oh! You’ve found it!” panted a voice from the doorway.
“Yeah. Hullo, Mum,” replied Cal calmly.
“Yes,” said Sloane shakily. “There’s loads… I thought there’d be no milk for the babies and we can’t get hold of Ingrid!” she gasped, bursting into tears.
Mrs Wainwright bustled forward. “Now, now, this won’t do, Sloane! There’s plenty of milk and even if there wasn’t, I’ve got a cupboard full of milk powder, and I do remember how to make formula, you know!” She put an arm round her and ordered briskly: “Close that freezer, Cal, we don’t want it going off.”
“Formula?” said Sloane groggily, sniffing hard.
“Yes. –Give her a hanky, Cal, for goodness’ sake! –It’s what you put the babies on, dear, when they’re weaned. Kitten and Ingrid will know, I’m sure. But Rose Anne’s a big girl, now, she can drink ordinary milk, of course!” she beamed.
“Mm,” said Sloane, sniffing hard. “Thanks, darl’,” she added as Cal gave her his handkerchief.
His eyes twinkled: he hadn’t been tracking her, really, but this was the first time Sloane had actually used a term of endearment to him. She must have picked it up kind of unconsciously from himself or her parents.
“Now, they’ll be all at sixes and sevens at Nearby Bay, of course, but I’ve rung Ruth Keating and we’re going to organise some relief, we’ll use the community hall,” said Mrs Wainwright briskly. “I’ll sort out what we can spare and you and Dick can load it into the utes, Cal. And you’d better think about killing a steer for them, there’ll be no meat in the town at all.”
“Ye-ah… Have we got enough eskies and chiller bags to get it into town before it goes off, though, Mum?”
“We can make a start. You could always fly it over in the Cessna, dear, but not before Ruth has sorted out some storage for it at their end. But you’d better sort out all the chiller bags you’ve got and pop them in the freezers. Come on, Sloane, dear, you can make a start on that, I think!” And with that she steered her out briskly.
Cal made a wry face, but got on with it.
Kitten hung up the phone. “That was Sloane. It—it’s all right,” she said in a wavering voice. “Mrs Wainwright’s got a freezer full of fresh milk, and there’s the house cows as well, so Rose Anne’ll be okay.” Suddenly she burst into snorting sobs.
“Hell,” said Hugo under his breath, grimacing. “It’s all right, Mrs Bailey, she’s just a bit overwrought,” he said to the anxiously hovering Chris.
“Yes,” said Chris faintly, sagging. “Trust Mrs Wainwright. Um, well, we’re okay, then, Mr Kent.”
“Yes,” Hugo agreed, smiling at her. “Nothing to worry about. –Come on, darling, don’t cry, it’s okay, Baby’s safe,” he said to Kitten.
It dawned on Chris that she was more than a little de trop, and muttering: “I’ll get back to it, then,” she hurried off to the kitchen.
Hugo kissed the top of Kitten’s head. “Come on, silly one: panic over.”
“Thought—wrong—thing!” she gulped.
“Eh?” he replied inelegantly.
Kitten sniffed juicily. “Coming back to Lallapinda. Talking you into it. I thought I’d done the wrong thing and—and it was all my fault!” she wailed, bursting into renewed sobs.
“Rubbish,” he said mildly, hugging her. “How could a fire-bug at Nearby Bay possibly be your faut?”
“No! Rose Anne. Starving to de-eath!” she wailed.
“Kitten,” said Hugo firmly, hugging her tightly, “this is very silly. You’re becoming hysterical. Rose Anne is not going to starve to death, she was never going to starve to death, and if necessary I’d have got one of the firm’s helicopters to fly in milk for her.”
Kitten lifted her head, gasped: “You can’t rely on the phones out here!” and burst into renewed sobs.
This was undeniably true. Hugo’s mouth tightened for a moment, but he lifted her up bodily, dumped her on a green vinyl-covered sofa—with the mental note that they must do something about this damned hotel décor—and went over to the bar—that’d have to be ripped out, talking of hotel décor—and grabbed a bottle of brandy and a glass. Then he sat down beside her, putting the brandy and the glass on the rather horrid ersatz Queen Anne coffee table, of which all you could say was that its legs matched those of the bloody sofa, and said firmly: “Kitten, stop bawling this instant. If you don’t, I shall slap your face.”
Kitten raised a pink and very damp face from the sofa cushions. “Sorry,” she said in a small voice.
“I should think so. Drink this.”
“That’s too much,” she said faintly.
“Good. Drink it.”
Kitten drank it. “It’s not very good,” she noted.
