Backsliiding

14

Backsliding

    “I hadn’t expected it to rain so much here,” Gil admitted glumly to Bob.

    “Rained last winter, too, mate, when you were down in Sydney. Always rains in winter, except out in the parts that really need it, of course. Dumps it on the coast, ya see?”

    “Mm.”

    “Well, why not get away for a bit?” Bob encouraged him. “Think those mates of Dot’s that run a nice motel in Queensland—um, it is right next-door to that other ecolodge—”

    “No,” said Gil, shuddering. Ruddy Hill Tarlington had rung him up the other day specifically to bend his ear about managing Blue Gums Ecolodge, yet again, even though he knew his horse trekking project was well under way!

    “No, well, they’re probably booked out this time of year, anyway. Be nice up there, though. Well, what about that place Jack and George went to, up near Byron? Be a lot warmer than here! Well, could well rain, but it’ll be warm rain!”

    “Um, well, I was wondering about South Australia...”

     Bob shuddered. “You’ve never hadda put up with a winter in Adelaide! Think David once said it’s a Continental climate. Really hot, dry summers but the winters can be awful: windy and cold, often pours, too. His word was dank.”

    “I certainly don’t want dank. Um, Alice Springs?”

    Bob eyed him tolerantly. “You wouldn’t of seen those Olympic torch reports in 2000—the types that hadda carry it up there were shivering like crazy waiting for the off, it’s desert country, mate, temperature falls to below freezing at night in winter.”

    “Oh—I see. But, um, surely it’s warmer during the day?”

    “Sure, might be as low as the mid-teens, but could be mid-twennies.”

    Gil goggled at him. Then why was the man discouraging him? “Is it very wet?”

    “In winter? No, ’course not, it’s not the rainy season.”

    “Then I think I might go, Bob. I’d love to see the Red Centre.”

    Immediately Bob plunged into a cautionary tale relative to the composting toilets up at the Rock—Uluru, mate, ya don’t call it Ayers Rock these days, if you’re up with the play. But even this horror story didn’t put Gil off.

    He was on the point of booking his tickets when he got the phone call from Canberra.

    “Gil, darling! Wonderful to hear your voice again!”

    Lilias Markham. A blast from the past, so to speak. Uh—hang on, hadn’t she married old Freddy Sandys? After quite some time—she seemed very concerned about his poor lung, and it was true she’d visited him in hospital laden with flowers, chocs and unsuitable bottles that Matron had confiscated—he was able to ask, as tactfully as one could, and was enlightened on this point. She had, but darling old Freddy loathed Australia. That was clear—clearish—but why was she here? Yes, very well, Lilias, not bad skiing at Mt This and Mt That, but if one wanted really decent snow one had to get over to New Zealand—Queenstown, darling, but book early if one wanted a decent hotel—but what was she doing in Canberra? Staying with Gloria and Jimmy Bryson at the High Commission, yes, very clear. He did sort of remember that Lady Bryson was her cousin, and he certainly remembered she was the sort of tarsome woman that dropped names unendingly and had to find out who your grandfather had been, but why was Lilias there? Cascade of tinkling giggles—he’d managed to forget, in the intervening period, that she did that—and Lilias revealed that Freddy had had business in Hong Kong, one still did, darling, and then Singapore—it had been warm there, so quite a shock to the system to find Australia so icy—incapable of reading a map, yes—but then he’d gone on to Beijing and really, one had had heard so many horror stories about the lavatories there, darling, even in the nicest hotels the plumbing would not swallow paper, she wouldn’t go into it but it was disgusting—that she had said Freddy could go by himself, she’d come and stay with Gloria and Jimmy! Besides, it was icy in Canberra, so it must be freezing there!

    At this point Gil was driven to say: “Lilias, Beijing is in the northern hemisphere.”

    “Well, there you are, then, darling.”

    “The northern hemisphere is having summer. July, summer. The same hemisphere as home.”

    “Are you sure, Gil?”

    “Very sure.”

    “Oops! Well, I was never any good at joggers at school!” she said cheerfully. “It’s odd, though, isn’t it?”

    Odd, or, Earth-normal. “Mm. So, how long will you be in Canberra?”

    After quite some time she revealed that Canberra had palled.—Fancy that.—Even in her socio-economic bracket there was, apparently, nothing to do, the diplomatic parties were deadly boring, it wasn’t like Washington at all! It was as far the boredom factor was involved, Gil would have said: Colin Haworth had once had a posting as aide in D.C. and had found nothing to do except a particularly luscious congresswoman.—And she had thought the snow, but Gloria and Jimmy couldn't get away, so perhaps darling Gil would like to come!

    “Uh—skiing? Lilias, I’d love to, but—”

    “That’s all right, then! There’s a divine ski lodge we can use, one of Jimmy’s contacts—”

    “Lilias, I can’t ski one-handed!” said Gil loudly—more loudly than he’d intended.

    There was a horrified silence in his receiver.

    “Uh—no, haven’t lost an arm or anything tarsome like that: sorry, darling, didn’t mean to give that impresh at all! No, um, the left arm and shoulder haven’t got much strength in them. Couldn’t, um, grip. Think I’d go round and round in ever-decreasing circles on skis. Um, well, with a lot of practice I dare say I could manage it, those wonderful Paralympics people do it under much worse handicaps, don’t they? But the practice would be very, very boring for all parties, Lilias.” Ugh, there was the additional point of the altitude, too—although Australia’s mountains were not very high. “Um, think mountains might be contraindicated for those with one lung, too, actually,” he said very weakly indeed.

    “Of course, Gil, darling!” she cried warmly. “I should never have suggested it! Well, somewhere in the sun, then, darling? Jimmy knows someone with the most divine holiday house—where was it, again, Ruth, darling?” she said to someone in the hinterland.

    Gil had to swallow. Had this Ruth darling copped the lot? And how well did she know Freddy Sandys?

    “Northern Queensland, that’s in Australia, not New Zealand, Gil,” said Lilias helpfully.

    “Uh—mm. Well—”

    Lilias’s presence retreated and in the background an excited confab was heard.

    “Darling, hopeless, Ruth says the sea up there is full of sharks and there are crocodiles and horrible poisonous jellyfish! But she thinks you’d like the Red Centre! –The what, Ruth, darling? –Oh yes. A big rock, Gil. And nothing like horrible Iraq at all!”