“Richard’s himself again,” replied Hugo drily. “I’m going to get someone to suss out the telephone situation ASAP.”
“It’s Christmas.”
“Someone who would like to keep his job,” returned Hugo sweetly.
“No, I mean anyone he tries to get hold of, he won’t be able to.”
“He can get the facts. I could always,” he said, his eyes narrowing, “install a mobile phone tower. No doubt Mrs Bailey will have hysterics at the thought of the—not vibrations, in this instance—deadly invisible rays, I fancy; but too bad.”
“Who told you about the vibrations?” she croaked.
“Pete. We had one of those man-to-man Outback chats about the womenfolk.” He eyed her blandly.
Kitten gulped.
“Hah, hah: gotcha! Now, I don’t want to hear any more rubbish about anything being your fault. Appearances to the contrary, I do actually have free will. Got it?”
“Mm,” she admitted, nodding.
“Right. Now finish that muck and we’ll pop up and see if Rose Anne’s sleeping off her breakfast like the cherub she is, okay?”
“Yes. Um, it sounds as if they’re in a horrible mess at Nearby Bay, but um, well, Mrs Wainwright and her mate Mrs Keating seem to be on the job and that means the CWA, as well, but, um, maybe there’s something we can do?”
Well, well, Kitten thinking of people other than herself and her baby? Maybe there was hope for the world, after all! “Yes, of course. We’ll get the firm’s choppers to fly in emergency supplies of toilet paper, for a start. And I dare say Michael Stuart can provide any amount of road transport, doesn’t he own one of your big Australian trucking firms?”
“Mm, All-Aussie Transport, ya see their AAT logo all over the place.”
“Good. Come on.”
Meekly Kitten got up and accompanied him upstairs to admire the sleeping cherub. This resulted in loud wails and having to be picked up and brought downstairs, where she promptly crawled over to the elaborate dried flower arrangement in the fireplace and did her best to topple it, but that, reflected Hugo Kent, picking her up with a grin, was life.
“Where are we?” groped Brucey, after enduring several hours’ view of miles and miles and miles of sun-browned fields—actually, very dead-looking fields; at least, he supposed they were fields: there were no fences or walls in sight, right to the horizon. No trees, either.
“SA, heading for Lallapinda, of course,” replied the driver happily.
He swallowed. “Darling, it looks like desert,” he faltered.
“S’pose it is, pretty well,” replied Nikki cheerfully. “Don’t worry, there’s only the one road. We might reach a signpost that says Nearby Bay in a bit: I think I remember seeing one last time.”
Brucey swallowed hard and fell silent.
More time passed. The view was unchanging. The sun didn’t appear to move in the hard blue sky.
“Nikki, are you sure you took the right road at that last town?” he faltered.
“Wouldn’t call that dump a town, myself, but yeah, ’course I did. Well, like I say, there’s only the one road.”
“Darling, there was a crossroads,” he gulped.
“Aw, that! Nah, those were country roads, Brucey!”
How could she tell? There had been no signposts that he could see. He swallowed hard and fell silent.
Yet more time passed. More desert. The same blinding blue sky and searing sun. No trees, no bushes, nothing.
“Nikki, I’m frightfully sorry, but I’m desperate!” he gulped.
“Eh?”
“I need to go,” Brucey explained.
“Aw! Ya wanna have a piss! Sure, go ahead.” She drew in to the side of the road.
“Here?” he faltered.
“Sure.”
The road, obscure though the district most certainly was, was a well-maintained highway. He gulped, but got out.
“Shouldn’t of had that Coke,” said Nikki when he got back in. “I did warn ya.”
“Mm. Sorry, darling.”
“Eh? What are you apologising to me for, ya nana?”
“Um, my ignorance, I think,” Brucey admitted. “I didn’t expect it to be so hot.”
“No, well, everyone warned ya, but like Dad says, ya gotta experience it to realise it.”
“Yes,” he said with a sigh. “It’s burning out there.”
Nikki started the car again. “It would be, this is SA at Christmas. Ya did put plenty of sunscreen on this morning, didn’tcha?”
“Yes, thank goodness,” he said with his nice smile. “Even though I didn’t believe I’d need it, since we’d be in the car.”
“Good-oh. Now, look, don’t get dehydrated just because ya feel embarrassed about having to piss. –I mean, ya don’t need to, it’s only me,” said his fiancée earnestly. “If you’re thirsty, drink some water. There’s plenty.”
“Mm, I will, darling, thanks.”
“We must be nearly there,” she said kindly. “Well, nearly at the turnoff.”
Brucey tried not to wince. “Good,” he replied valiantly.
“You could have a nap, if ya like, why not?” she said kindly.
He reddened. “No!”
“Well, if ya don’t wanna drive—”
“It’s just that without the proper licence— And your brother was saying the cops out here are terrible!”
“Okay, then, but I don’t think we’re gonna meet any cops about, in these here parts,” she said mildly.
Brucey shuddered. “We did yesterday,” he reminded her.
“Right: them ning-nongs that shot past us in a cloud of dust. Musta been doing close on two hundred K, I reckon. One law for them, another for us. And we thought the NSW cops were bad! Wait till I tell Dad about that one!”
He smiled a little: Nikki’s dad was one of the mildest-mannered men he had ever met. “It’ll be a treat for him when they get back from Norfolk Island,” he murmured.
Nikki gulped. “Um, yeah: see, Mum had already booked, it’s so popular ya have to book months in advance, and the airline wouldn’t refund the money!”
“No, I know, darling; it’s all right. Christmas at Lallapinda with your friends and Aunty Karen’s family will be lovely,” he said kindly. “I’m looking forward to seeing Rose Anne again: I wonder how much she’ll have grown?”
Nikki brightened. “Yeah! Heck, she must be fifteen months by now! She’s crawling, Kitten reckons she’s into everything and she stood up the other day, it won’t be long before she’s walking, at this rate! Mr Bailey’s put a gate across the stairs.”
“Um, what?” he fumbled.
“You know, a baby gate! To stop her falling down the stairs, Brucey.”
“Oh, my God, of course,” he said, staring at her in horror. “I’d never have thought— My God. There’s so much to it, isn't here?”
“Um, to what?”
“To having children.”
“Um, ye-ah… Not so much if ya haven’t got a two-storey house,” Nikki pointed out cautiously.
Suddenly he laughed. “No! Quite right! Well, shall we just have a lovely bungalow, darling?”
“That’d be good!” beamed Nikki.
Brucey sat back, smiling, no longer noticing the miles and miles of hot South Australian nothing.
“It’s so hot,” explained Sloane to assorted friends and rellies very much later that day at Muwullupirri, “and we’ve been so busy packing stuff for the Nearby Bay relief effort, I thought we’d just have salads.”
“Good-oh,” agreed Ingrid comfortably.
“Um, well, I was gonna do some chooks and have cold chicken but I didn’t get round to defrosting them,” she admitted.
“Thought ya mighta done turkey, actually,” replied Ingrid mildly. “You know: had it cold. It’s lovely cold with cranberry jelly.”
Sloane glanced uneasily at Cal, who was leaning back in his big chair with his eyes shut. “Um, no, actually we gave it to Mrs Wainwright for the people at Nearby Bay for their Christmas dinner. Lots of them had ordered theirs from the supermarkets, you see, and they hadn’t collected them yet.”
“Yeah, poor Mrs Perkins had ordered two, ’cos it’s their fortieth wedding anniversary as well!” contributed Kitten.
“Who?” replied Ingrid blankly.
“Ingrid! Old Mrs Perkins! Ted’s mum!”
“Married to old Wes,” explained Pete. “Silly old B’s gone walkabout, apparently.”
“That’s what it looked like,” Dick admitted.
“You don’t mean gone walkabout when it’s their wedding anniversary as well?” gasped Melodie in horror.
“Yeah,” Pete confirmed. “He definitely has, Dick, Hughie saw ’im over at Two Rocks waterhole.”
The assembled company looked at Hughie but the taciturn elderly stockman merely grunted.
“The mean old thing!” cried Melodie.
“But what do you mean, gone walkabout?” asked Brucey.
“Exactly,” agreed Michael, trying not to laugh.
Most of the assembled Aussies just stared at them but Dick explained kindly: “Pushed off into the wild blue yonder. S’posed to be a traditional Abo thing, ya see, but the old bugger’s the type that takes blatant advantage of it. Surprised he didn’t come over here bludging before he took off, actually.”
“He knew Mum’d give him a flea in his ear,” murmured Cal.
Jumping slightly, his future father-in-law allowed: “Right.”
“Good on ’er, I wish she hadda done!” cried Nikki.
“Absolutely! A bit on the nose, eh?” agreed Brucey.
“Mind you, he’ll be for it when ’e gets back. Mary Perkins’ll probably throw ’im out of the house again,” noted Pete. “It has happened before,” he assured the assembled company.
“Yes, but meantime she’s got all the rellies on her hands and no meat,” said Sloane. “Cal’s been flying planeloads of meat and milk over there all day.”
“Um, maybe we shoulda gone to Lallapinda tonight after all,” said Melodie uncertainly.
“Nah, Chris Bailey woulda had a fit: not expecting to feed the mob tonight,” replied Pete.