    “Uh—mm. ’Smatter of fact I was just thinking of booking tickets—”

     Oh, boy. That did it. After quite some time Ruth came on the line. Okay, Lady Bryson’s Personal Assistant. Lilias had been driving Gloria out of her mind, one could only assume. Possibly Mrs Sandys hadn’t mentioned it but the plan was for Mark and herself to go, too— Mm. Who Mark was, unclear, but presumably somebody with sense at the High Commish had decided that if they let Lilias roam around the country unescorted she’d be bound to end up in the poo and then old Freddy would shift all his business interests abroad and the Bank of England would go bust. Well, not quite, but he was very, very rich. And only hadn’t got his K yet because he was a dyed-in-the-wool Tory who’d said publicly he wouldn’t accept anything from the damned New Left and if they must get involved in the Yanks’ empire-building in the fossil fuel arena why the Hell didn’t they pull their fingers out and do the thing properly? Sentiments with which Gil had considerable sympathy, actually. Though he didn’t entirely agree with the rider, to the effect that Lady Thatcher could show them how to pull their fingers out.

    “I see, Ruth,” he said drily. “Perhaps I’d better make a few things clear. In the first place I’m not up for staying in anything Lady Bryson may have recommended or Sir Jimmy’s pals may be willing to lend. In the second place, I’d like to see a little of the town itself. –Never mind if it’s widely reputed to be a dump,” he said firmly as she tried to tell him, ever so much more tactfully, that it was. “A friend’s recommended a pleasant middle-of-the road hotel-motel right in the centre of town, and that’s where I’m putting up. If Lilias wants to stay at the most expensive hotel in the Southern Hemisphere only a hop, skip and jump from the Rock itself she can. But I should tell you that I’ve just heard a very plausible horror story about the composting toilets they have nestling in the shelter of the Rock, and I can assure you that they are far, far wore than the facilities provided by the best hotels in Beijing.”

    “Colonel Sotherland, I really don’t think that a big tourist hotel like that would have composting toilets; they’re in, um, Uluru-Kata Tjuta National Park itself, the area which is managed by the local Aboriginal people.”

    “Call me Gil, Ruth,” replied Gil with a smile in his voice—she sounded very nice. “You’ve been looking after Lilias for a while now, I gather. Are you willing to risk it?’

    “No, really!” she said with a weak laugh.

    “Look, how’s this, then? Your party puts up there, we hire appropriate vehicles and pop into town or out to the hotel, as suits.”

    “Colonel—Gil, I don’t think you realise!” she gasped. “The distances in the Northern Territory are enormous! It’s about four hundred kilometres from Alice Springs to Uluru!”

    “Oh,” he said lamely.

    “They—they do run day trips from the Alice, but, um, the tour I went on left at six in the morning and didn’t get us back to our hotel until two the following morning.”

    “I see,” he said feebly.

    “We did stop off for meals, but all the same—”

    “Mm. Well, uh, fine art of compromise? I’ll spend a few days in the town, then come out and join you.”

    This wasn’t the end of it, by any means, and Lilias came on the line again and bored on and on and on, but Gil remained adamant.

    “So you’re going?” said Bob, as he reported over a wonderful meal at Springer House Restaurant—one did feel one needed, not to say deserved feeding up, after an encounter with Lilias.

    “Yes; a lamb to the slaughter, Bob,” he sighed.

    “Why didn’t you tell the dame to get choked?” Bob enquired with friendly interest.

    “Automatically fell back into old behaviour patterns, I think,” admitted Gil sadly.

    “Uh-huh.”

    “It was a very long time ago,” Gil excused himself.

    “Uh-huh.”

    Alice Springs had a lovely little airport. Gil walked through it, smiling. He might just pile on the bus, if there was one, not bother with a taxi— Oops.

    “Yoo-hoo! Gil, darling!”

    “Lilias, I did say not to bother meeting my plane,” he managed to say once she’d finished smothering him. The clouds of Chanel Numéro 5 struck an odd note in combination with the fawn silk safari blouse tightly tucked into the tailored—riding breeches? What the Hell was she planning to ride out here? A camel? There were camel treks available, but Lilias was not the trekking sort, whatever the mount. And in any case he rather thought it was the wrong time of year for them—the nights would be too cold, and Aussies preferred to take their long vac when the ambient temperature was hitting fifty-five out in the desert. Bob had already told him that on a good day, early March, maybe, it’d only be around thirty-eight, forty, out at Uluru: it was dry heat, mate, ya didn’t mind it so much.

    “Nonsense, darling, of course we had to meet you! Now, this is Ruth, she’s been an absolute tower of strength,”—Gil shook hands with a pleasant-looking, brown-haired young woman—“and you remember Mark Winstone, of course!”

    Mark was a dark-haired, blue-eyed, very neat-looking fellow in perhaps his early thirties and Gil didn’t know him from Ad— Oh. “Oh, yes, friend of Adam Gilfillan’s, that right?”

    “That’s right, Colonel Sotherland, very good to see you again,” he agreed, shaking.

    “Call me Gil,” said Gil, managing not to sigh. Why in Hell had he landed himself out here in the incredibly clean desert air with this lot of Pommy pseuds? All of a sudden England and the Army and the bloody club, which if he wasn't misremembering was where he’d last bumped into Mark Winstone, seemed light-years away.

    “Mm? Oh, doing aide for Jimmy—right, I see.”

    Breathlessly Lilias, hanging on his arm and shaking the blonde mop terrifically—she always had done that, it had seemed quite fetching when she was in her thirties, that was, a good ten years back—told him all about poor Mark’s ankle. Shrapnel, was the short version.

    “Sorry to hear that, Mark.”

    “It was nothing,” said the unfortunate Mark, reddening. “Could have gone straight back to Iraq with the regiment, but Uncle Jimmy had to stick his oar in.”

    Right, all was clear, the poor lad had been hauled off to safety in bloody Canberra by his maternal uncle.

    Lilias was breathlessly telling them how relieved they all were that darling Mark was out of the horrible war zone.

    “Shut up, Lilias,” said Gil brutally. “No decent chap wants to be trailing round to damned diplomatic does at his uncle’s coattails when his regiment’s in Iraq. –Though I did hear from Guy Vane quite recently, he thinks they might be coming home soon,” he added kindly.

    “Heard a rumour to that effect, yes. Believe he might be coming out here—thinking of getting out for good.” Mark picked up Gil’s bag wot he’d incautiously released from his enfeebled elderly grasp. “Think it might depend on where they're sent next, between you and me, sir. Well, dare say it won’t be Afghanistan on top of Iraq, but the next tour. He doesn’t want another long posting in Germany.”

    “No, bloody boring.” Gil had heard a rumour of Colchester from Martin Richardson, but he refrained from saying so: sufficient unto the day. “Well, it’d be good to see old Guy again. Where’s your car?”

    Coming to, Mark apologised nicely to the ladies for boring on about old Army pals and led them over to— Good grief!

    “Whose idea was this?” croaked Gil.

    “Um, it’s from a local hire firm. The alternatives were standard sedans, and Lilias—”

    “Darlings, this is much more fun!” carolled Lilias.

    Something like that. It wasn’t quite as silly as the four-by-fours rumoured to be destined for Blue Gums Ecolodge, it didn’t have yer actual camouflage splodges. But it was a desert sand coloured off-road vehicle.

    As they drove towards the township, however, Gil began to realise that the vehicle was even sillier in context than wot he’d thunk, in fact it was very, very good, because the earth, of which there was plenty on view, wasn't absolutely red—they were, after all, still those several hundred K from the Red Centre—but it was a lot redder than their safari-esque transport, and them there were genuine Outback hills, broken, eroded, and bare, and the sky was blue as blue and in short it was almost exactly like what he’d been expecting Australia to be, and the antithesis of grey, wet, dismal suburban Sydney this time last year!

    Surprisingly enough Lilias did consent to drop him off at his very modest hotel-motel—actually a hotel tower block, goodness knew where the motel bit came in: perhaps they had underground parking for those intrepid travellers who drove themselves all the way out here? Gil had looked the driving distances up and they were 2,750 K from Sydney and 3,600 from Perth, 1500-odd from Adelaide, which had looked quite near on the first map he’d looked at, and just under 1,500 from Darwin, which was the capital of the state they were in. Yeah.

    —Yes, they did have, you had to cross the carpark in order to get to the nearest lifts. Lilias thought this was terrible, but he ignored her. She also thought the perfectly acceptable room was terrible but he ignored that, too. Helpfully nice Ruth showed him how to work the reverse-cycle.

    “Yes, know all about reverse-cycle these days, Ruth!” he assured her.

    Lilias thought he’d better have a good rest but Gil thought he better hadn’t. At least a lie-down Gil! What time did you get up this morning?

    “Lilias, I am not an invalid.”

    Breathlessly Lilias told the others how he couldn't possibly go up a mountain because of his poor lung and Mark was absolutely not to let him climb Uluru!

    “The local people don’t want you to climb it anyway, it’s a sacred site,” said Gil heavily. “I don’t care what various idiots at the High Commish did, personally I have more respect for the beliefs of other cultures. What are we arguing about, Lilias? I never had any intention of climbing it.”

    Alas, at this Mark gave a guffaw and Ruth collapsed in giggles.

    You could say this for Lilias, she was terrifically good-natured: she just gave that cascading laugh and carolled: “Silly me! Have a shower and change, then, Gil, darling, and we girls will meet you back at the car!” With which she grabbed Ruth and vanished.

    “It’s all right, Ruth will have remembered the way back to the car,” said Mark soothingly.

    “Er—yes. Seems a sensible girl. Uh, won’t ask why a short flight from Sydney—those Aussie pilots throw those crates about like nobody’s business, don’t they?—Won’t ask why a few hours’ flight means I need a wash. I will say it’s damned difficult to get in and out of my elastic shoulder-strapping without help, so I’ll skip the shower, if it’s all the same to you.”

    “Of course, sir!” the unfortunate fellow gulped. “Just as you like! But, um, well, could I help you, perhaps?”

    “She’ll ask, will she? –Don’t answer that. Okay, then. You can help to peel the thing off, too.”

    They got on with it.

    … “This wouldn’t be why bloody—Lilias—left you—behind—would it?” panted Gil when he was a nice clean boy and almost back in the thing.

    “Think—might—be!” panted Mark. “There!”

    “Thanks. –Who told her?”

    “Uh—well, I think she interrogated Major Richardson, ’smatter of fact.”

    “Martin’s in Engl— You mean she rang the fellow long-distance and— Of course she did,” he groaned, as Mark bit his lip, nodding. “Oh, well. She means well.”

    “Mm. Is that comfortable, Gil?”

    “Yes, it’s fine, thanks, Mark. Uh—hang on. Are we supposed to sleep together, by any chance?”

    “No!” he choked. “—Sorry,” he said feebly. “Um, I think that was sort of the reason for the fuss over the hotels, though. Um, look, Gil, while we're on the topic, um, I’m not absolutely sure who is supposed to be sleeping with whom, if you see what I mean.”

    “My dear lad, Lilias and I are ancient history; if you want her, she’s all yours.”

    Mark looked at him with an agonised expression. “I don’t awfully much, actually. The thing is, Uncle Jimmy was desperate to—um, well, she was making eyes at someone from one of the Arab embassies, and he said it wouldn’t do.”

    Gil choked: he hadn’t expected it to be quite that good.

    “Yes. Well, terribly nice sort of fellow, man of the world, he wouldn’t have thought twice about the thing, but, um, well, actually staying at the Residence—”

    “Quite. Lilias is about as good as tact as she is at joggers.”

    “Mm. Um, so I took her out to a few restaurants—there’s a nice Japanese one if you’re ever in Canberra—and, uh, well, had a few, y’know, and one can’t refuse a lady,” he ended glumly.

    Alas, Gil went into a spluttering fit. It got so bad he had to support the bad shoulder with his good hand.

    “Yeah,” said Mark, very relieved, grinning. “Bit of a faux pas, take it for all in all.”

    “Don’t set me off again!” he gasped. “Well, uh—don’t want a second dose?”