“That’s right,” confirmed Hugo mildly. ”Salads will be just fine, Sloane,” he said, smiling at her. “If that’s what this conversation is about,” he murmured.
At this Cal collapsed in sniggers, in which he was rapidly joined by Michael and Ward.
Brucey didn’t think it was funny: he looked anxiously at Nikki.
“Ya not funny, Hugo,” said that indomitable young woman firmly. “Of course we only need salads, Sloane; heck, it’s pushing forty out there, still!”
“Yes, exactly,” she agreed. “Um,”—she eyed Dick warily—“I’m afraid one of them’ll be Mum’s lentil salad, but, um, people don’t have to eat it.”
“Dick does, though,” noted Cal swiftly. “More than ’is life’s worth not to!” He collapsed in sniggers again.
“Yes, hah, hah,” said Sloane grimly. “You wait.”
“Well, uh—yeah, ’tis pretty bad,” Dick revealed to the now uncertain faces of his son-in-law and sons-in-law to be and his wife’s nephew.
“Bloody horrible,” said Kym’s voice from the doorway. “She’s not making that, is she?”
“Yes,” they chorused.
“Shit,” he muttered, scowling.
“It’ll be that, all right,” noted Dick.
“Shut up, Dad, Mrs Wainwright’ll be here any minute!” hissed Sloane crossly.
“They coming over, then?”
“Of course. She’s been working like a Trojan all day, dishing out milk and bread and toilet paper and so forth over at Nearby Bay, she doesn’t need to be on her feet getting tea as well.”
“Ya mean she agreed to let you make the tea?” he croaked.
“Yes!”
Dick subsided, muttering sotto voce: “Crikey.”
Next to Brucey, Ward had been looking at the young Englishman’s face. “Family life, laddie,” he murmured.
Brucey smiled at him. “Absolutely! It’s…” He looked round the crowded sitting-room of Muwullupirri. “Cosy, really,” he decided.
Ward’s broad shoulders shook slightly, but he agreed mildly: “Yep.”
It was later revealed that Mrs Wainwright had brought over a frozen casserole dish containing “Just a potato bake, it’s a modern recipe, but Cal’s father likes it” which Sloane could easily pop in the microwave, but no-one was particularly surprised by this—though Karen did warn Dick grimly that it had cream in it. Kym refused point-blank to touch the lentil salad but that surprised no-one, either, including his mother, though she certainly wasn’t pleased by it.
Cal just ate some of everything and when they’d finished the first course got up to help Sloane take the plates out. He waited until Kym, ordered briefly by Pete to get off his bum and help, and Brucey, who had not needed ordering, had both gone back to the dining-room and then he put his arm round Sloane and murmured: “What happened to your potato salad, love?”
“It’s in the fridge, I thought it might be a bit much with your mum’s potato bake,” she replied placidly.
His arm tightened. “Give us a kiss.”
Surprised but not unwilling, Sloane did so.
“I love you,” he said, hugging her fiercely.
“I love you, too!” she squeaked breathlessly.
Cal sighed deeply. “I particularly love you because you can put up with Mum. I coulda kicked her, frankly, even though I knew it’d happen.”
“So did I. I was expecting lasagna, actually,” replied Sloane composedly.
He gave a shaken laugh. “Right! You better give me another kiss on the strength of it.” He kissed her enthusiastically.
When he stopped he realised that Brucey was standing in the doorway smiling at them. “Can I take anything through, Sloane?” he asked mildly.
“Um—yes. Thanks. Those pudding plates. –It’s only tinned peaches and ice cream, I’m afraid, Brucey.”
“Yummy!” he replied happily.
“What about yoghurt for Karen?” asked Cal, poker-face.
“It’s in the fridge,” replied his fiancée on a weak note.
Shaking slightly, Cal got the plain yoghurt out. “If ya think this is bad, mate, wait till Christmas Day,” he warned Sloane’s cousin.
Brucey laughed. “Don’t be silly! I’m loving it!”
Sloane waited until he’d gone out with the pudding plates, and said in a low voice: “From what the girls have said, I think his stepmother’s one of those cool Englishwomen, Cal.”
He winced. “Goddit. And his real mum’s mad as a snake, right?”
“Pretty much. Much worse than Mum.”
“No wonder he’s enjoying himself, poor young sod!” Cal concluded with feeling.
“Mm. Um, I think Michael Stuart thinks we’re all a bit mad.”
“Well, yeah. I wouldn’t say he minds, though.”
“Wouldn’t you? Oh, good! –Um, not the chocolate ice cream, Cal, Dad’ll be sure to go for it and Mum’ll tear a strip off.”