    “No, but the thing is, if I don’t she’ll push me at Ruth,” he said glumly.

    This was typical of Lilias, so Gil managed not to choke. “I thought she seemed like a really nice girl. Quite pretty, too.”

    “I like her, but she’s not my type. And, um, if one doesn’t want to start something longer term with a younger woman it—it doesn’t seem fair to, well, you know. Aunt Gloria’s already said that I could do worse and her family’s quite respectable,” he said glumly.

    Gil’s mouth twitched. “Are they?”

    “Well, yes, her father’s a solicitor in Bristol—I mean, if I was keen I wouldn’t give a damn what her father does, but I’m not! ’Tisn’t that there’s someone else, but—”

    Gil put him out of his misery. “No, but if she’s not your type that’s that, eh? Well, I’ll do me best to draw Lilias off. Uh—how sensible is Ruth? Think she’d be insulted if we told her the lot and asked her to play along?”

    Mark was very red. “Um, well, it isn’t a matter of sense, exactly. I mean, there’s quite a few female staff at the Commission, young ones, I mean, and, um—”

    Gil looked at the oval face, the regular features, the azure eyes and the neatly clipped black curls and smiled a little. Manly-looking chap, was Mark Winstone. Nothing like anything Gil had seen on the silver screen of recent years, but nevertheless what the distaff side would have classed as handsome. “It’s all right, old man, no trumpets need be blown, I get the full picture.”

    Mark sagged. “Most of the hetero male staff, the younger ones, I mean, are married.”

    Boy, that must have helped! Chased from dawn to dusk, in other words! Not bad if one wanted the ladies in question, of course!

    Back at the car Lilias thought they might just whisk Gil— But fortunately Ruth knew of a pleasant place where they could have a nice tea right here in Alice Springs, so they did that. No, it was in the mall, Lilias, we wouldn’t need the car.

    The tea was pretty ordinary—indifferent sandwiches and cakes, leathery scones—and the place itself was, of course, entirely beneath Lilias’s notice, but she nobly put up with it, explaining that it was a genuine tourist experience, darlings, and one must blend in! In those riding breeches? Oh, well. After a while Gil, looking round the large room with quite a good crowd of eagerly eating, chatting tourists, realised that this was almost certainly the place warmly recommend by George as doing really great breakfasts. It certainly had several notices up advertising them. Bacon, eggs of several varieties, hash browns, golly—the American influence—toast and marmalade— Goody, he’d come here tomorrow morning as ever was!

    After that Lilias thought they might just whisk Gil— Gil thought they might not, the sun was already very low in the sky. So they just strolled up the mall and on up the pleasant street into which it devolved.

    “Tourist trap,” warned Mark as Gil examined the artefacts on display at a tourist trap advertising Aboriginal art.

    “Yes, but it’s wonderful stuff, Mark!”

    “Gil, they aren’t genuine,” said Ruth with an agonised expression.

    “On the contrary, they’re genuine tourist-trap kitsch! Look at this painting! Giant spots—nothing that size could possibly qualify as a dot—in bright yellow, bright green and bright red on turquoise, representing precisely nothing! And that there in the pink is almost certainly a boomerang! A pinkerang?”

    Flatteringly, Lilias collapsed in giggles at this extremely unworthy effort, gasping: “Yes! I must have it, darling, to die for!”

    “Ooh, how about a didgeridoo instead? I fancy that bright yellow, bright green and bright pink one with the brown background, it’s highly artistic!”

    “Gil, the local Aboriginal people are desert people, they’ve never had didgeridoos,” said Ruth in agony.

    Gil collapsed in splutters, gasping: “Betterer and betterer!”

    “You’d have to carry it all the way home on the plane, Gil,” said Mark faintly.

    “Check it as luggage, I thought; doubt if they’d let me carry on a giant tube suited to lots and lots of Semtex.”

    “They probably won’t object, locally, but um, I’d check it, yes. But it’s dreadful.”

    “That’s why I like it, you clot!”

    The goods were on display at the door of the emporium, along with a range of truly frightful tees in a very heavy cotton fabric, which surely you’d fry in up here during the day? Certainly in summer. Gil selected an ’ideous purple one with a raised pattern in orange plastic representing—misrepresenting, possibly—a skeletal fish, a skeletal turtle, they called him turtle because he tortoise, right, and a lot of dots. It was extra-good ’cos none of the colours in his didgeridoo matched its!

    A hugely embarrassed expression came over Ruth’s nice little heart-shaped face as he held it proudly against his chest. “I’m almost sure that’s a genuine bark painting design.”

    “Right: no bark in these parts, it’s desert country!” agreed Gil cheerfully.

    “Well, exactly! And you’re supposed to have a licence to use real Aboriginal designs, I’m positive it’s been ripped off!” she said in agony.

    Alas, Mark at this point collapsed in sniggers, gasping: “Sorry! Sorry!”

    “Well, someone’s getting rich out of it but I’m very sure it isn’t the local Aboriginal people,” concluded Ruth heavily.

    “Mm. But would you like to spend all your days trying to sell crap to dim tourists in the literal centre of nowhere, Ruth?” murmured Gil.

    She swallowed. “Um, I see what you mean. But he probably does very well, Gil.”

    “I hope so! I’m buying these yere specimens, I can’t resist ’em! –Come on, Lilias, want that pinkerang?”

    “Absolutely, darling!” she gasped, following him into the shop.

    “They’re very young, Gil,” she murmured, as the proprietor, a burly, unshaven Caucasian in tired jeans and a very ordinary Kmart-type checked cotton shirt over a very ordinary faded khaki tee-shirt, wrapped their valuable purchases carefully.

    “Young and earnest. Were we ever that young?” he groaned.

    “I’m sure I was never that earnest, and nor were you, sweetness! ’Member that delicious plastic monkey you got me in Gib?”

    “Uh—ape, I think. Though it did look more like a monkey, didn’t it? One of a set.”

    “Yes!” she gasped. “You called him Hernia Evil! –And the clock, darling!”

    That was a beauty, yes: a once-in-a-lifetime find. They’d bought it in Spain. It was a round-faced alarm clock in green and white plastic. It was especially good in that it was lacking an hour hand. The stallkeeper had let it go for quite a reasonable price.

    “I’ve still got it,” said Lilias dreamily, leaning against him rather like a friendly Chanel-smelling cow—one expected her to moo at any moment. “I keep it on my bedside table, still. It drives Freddy berserk, he can’t see the point at all, poor lamb. Remember that time the alarm went off when it was in my handbag?”

    Gil collapsed in agonised splutters, gasping: “Don’t! Ow!”

    “Fortunately they were only American top brass,” said Lilias, smiling serenely.

    “Don’t!”

    “Darling Admiral Hammersley thought it was funny. Well, once he’d made sure you weren’t one of his sailors.”

    “Please don’t,” said Gil, very, very faintly.

    Lilias sighed deeply. “It was all fun, wasn’t it? You know, at that stage I really thought I was going to marry that bore Johnny Debenham.”

    “If you had you’d be in Downing Street the moment the government changes,” said Gil drily.

    She made a face. “Yes, but only Number 11, darling, too boring for words!”

    “Did he ever find out about that lifeboat incident?” he murmured.

    “No, ’course not.”

    “Then why did he break off the engagement, Lilias?”

    “Yes, please do wrap the didgeridoo—so kind!” she cooed. “—Darling, he didn’t—well, you were away fighting in silly Northern Ireland at the time, of course. No, I broke it off: I suddenly felt I couldn’t face it.”

    Unless Gil was dreaming that giant dark sapphire on her right hand surrounded by not-small diamonds as they spoke was Debenham’s. “You didn’t give him back his ring?” he croaked.

    Lilias looked down her short, straight nose. “Naturally one did offer, Gil. But I wasn’t wearing it at the precise moment, because I’d taken it off when it came all over me that the thing was totally impossible. So I said I’d post it to him without fail and he shouted something very nasty and said he never wanted to lay eyes on it or me again. But it came in very handy, because of course I was completely broke, and Daddy was furious, after all Johnny was a coming man in the Party, and he said fooling around with a parcel of fairy interior decorators wasn’t a career and if I thought it was I could prove it by making it pay its way. So I popped the ring. Actually, darling, I took it to lovely Mark’s uncle,” she added in a lowered voice.

    “Uh—is it Winston, then, not Winstone with an E?” he groped.

    “No! Haven’t you noticed the profile?”

    “I don’t go round peering at chaps’ profiles, Lilias.”

    Lilias got closer than ever and mooed into his ear: “Jewish.”

    “Oh? I’d have said he looked a bit Irish.”

    “Nonsense, darling, not with that oval facial structure. The great-grandfather, I think it was, came over from Austria between the Wars, to escape the horrible Nazis. The uncle’s Lloyd & Winstone, darling.”

    Gil gulped; he’d bought Lilibet’s engagement ring there. Not the sort of thing a chap on Army pay did oughter. “Right,” he managed. “Changed their name.”

    “Yes, of course. Anyway, the darling man gave me a terribly good price for it and when I explained all the circumstances said of course I could buy it back.”

    Er—ri-ght... Well, wouldn’t want to get on the bad side of Lilias’s father’s daughter, no. But Lilias had been eternally broke back in those days. Sort that borrowed fifty nicker swearing to pay it back next week without fail and you never saw it again. What chump had she touched to get a ring of that quality back off a London jeweller?

    “Lilias,” he said weakly, as the shopkeeper struggled with the didgeridoo, which was nearly as tall as he was, “I’m sorry, but if I don’t ask this I shall go barking mad. How did you manage to redeem the thing?”

    “I didn’t exactly redeem it, Gil. As it happened,”—oops, here they went: Lilias’s worst stories, possibly best depending on the point of view, always began with “As it happened”—“I was at the races with Mummy and Aunty Floss the following week—and I must say Mummy was totally supportive, she’d always said Johnny was as much a bore as his father and his Uncle Philip, and of course darling Aunty Floss was on my side—and back then she was going round with George Gold—did you know that Julia Haworth, one of old Matthew’s girls, has married the Gold boy? Daniel, a lovely boy—now, he looks a little like Mark, but an olive skin.—And of course we were using the old man’s box, and by a pure coincidence Benny Winstone happened to be there, too! –The uncle, darling.” Lilias did complex arithmetic on her fingers, her lips moving silently. “Actually I think he must be Mark’s great-uncle, not that it matters. We had the most divine lunch, hot curried duck, completely unusual, and just what one needed on a freezing cold day,”—why Gil had been imagining the scene taking place during Ascot Week he had no notion; he shook his head dazedly—“with lashings of fizz, I must say the Jews do do one proud!”—Gil winced, though he was aware that she meant nothing by it; he looked nervously at the shopkeeper, still struggling with the didgeridoo, but the man appeared unmoved.—“And Mummy and Aunty Floss wanted to go on somewhere with a crowd of boring people, so Benny said as he had the Roller going to waste, why not let him give me a lift? And one thing led to another, as it does, you know!” Tinkling cascade of giggles, and the tit was pressed even more firmly against his upper-arm.

    “Very clear,” said Gil heavily. “—Can I give you a hand there, mate?”

    “Yeah, thanks, hold it, wouldja?” he grunted. “I’ll just put some tape round it.”

    Obediently Gil held the didgeridoo while yards of packing tape was wound round and round and round it.

    “I really think,” said Ruth on a weak note as they emerged from the emporium with their booty, “we’d better take these things back to the car.”

    “Of course, and then we’ll just whisk Gil back to the ho—”

    “Lilias, I am not being whisked two hundred miles this evening. Let’s just grab some drinks and have dinner at one of those places we passed. The one adjoining the hotel looks nice.” –It did, but not like anything Lilias would normally favour with her custom. However, after quite some time this was agreed to and at long, long last, one of the bars at Gil’s hotel/motel having, surprisingly, passed muster, and all other eating places within cooee having been rejected by Lilias, they ended up there.

    Okay, Lilias was not going to eat kangaroo. Okay—little scream, and starts from the other diners—Lilias was not going to touch crocodile! Mark, good for him, decided he’d try the crocodile on the principle of eat the buggers before they ate you. Ruth gave a smothered giggle at this but voted, albeit dubiously, for the emu fillet. Well, gee, Lilias, that left the camel or the lamb chops. Or fish as a main instead—true. What was it? Well, fish, Lilias. Alas, Ruth collapsed in giggles and so it was left to poor Mark to offer feebly: “Um, white-fleshed.”