Shaking slightly, Cal duly put the chocolate ice cream back in the freezing compartment.
“What is it?” asked Chris feebly on Christmas morning as Kitten, swathed in an apron over jeans and a tee-shirt, operated at the kitchen bench.
“Tiramisu. Haven’t you ever had it?”
“No,” she said weakly. “That’s not an Aboriginal word, is it?”
“No, Italian,” replied Kitten calmly. “Think they usually translate it as ‘pick me up’, but it’s more like ‘pull me up’—or ‘jerk me up’, actually. Packs a punch, ya see, it’s so sweet and rich. Revolting, of course, but the blokes’ll lap it up, you’ll see.”
“Mm,” Chris agreed feebly, reflecting that Nev certainly would. And silently wondering if Mr Kent would be allowed to eat it.
“Now,” said Kitten, stowing the finished revolting object carefully in one of Lallapinda’s huge fridges, “I gotta warn you, Mrs Wainwright’ll probably wonder why on earth you’ve done cold turkey. Don’t worry, if she gets too bad, I’ll field it.”
“Um, thanks,” said Chris very weakly. “Um, what about Mr Wainwright?”
“No, he’s got beautiful manners,” replied Kitten simply.
“Um, has he? I see. But, um, well, most people have hot turkey for Christmas dinner, don’t they? I mean, they’ll all be expecting it.”
“Sloane and Cal won’t, I’ve wised them up,” she replied on a grim note. “And Mum’s already told me it’s sensible. –She won’t eat anything fattening,” she warned. “Well, maybe that gorgeous pav of yours, she’s a sucker for anything with passionfruit on it.”
“Um, yes—um, is she? It’s only that bottled passionfruit curd, really, Kitten; I was gonna get some fresh strawberries from the supermarket!” she gasped.
Like the rest of the district—mm. “She’ll like it. Everybody will,” said Kitten cheerfully, smiling at her. “Just remember, nothing with seeds in it for Rose Anne, though!”
“No, of course not, dear!” she agreed eagerly. “She was such a pretty baby, wasn’t she, and now she’s just so adorable!”
“Yeah, she’s pretty good,” conceded Rose Anne’s proud mother. “Oh, shit,” she muttered as Chris suddenly dissolved in tears, gasping: “I wish she was mine!”
Firmly she put her arm round her and laid her curly head against hers. “I’ve told you you can share her while we’re here, don’t cry,” she said firmly.
Chris sniffed and gulped “Yes, I mean no. Sorry. –She’s just so lovely!” she wailed.
Oh, boy. Kitten’s mouth firmed. She just hugged her, saying nothing.
Hugo walked into his kitchen and stopped dead in horror.
“Get—out,” mouthed his beloved silently.
Cringing, he fled. Jesus! And it was still only eight in the morning, how many more crises could they expect before it was time to sit down to Christmas ”dinner”, which apparently traditionally in Australia, never mind ambient temperatures of well over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit, was always a late lunch.
Funnily enough Pete Dawkins was squatting on the side verandah, smoking. He sat down on the steps beside him with a heavy sigh.
Pete smoked in silence for while. Then he said: “Thoughtcha might need a hand.”
“Actually, I need a transfusion,” Hugo admitted.
Pete sniffed slightly. “That bad, eh? Whaddis it?”
“Mrs Bailey, bawling all over Kitten in the kitchen.”
“Right. It’ll be something gone wrong with the food or the baby thing again.”
“Eh?” replied Hugo dully. “Baby thing?”
“Had two—no, I tell a lie—three goes already,” he said thoughtfully.
“Uh—bawling?”
“Yeah. Specifically, bawling over the kiddie.”
“But I thought she was pleased to have her here!”
“She is, mate,” said Pete Dawkins informatively to the CEO of KRP who could buy up both Lallapinda and Muwullupirri and never notice it. “Can’t have any of her own, see. Way back when they were first married she had one of them fucking awful pregnancies where the foetus starts developing in the tubes.”
“Oh, God! Ectopic,” said Hugo.
“Right, that’d be the word. Think she hadda have the lot out—well, Nev didn’t give me all the details, only I’m pretty sure it ruins them for life.”
Hugo passed his hand over his face, shuddering.
“Yeah. Bloody.” Pete chucked his fag end at the dust. On due consideration he got up and trod it viciously into the dust. When he sat down again and rolled another he noticed the bloke was looking at it wistfully. “Fancy one?”
“I’d love one, thanks, Pete.”
Obligingly Pete rolled the CEO of KRP a misshapen cancer stick.