    Surprisingly enough by this time the waiter had come up to take their orders, so after Gil had decided firmly that they’d have the hors d’oeuvre platter which would allow them a taste of everything, yes, including the emu-liver pâté, Lilias, and you ate goose-liver pâté without a second thought—Mark had a coughing fit at this point—he decided he would have the kangaroo steak, thanks, and madam would have the barra— Oh, Tasmanian trout on the menu tonight, too, eh? There you were, then, Lilias. Yes, one could have trout anywhere, how true (overlooking the financial factor—mm). No, he wouldn’t describe—avoiding the waiter’s eye—barramundi as unusual, Lilias. Laboriously the waiter explained how it was done, with a strange mixture of snootiness and servility which hitherto Gil hadn’t encountered in Australia. Lilias didn’t think that grilled on finocchio fennel—he did mean fennel, did he, Gil darling?—sounded terribly Australian...

    Okay, Lilias would have the barramundi grilled on finocchio fennel stalks with the lemon myrtle sauce. And one could only hope it’d choke her.

    Funnily enough when the hors d’oeuvre “platter” came it was a huge white plate containing twelve, count ’em, twelve, teeny, weeny, minute piles, extraneously dotted with microscopic drops of olive oil.

    “Spit it out, Ruth,” ordered Gil grimly, shoving his napkin under her chin as the poor girl turned green over the emu pâté—minute but terribly strong, almost black in colour, and unspeakably rich.

    Gratefully Ruth buried her face in his napkin. “Thank you!” she gasped.

    “Drink your mineral water,” he said firmly.

     She gulped it down. “I’m all right,” she said bravely.

    “Don’t touch it, Lilias,” said Gil with a sigh as she looked at the remaining minute peaked dot of pâté on whatever it was sitting on, miniscule piece of toast, possibly, too small to identify and doing nothing to nullify—Gil could still taste his. He drank up his glass of mineral water and ate another small thing in self-defence. Uh, well, whatever it was it tasted reasonable, so he forced one on Ruth. “Better?”

    “Yes,” she said, smiling gratefully.

    Lilias tasted the pâté very, very gingerly. “My God, what’s in it?”

    “Emu liver, one presumes,” said Gil heavily. “Have one of these other minute thingamabobs instead.”

    She took one but wondered, not quietly, “Why couldn’t they just offer a delicious selection of native Australian crudités, darling?”

    Mark cleared his throat.

    “Mm. No sech h’animile, Lilias,” said Gil. She was next to him—hard to avoid it when there were four of them, two of each sex—so he murmured into her ear: “They don’t know no better, so ssh.”

    Lilias emitted a cascade of tinkling giggles but surprisingly, did shut up. At least about the food.

    Funnily enough Ruth just looked weakly at her emu fillet when it came, so Gil exchanged plates with her.

    “Well?” said Mark with a twinkle in his eye.

    “Uh, very lean dark meat, slight hint of venison, perhaps, with a hint of guinea fowl—well, entirely palatable, nothing like the liver!” he admitted with a laugh. “How’s the kangaroo, Ruth?”

    She smiled weakly. “I wouldn’t have known it wasn't beef, actually, Gil.”

    Alas, Gil collapsed in helpless splutters: he’d been rather expecting that reaction.

    Lilias then reported that the fish was a little bland, but nicely done, and one could not see where the fennel came in, precisely, but the sauce was most unusual. Quite different. –Mm, and thanks to the modern habit of serving everything in little piles the fish was not swamped in it but sitting beside a little swirl of it, so one didn’t actually have to consume much of it. Mark’s crocodile was very layered with this and that but he reported it was a bit like chicken or turkey, really.

    So that was that. Nobody felt terribly adventurous about puddings, and the one Mark fancied had a warning that it took forty-five minutes to prepare, so they had the acacia seed ice cream with the something-or-other sauce. Lilias thought it was raspberry sauce when it came but one taste convinced her it wasn’t. By common consent they ate up their little blocks of acacia seed ice cream—it was not oversweet and had a delicious nutty flavour, unlike anything Gil had ever tasted before—and left the little artistic swirls of raspberry-coloured, ferociously sour sauce severely alone. Native plant or not.

    It wasn’t very late, though the service had not been anything that could have been called speedy, and since Mark had nobly stuck to mineral water with the meal he was able, once Gil had squashed Lilias, to load the two of them into the sand-coloured off-road vehicle and drive off with them. Phew!

    Gil took himself firmly to bed—there was manifestly nothing to do in Alice Springs of an evening—vowing silently to get up early and have a damn good breakfast at that place of George’s, because haute Australian native cuisine left a norful lot of empty corners.

    His room phone rang next morning just as he was hauling his jeans on. Mark.

    “Don’t tell me she’s awake already!”

    “Er—no. Got my orders last night!” said the unfortunate young man with a feeble laugh.

    “Mark, no matter what she said, you’re not going to drive two hundred miles to collect me and then two hundred back—”

    “No, um, lovely little park with, um, birds of prey.”

    “Poddon?”

     Mark cleared his throat. “Some Americans at the hotel told Lilias about it yesterday. Native flora and, um, birds of prey. I think they, um, well, not sure, really: fly round? Um, tame ones. The Americans were most impressed!” he added quickly.

    “Falconry?” croaked Gil.

    “Oh, gosh, haven’t heard anyone pronounce it like that since— Sorry, Gil!” he said with a feeble laugh.

    “Since school?” asked Gil drily.

    “Pretty much, yes! Well, I think it must be. There’s a show this afternoon. We’ll drive in and collect you.”

    “Am I ever going to get to see Uluru?” he sighed.

    “We could bring you out with us—”

    “No, I’ve found a brochure that advertises personally guided tours, dinkum Aussie lunch—they don’t quite call it that, makes it better, really—and both Uluru and the Unpronounceables.”

    “Um, yes. That’s quite a trek, actually, over very stony ground, it’s not a proper track as such. Well, um, bits of track but there’s a lot of scrambling,” the young man said unhappily.

    “Okay, contraindicated for those with one lung. I’ll stay behind for that bit.”