Hugo drew on it gratefully. “Jesus, poor woman,” he concluded.
“Yep.”
They smoked in silence for a few minutes.
“Pete, do you think I did the wrong thing bringing the baby here?” he asked uneasily.
“No, ya nana! She’s barmy about her!”
“Oh,” he said, sagging. “Good.”
“They bawl, that’s all,” Pete explained clearly.
“Right. –I bet it was that,” he admitted.
“Pretty sure to of been, mate, the Kitten in person inspected all the nosh last night and pronounced it bonzer.”
“Mm.”
“Said she was gonna make some sicky Eyetie thing for an extra pud: she done that yet?”
Hugo winced. “Tiramisu—yes. Sicky is the word. Though at least she’s refrained from the Australian version with sweetened condensed milk. This consists mainly of mascarpone—sorry, Pete, that’s about the richest cream cheese known to humanity—mixed with melted chocolate and Kahlua, over sponge fingers soaked in heavily sweetened coffee, and as the final straw a heaping helping of whipped cream sprinkled with cocoa.”
“God,” he replied simply.
Hugo smiled. “Exactly. Mind you, it is the best Dutch cocoa.”
Their eyes met. Pete went into a helpless sniggering fit, hurriedly removing his fag end and chucking it at the dust.
“Yes,” said Hugo, grinning. “Well, I suppose I’d better go back to it, or my name’ll be mud. Thanks for the smoke, I may survive the day.” He chucked his cigarette stub at the dust and went back indoors.
Pete raised his eyebrows slightly. “Merry Christmas,” he murmured.
Over a very light breakfast Cal said cautiously: “I could nip over to the new house and tell Mum not to take anything over for Christmas dinner on pain of death.”
Somewhat unfortunately, as in addition to Dick and Karen, Nikki and Brucey were still with them, Dick collapsed in splutters at this one and poor Brucey went very red.
Nikki was also rather flushed: she looked desperately at Sloane, but surprisingly it was Karen who came to the rescue. “Don’t be an idiot, Cal,” she said calmly to her son-in-law to be. “She’s socially programmed to bring food to these does.”
Dick wiped his eyes. “I’da said genetically and socially, but yeah. It wouldn’t be kind to try and stop her, mate.”
“Uh—well, whaddaya think, Sloane?” asked Cal on a weak note.
“They’re right, of course, Cal, you mustn’t try to stop her. Mrs Bailey won’t mind, I’m sure.”
“No. Um, what about Kitten, though? Um, I mean, she is the hostess.”
“She’ll be expecting it, she’s known your mum all her life.”
“Yeah. You’re right,” he recognised, sagging. “All right, I’ll lay off.”
“Mind you eat it though, mate!” choked Dick, collapsing in another spluttering fit.
“That’s enough, Dick,” said Karen calmly. “Eat up that fruit.”
Dick looked sadly at the mixture of watermelon, green other melon, and strawberries on his plate. Naturally Karen hadn’t let him have sugar on them. But she hadn't forced yoghurt on him, either, was this because it was Christmas? “Nip over to the supermarket in good time, didja, love?” he said to his eldest daughter.
“No: Ingrid brought the strawberries and the honeydew melon, and Nikki and Brucey brought the watermelon,” said Sloane, smiling at them.
“In an ‘esky’!” beamed Brucey. “It sat it in it all on its ownsome the whole way over, except for some bag things that kept it cold, and when we stopped overnight—I think that was in Victoria—Nikki’s Aunty Belle put them in the freezer to get cold again.”
There was a short silence.
“Ya would, Brucey,” said Cal finally.
“He’d never seen them before,” Nikki explained. “Aunty Belle did her special pav with mangoes, and he’d never had that before, either!”
Brucey found they were smiling kindly at him, help! “It was delicious,” he murmured.
“Yes, ’course, Aunty Belle’s a great cook!” Nikki agreed.
“That sounds nice, darl’,” said Cal hopefully, looking at his fiancée.
Dick opened his mouth and thought better of it.
“Well, your mum reckons she can teach me how to do a pav,” replied Sloane temperately.
Giving in entirely, Dick finished his fruit salad breakfast, got up, said to Karen: “I’ve eaten it all like a good little boy, now can I have a cup of coffee?” and went over to the bench with his plate before she could reply.
They were, of course, all sitting round the big old kitchen table. Whether Brucey Warden found this custom extraordinary, perhaps no-one present but Dick had wondered. On second thoughts, Dick admitted to himself, very probably Cal had, but if so they’d never know. He began to make coffee in Cal’s Italian coffee-pot without waiting for Karen’s permission.
“If that’s that gut-burner tar of Cal’s ya making, Dick, count me out,” noted Hughie.
Dick jumped. “Uh—yeah, okay, Hughie. Brown dust?”
“Nah, I’ll have tea like usual.”
“Yes, of course; we usually have tea, don’t we, Hughie?” said Sloane mildly.
Dick was now fighting with the top of the coffee pot. “Oy, Cal, thought you said this was Italian engineering?” he said aggrievedly.
Cal got up. “You’re holding it wrong. Gimme that tea-towel. Hold it like this,” he said, wrapping his left hand in the tea-towel, and grasping the bottom of the coffee-pot, which of course now held the recommended boiling water.
“Look, I did that!”
“No. See this here steam vent?”
“Yeah,” replied Dick sourly.
“Position the jug with the handle here, see?” he said, suiting the action to the word. “In relation to the vent.”
“Bloody Hell,” said Dick numbly.
“It’s not that hard, Dad, even I can do it,” said Sloane mildly.
Kym sniggered loudly, and suddenly Brucey collapsed in helpless giggles. “Sorry!” he gasped through them. “Sorry—sorry, Dick!”
Kym grinned at him. “Ya don’t need to apologise, mate. See, we’ve had Dad the great engineer rubbing our noses in it all our lives.”
“Yeah, all right,” admitted Dick sheepishly. “There’s a trick to it. Anyway, Brucey, do you fancy gut-burner tar?”
“No, thanks awfully, Dick, but I’d rather have tea.”
“Make a big pot with the loose tea, ya don’t wanna waste teabags,” Kym ordered his sister.
“You can get up and make it yourself, little mate,” said Dick evilly. –Whether in revenge for the “great engineer” hit no-one could tell.
“I don’t mind, but the other day you told me it was her kitchen,” he pointed out mildly, getting up.
“Never mind,” he groaned. “Just make a pot of tea. Enough for all of you, apparently.”
“I don’t want tea,” said Karen quickly.
“We know,” he sighed. “Science has not yet proved that the common tea bush or Camellia sinensis gilds the insides with a fruity tannin coating, but if you wanna believe it, go right—”
“Shut up, Dad,” groaned Sloane and Kym in chorus. They looked at each other, and laughed.
When the coffee and tea were ready, a miracle occurred and Karen permitted Nikki to slice the “Danish” pastries she’d brought very small and give everybody a piece. Since it was Christmas.
And that was it for Muwullupirri’s Christmas breakfast. Several of the participants, the host not excepted, reflected that it was just as well Mrs Wainwright was happily ensconced in the new house.
Christmas dinner at Lallapinda went off surprisingly well, thanks perhaps more to the air conditioning than the quality of the food, as Michael Stuart for one silently recognised. There was a very acceptable ham and a giant platter of cold carved roast turkey, the two accompanied by, according to taste, cranberry jelly, cranberry sauce, and three different types of Dijon mustard. There was also a huge roast sirloin, also cold, but disappointingly no horseradish cream—perhaps it had never reached the Antipodes? These viands were flanked by a dozen salads, of which the strangest was definitely the rice salad containing tinned shrimps. Most of the Australians seemed to accept this as normal—well, they called the shrimps prawns, but most of them ate it with apparent enjoyment. The best offering was the dish of grilled red and yellow peppers in a vinaigrette, the which Mrs Bailey revealed Kitten had made herself. Most of the guests avoided the raw mushroom salad, except for Karen Manning, but possibly this was merely in favour of Mrs Wainwright’s offering which had had to be “quickly heated up in the oven, not the microwave”: a quiche. Tactfully a mushroom one because she knew “dear Karen” didn’t eat meat. Karen certainly ate a slice of it with enjoyment so presumably it hadn’t been a faux pas.
Out on the side verandah, much later that evening, Ward admitted to Michael: “Went off okay, eh? Thought it might be a disaster, frankly. What with Ma W. on the one hand and Kitten Manning on the other.”
“Right; not to mention the girls’ mother being a vegetarian,” he murmured.
Ward shook slightly for some time. “The old biddy did go on about that, rather, didn’t she?” he gasped.
“Yes, but you have to admit, Ward, it was very thoughtful of her to bring a mushroo—”
“Shut up!” he gasped, collapsing in a painful wheezing fit.
Michael shut up, smiling.
Ward produced a cigar case from his back pocket. “Fancy a smoke?” he murmured.
“Er—yes, but Melodie won’t approve.”
“Ingrid doesn’t approve, either. This is because it’s Christmas.”
“Thanks,” said Michael weakly, taking one.
“Cigar cutter,” said Ward blandly, producing it from another pocket.
They operated…
“God, that’s better!” admitted Michael.