    “Mm. It, um, takes an hour or so.”

    “Mark, between you and me and the memory of that unspeakable emu-liver pâté, I am not up for trailing round one of the greatest natural wonders of the world with Lilias Markham!”

    “No, um, Sandys, now. No. Um, I have to say it, the guided tours are all pretty foul, though.”

    “I don’t mind a dinkum Aussie guided tour with very bad jokes and the white version of the local legends,” said Gil smoothly.

    “No, um, who told you that?” he replied weakly.

    “Everyone I spoke to about the Red Centre. Are you planning to get here for lunch?”

    “Well, thought so, yes.”

    “Then I’ll meet you in the hotel bar at twelve-thirty and I can tell you now, it will be a very plain lunch. And can I please have my breakfast? My tummy’s rumbling, in the intervals of the memory of that fucking pâté.”

    “Yes,” he said, gulping. “Right you are, Gil.”

    “And oy! If you don’t get here by twelve thirty-three at the latest, I’m not waiting for you! Got that?”

    “Yes, sir!” said the young man with a laugh, ringing off.

    Gil hung up.,smiling. He wasn’t at all a bad lad. And now for brekkers!

    The four large Americans at the next table were having the hash browns and they looked so disappointing—frozen, would be his guess—that he just plumped for good old British bangers with his bacon and scrambled eggs. And lashings of toast. Did they have marmalade? Of course they did! ...Ooh, that felt ever so betterer and he might even be able to face Lilias with the appearance of—not equanimity, possibly, no. Sanity? Almost!

    The little native park was lovely: chock full of wispy grey-green foliage—Lilias thought it seemed a little sparse, so they had that right—and the falconry display was wonderful. In a proper little amphitheatre, an’ all. Wedge-tailed eagles, eh? Jolly good! Didn’t hurt that that down there holding the bird on her wrist was a sturdy khaki-clad outdoorsy Aussie girl—in fact a Betjeman-ish Aussie girl! Wonderful!

    Next day it was up with the, uh, whatever they had in Australia instead of larks, and ho! for the— Okay, stop-off for breakfast at a strange, run-down place full of large enclosed, um, empty hen runs? Emu runs? Wire netting, anyway. The proprietor relentlessly white Aussie. Then ho! for the— Okay, stop-off at strange little tourist-trap full of native artefacts specially hand-made for the tourists. The proprietor relentlessly white Aussie, but there were a couple of Aboriginal women there. Not doing anything, just sitting. How much of the price of these yere artefacts would get back to— Oh, well. Gil bought a wooden lizard ’cos he liked its spots. Honey would appreciate it, he was sure. Or he could save it for Rosemary— Not thinking about that, ’cos what if she never came? Not thinking ’bout that at all.

    Then it was ho! for— Okay, lunch. Gosh, it really was a dinkum Aussie farmhouse lunch! Steak and chips. The farm looked terribly run-down and he had a suspicion that tourist lunches formed a principal part of their income. The proprietress relentlessly white Aussie but a really nice woman, and guess what? Outside in a dry, dusty paddock there was a wallaby that came right up the fence to say hullo! Mrs Mallard and Mrs Rubenstein, Dottie and Shirley from Oklahoma, two of his four fellow-passengers in the minibus that the tour guide-cum-driver, relentlessly white Aussie but a terrifically good chap, was using because they were just a small group today, thought the wallaby was just darling! So was it a native word for kangaroo, then, Gil? Ulp! Well, yes, smaller species, kind of thing, Dottie. Uh—no koalas, no, Shirley, koalas don’t live in the desert country. Yes, it was dry, all right.

    And then it was ho! for— Gosh. Now they were out in the real red desert country, all right! Pace the driver’s joke, Gil did know that it was not the Rock itself, but it was spectacular—spectacular! The man gave them quite a lot of factual information in amongst the jokes and both he and his wife, who was helping with the guiding—stringily brown, blue-shirted, and denim-shorted with genuine elastic-sided Aussie boots, and very interested to learn that Gil normally just had muesli, toast and Vegemite or marmalade for his brekkers—were very genuine, salt-of-the-earth people and Gil was ever so glad that he hadn’t booked with one of the great big shiny tour bus firms.

    And so it was ho! for—Whoa! Comfort stop in the middle of the des—? Oh, no, silly him. Dennis wanted to show them the tracks! Tracks? Dottie and Shirley were completely mystified and even the ’orribly slim, ’orribly well-dressed middle-aged German pair, who had been keeping themselves to themselves for most of the trip, seemed puzzled. Sure enough, in the mounds of pale sand at the side of the road—this bit wasn't red—there were—scrambling up, let me give you a hand, Dottie!—there were the tracks. Minute. Weeny. A marsupial mouse, eh? Oh, and a lizard? Jolly good! And see those? Er, yes, Gil had already seen those: a succession of faint, wavy lines, more or less horizontal, but one above t’other. Snake tracks! He grasped Dottie’s hand firmly what time the expected gasps of horror rent the pure desert air...

   And then it was ho! for— Oh, crumbs. Gil didn’t hear a word of Dennis’s helpful narration—or, indeed, anything much that was said for the rest of the day: he just gawped. And gawped. Uluru was everything one had expected the Red Centre to be and more. Completely and utterly overwhelming. ’Nuff said.

    “Yes,” said Ruth with her shy smile next day in the over-palatial, over-tropical lobby of the extremely expensive hotel within sight of the Rock itself, what a sacrilege, as they waited unendingly for bloody Lilias to stop titivating and make her entrance: “I felt like that, too.”

    “Not with her, I hope, Ruth?” said Gil in horror.

    “No, I’ve been before, I was with a group of people from the High Commission. Well, we haven’t very much in common, really, but I thought it might be better to go with a group. Some of them wanted to climb it,” she said with a sigh.

    “Oh, Lor’. Even our stringy Germans realised that that was a no-no, these days, and he’s a veteran of Kilimanjaro. Though we did see some people up there.”

    “Mm. In the end it didn’t really matter who I was with, though!” said Ruth, her nice brown eyes shining.

    “No, quite. I say, let’s go outside and just look, eh? To Hell with Lilias!” He took her elbow gently and they went out and just looked...

    “There you are, darlings, what on earth are you doing out here?”

    Oh, God.

    “Now, where on earth has that naughty Mark got to? I told him expressly—”

    Oh, God.

    It turned out Mark had jacked up a flight over the desert and over a canyon and, well, just over. Fantastic! Lilias was actually reduced to silence for an appreciable period during it, and what was more, the noise of the machine was loud enough for one to pretend one couldn’t hear her.

    Unfortunately this ended them up rather late for dinner at the unspeakable hotel. Well, nice hotel, but why had it had to desecrate that particular spot?

    “Lilias, I can’t change, I have nothing to change into, and half the people in the dining-room will be wearing their tourist gear and in any case, I do not care.”

    This was ignored and Mark was ordered to lend him something. The young man was looking agonised so Gil shut up and let him lead him off to his room and find out that although they were the same height their waists were not the same size. Then Mark had an inspiration and rang to ask if they could iron Gil’s je— Oops, they could but not straight away, in fact they seemed quite puzzled by the request. So he just lent Gil a shirt and jacket.

    “I’d really have liked to see you wearing that tourist tee-shirt in the bloody dining-room,” the young man noted sadly.

    “Right, help me out of this lot and we’ll tell the cow that nothing fitted!”

    His face lit up like Christmas so Gil remained deaf to his half-hearted protest and they did that.

    “Nothing fitted, Lilias. We are the same height, yes, but nothing else matches,” he said airily, sitting down at the table that in view of the lateness of the hour the ladies had already bagged. “Does this place have anything like solid nosh? Because I could manage a dinkum Aussie steak and a large plate of chips.”

    When it came it was in trendy piles but it was a really solid helping, so he just tucked in, ignoring the fact that Lilias was drinking far too much and starting to tell off-colour stories that were starting to make poor dear little Ruth look very uncomfortable and visibly driving Mark to the Barossa Valley shiraz...

    “Well, Ruth, that leaves us chickens, doesn’t it?” said Gil cordially as, having poured Lilias into bed the two of them got the giggling Mark to his feet, steered him into the lift, steered him along to his room, and dumped him on the bed. “Fancy a nice sit-down in the lounge and a quiet, civilised drink?”

    Funnily enough Ruth did, so they did that. The lounge wasn’t terribly full but the best place to sit seemed to be that very nice sofa over there, so they did that. She didn’t fancy any of the mucky liqueurs that Lilias had been knocking back—this on top of the Harvey Wallbangers she’d had as an apéritif and the shiraz followed by champagne at dinner, no wonder she was now comatose. Well, yes, Ruth decided, she would join Gil in a Johnnie. And maybe another. Somehow by this time his good arm had got round her shoulders, they were awfully nice shoulders, slim, and what was below ’em was awfully nice, too, in fact he was awfully glad she’d changed into that lovely pink thing, so he told her so. This went down rather well, actually, so he told her how nice the pair of ’em looked inside the pink thing and Ruth went even pinker than the dress and gave a mad giggle and squeaked: “Ooh, dear, you are naughty, Gil! I am practically engaged, you know!”

    “Roger the Dodger,” agreed Gil—she’d already told him about him. Back in Blighty and every time she thought they might really be going to get together he dodged. “So’m I, almost practically. She keeps finding things to do back in Blighty.”

    “She’s a dodger too, then!” said Ruth with a pout.

    “Mm.” It was an awfully nice pout, so he sort of got even closer and said: “Shall we forget about ’em for one evening, then?”

    “Why not?” said Ruth with a mad giggle. “You can share my room instead of Mark’s!”

    Ooh, that was a thort! So they went up there.

    Oops, but what about precautions? The thought surfaced just as he was kissing her and getting his hand up that lovely pink— Bother. But fortunately Ruth said that there was a packet in the bathroom! Not asking who’d put them there, Gil let his hand slide right up under the lovely pink skirt and right up that lovely smooth thigh...

    “Ooh, Gil!” she squeaked. “Ooh—ooh—ooh!”

    Okay, that was good. He got her onto the bed and pulled the dress right up and, thoughtfully taking his jeans off in case she didn’t think of it, knelt between those very nice, slim legs and pulled those pretty little panties down and bent right down and—

    “Oh, Gil; oh, Gil; oh, Gil!” she cried.

    That was extremely encouraging, so Gil did it a bit more. And a bit more— Gee, she must really like it that way, ’cos she was panting and gasping like anything! Yes, very encouraging! So he knelt up and hauled the pretty pink dress off and just for a change kissed the pretty little tits, they were about the size he’d expected, and sort of bit that pretty little neck and pretty little ladylike Ruth let out a shriek like a banshee and gasped: “Get a condom, Gil!”

    Oh, boy! He rushed into the bathroom, hauled one on and came back and—Wham! BAM! ...Thank you, ma’am.

    “Uh—sorry,” he mumbled, several aeons later. “Haven’t had it—ages.”

    “Me, neither!” agreed Ruth. “Could you—?”

    “Mm. ’N a minute.” It took a while but he finally felt strong enough to kneel up, grinning like a maniac, and promise: “This is gonna be good! Spread ’em.”

    It must’ve been good, all right, because she screamed her head off and clawed his shoulders to blazes.

     ... Gosh, next morning she was still here and he was still here! So they had another round. This time there was a lot of neck-nibbling and a lot of panting and a lot of very interesting kissing and just slightly biting all over, not neglecting that darling little bum, and then sort of the front again, sort of drinking, actually, and— “GIL-IL! Oh—oh—OH! Eee-eeh—AAH!” Words to that effect.

     So after she’d recovered Gil just a had a very, very quiet... God! JESUS! “AA-ARGH! Uh—AA-AARGH!” ... Phew.

    “You made a lot of noise!” she said with a mad giggle.

    “Me? ME?”

    “Ssh!” More mad giggles.

    So that was all right.

    Very, very fortunately she did understand that it had been an aberration on both parts—bit of backsliding, so to speak—and didn’t suggest he might ring her at the High Commission, or she might get in touch, or— Phew. Gil did feel a lot, lot better for it, he wasn’t kidding himself, but, uh—yeah. Bloody silly.

Next chapter:

https://theroadtobluegums.blogspot.com/2022/11/the-new-potters-inlet.html