“Yeah.”
“Still damn’ warm, isn't it?” ventured the Englishman after a few moments.
“Noddas bad as in the city, mate. Hang on.” Kindly Ward opened a pair of big double doors behind them and a blast of cool air engulfed them.
“Thanks,” said Michael weakly.
They smoked in silence…
The house had finally settled down. Hugo did a final check, discovered some unlocked double doors in an unused room and locked them, and went upstairs to have a cool shower. There was no sign of Kitten when he emerged, so he peeped into the next room. He smiled. She was in there, looking silently down at the sleeping little girl. He went up to her and put his arm round her.
“Come on,” he said at last with a deep sigh. “Beddy-byes.”
“Mm.”
“Is everything locked up?” she asked, back in the bedroom.
“Uh-huh.”
Kitten went over to the window. “Good. Turn the light out, Hugo, it makes it hard to see the stars. –That’s better. Look: the Milky Way.”
“Yes.” He came up to her side and put his arm round her.
Kitten stared up at the stars. She drew a deep breath. “Smells good at night, eh?”
Er—it smelled of dust and heat, really, and, um, dry grass? Mildly he agreed with her.
“I love it out here,” she murmured.
“Good,” said Hugo simply. “Half the year here, then, darling?”
“Yes,” Kitten agreed. “Perfect.”
Back at Muwullupirri Sloane and Cal now only had her parents with them: all the others were staying at Lallapinda. Dick and Karen had gone up to bed early, yawning, Dick admitting that he didn’t care if he never saw a spoonful of whipped cream again in his life. Cal had suggested they also go up but Sloane had replied in a dreamy voice: “Not yet. Let’s just… relax.”
Smiling, he agreed: “Righto. If I relax on this sofa am I allowed to put my arm round you?”
“Mm.”
They did that.
After quite some time she said: “I bet Kym’ll be letting Hughie give him rum from the bottle you gave him for Christmas.”
“I don’t care,” replied Cal mildly.
“Nor do I, really. It’s his head!”
“Uh-huh.”
They sat there peacefully for a while. Then she said: “It went off okay, really, didn’t it? –Apart from Rose Anne getting cranky!”
He smiled. “Too much excitement.”
“Mm.”
More silence; then she said: “Cal—”
“Mm?”
“Would you think I was mad if I went out to look at the stars?”
“Nope, often look at them meself. Come on.”
He put his arm round her and they went outside, Cal carefully pulling the big front door to behind them.
“Ooh…” breathed Sloane, looking up. She rotated slowly, still looking up. “Ooh, that makes you quite dizzy!” she gasped.
Yeah, it would do. “Mm,” he agreed, grabbing her. “You’re all right.”
“Yes. Thanks, darl’.”
That was “darl’” number two. Cal smiled in the night. “No worries.” He propped his chin on her head, sighing.
“Funny to think that’s Lallapinda over there…” said Sloane slowly.
Cal was conscious of a certain sinking feeling in his middle. “Yeah?” he said cautiously.
“All those done-up rooms, and those Federation-look paint jobs and everything… And the Baileys to look after the place—well, I suppose it’d be nice to have help with the house, but you’d never be able to call your soul your own, really,” she murmured. Cal thought she’d finished but then she added: “And Kitten in that blue dress—I swear it was a Paris model, I’ve never seen anything like it! Not to mention that sapphire necklace he’s given her. And that pretty little dress of Rose Anne’s was hand-made by nuns, believe it or not. The lace as well.”
“Uh—yeah?”
“It was all a bit much. He’s planning to throw thousands at the house, ya know… He’s gonna turn it into a fancy English-type mansion.”
“Mm.”
“We don’t have to go down that road, do we?” she said in a small voice.
Cal smiled to himself. “Nope. Anyway, any thousands will have to be thrown at the property, not the house, sweetheart. We can spare a few hundred, and me and the lads can put in some hard yacker over winter, at least get the floors looking reasonable, but it won’t run to the sort of refurbishment he was talking about.”
“Good. It’s so lovely here,” sighed Sloane, looking up at the giant arch of the Milky Way spanning the huge black expanse of galactic space. “I don’t want it to be fancy.”
Cal kissed her hair. “It won’t be fancy. Just us and a bit of hard yacker, eh?”
“Mm. –Breathe deeply, Cal.”
Cal obligingly breathed deeply.
“Yes,” sighed Sloane, having breathed along with him. “Muwullupirri. It’s got a smell of its own, hasn’t it? I love it, Cal, I’d never want to lord it at Lallapinda!”
“Good-oh,” replied Cal mildly.
No comments:
Post a Comment