Hullo, I Must Be Going

23

Hullo, I Must Be Going

    “Thought you were gonna stay on till the end of the month?” said Andy hazily.

    “I’m going, Dad,” repeated Susan grimly. She wiped the perfectly clean bench grimly, and rinsed the sponge under the hot tap.

    The old man shrugged. “Okay, just as ya like. Um, you gonna be back for Easter?”

    “I don’t know,” replied Susan grimly.

    “Yeah, well suit yerself, only I might not be here, George thought I might fancy going down to Tazzie to see ’is new project.”

    “Easter’s late this year, it’ll be freezing,” she warned grimly.

    “Not in a nice, centrally-heated motel, it won’t. Anyway, see how it goes.”

    “Dad, if you want to spend Easter in Tazz—Tasmania,” Susan corrected herself grimly, “you’ll need to book well in advance, loads of people take their cars—”

    “I’m not taking the car, ya nit! I’ll fly.”

    “On what?” replied Susan grimly. “The smell of an oily rag?”

    “Nah, be a Boeing!” Andy collapsed in sniggers at his own wit.

    “You’re not funny, Dad!” she snapped. “How do you imagine you’ll pay for the ticket? And don’t say there’ll be cheap flights: there won’t: Virgin Blue—”

    Not bothering to wait to hear what Virgin Blue might or might not be up to, Andy interrupted: “George reckons he’ll pay. But anyway, I’m thinking of selling off a bit of the property.”

    Susan’s jaw sagged. That had been suggested in the past—more than once—and Dad had always refused to hear of it. “What?”

    “Not to yer poncy mates from the Big Smoke for a two-storeyed glass-walled monstrosity with views to the Blue Mountains from the periscope on its roof, before you start.”

    “Alan and Vicki Morton could have given you a really good price, and they’ve built a really tasteful holiday home at—”

    “I don’t wanna know.”

    “Jane and Paul Walker are looking for—”

    “Are you deaf? I don’t wanna know!”

    “They’re very pleasant people, Dad, and very concerned about the environment; they wouldn’t—”

    “Will ya SHUT UP?” he roared.

    Susan looked down her nose. “There’s no need to take that attitude, I’m merely trying to help.”

    “Well, don’t. Your version of helping is sticking your oar in where it’s not wanted, Susan. I might sell to the right person.”

    Susan was now very flushed. “The right person doesn’t just drop out of thin air, Dad!”

    “Something like that,” he said on a dry note as Pete came in with a bunch of something unlikely-looking in his fist. “Oy, Pete, she reckons she’s pushing off, so could you take a look at the load of Jap crap under the bonnet of that tin can of hers?”

    “There’s nothing wrong with my car!” she snapped.

    “No, and this’ll prove it,” replied Andy smoothly. “—If that’s herbs or something you can forget it, mate.”

    “Just a few sprigs of lemon myrtle and a bit of lavender. Thought I might try David’s recipe for lavender-flower ice cream.”

    Andy eyed him drily. “Not in my house, ya needn’t, Pete.”

    “Ignore him,” ordered Susan: “he’s got that huge chest freezer going to waste. I have got a recipe for lavender-flower ice cream, but I’ve never tried it: isn’t there a risk it’ll taste rather rank?”

    “Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Pete admitted, “but David’s is beautiful. Very delicate.”

    “He can cook, though,” noted Andy snidely.

    Ignoring this completely, Susan said to Pete: “Where did the lemon myrtle come from? I’ve never seen any round here.”

    “Blue Gums, they’ve planted up a lot. It’s some their chef gave to David.”

    “Ya needn’t do anything with it, either,” noted Andy.

    “I have had a delightful dish using just a touch of it with barramundi,” Susan admitted.

    “Look, okay, the two of you are soulmates and before she kills herself on the bloody roads, will ya take a look at the flamin’ CAR?” shouted Andy.

    “Hang on,” replied Pete mildly. “I’ll just put these in water.” He found a jar, filled it with water and put the herbs into it.

    Susan came to inspect them. “These woody stems should really be crushed, I think.”

    “Yes, but I won’t leave them there long.” Pete headed outside. Susan followed him, looking officious.

    Sighing, Andy got up slowly and went to boil up the jug again.

    “Oy, she’ll be on at you about your caffeine intake again,” warned George, coming in bravely now that the coast was clear.

    “I dunno why the fuck she hasn’t grabbed Pete, the two of them have been blahing on about lavender ice cream and how to ruin good fish with lemon myrtle and the right way to put flamin’ hunks of weed in bloody jam jars!” retorted Andy with feeling.

    “He’s more efficient than she is, that’s why, Dad,” explained George drily, making a cup of coffee for himself, since the jug was hot.

    Andy drank coffee, and sighed. “Well, yeah, that had dawned,” he admitted.

    George eyed him affectionately. “Yeah. She really pushing off or was that just a lovely dream?”

    “Nah, reckons she is.”

    “Good.”

    The old man sighed again. “Yeah. Well, she means well, but was it George Bernard Shaw—some verbose tit of a sage, anyway—that said that that’s the most damning phrase ya can use of a human being?”

    George eyed him affectionately. “Something like that.”

    “Mm. Um, I mentioned to her that I might sell off a bit of the property. Didn’t mention Pete might be interested, though: thought ’e could do without the earful.”

    “Found ya five dozen tasteful takers for it, has she?”

    “Eh? –Yeah. I was thinking, though: if Pete does fancy it, what say I rent a bit to ’im, rather than selling it?”

    “Why?” said George blankly.

    “I’m thinking of the future, you tit! Well,” he said crossly as George looked completely blank, “are ya gonna wanna manage batty ecolodge projects for the next fifteen years, George?”

    “Dunno. Might do, why not? What’s that got to do with it?”

    “Who else have I got to leave it to, ya fuckwit? –Well, Janice and Susan got their whack when I sold the house, that was the way they wanted it, and I don’t believe in hanging onto it until your kids are pushing seventy and past needing financial help.”

    “No, I know that, Dad. But I don’t mind if you sell off a bit.”

    “Ye-ah... See, I thought that ya might fancy settling down to running a B&B yourself, since that seems to be the go in these parts, these days.”

    “That or a barmy horse-trekking enterprise! Um... Cripes. Never thought of it. Um, but they’d be the lobotomised retirees like what Bob gets, Dad, the sort that go for lovely goats’ milk soap.”

    “Eh?”

    “The phrase seems to have caught on over at the Jardine place!” he said with a laugh. “See, Gil had some punters that discovered this mad woman that makes it, and then Bob had some ditto—anyway, they’re all saying it!”

    “Goats’ milk soap?” said Andy dazedly. “Yeah, well, okay, they would be that sort, but I thought you could be a bit more environmental than Bob and Deanna, kind of like Blue Gums, but draw in the ones that aren’t in the top tax bracket.”

    “An ecolodge?” croaked George.

    “If ya like to call it that, yeah. Why not? Say in ten years’ time. But you would want the place to be environmental still, see?”

    “Dad, if Pete was next-door to me I wouldn’t need to worry.”

    “Well, ya might, ’cos ’is latest idea seems to be that permaculture crap. I thought they only did it in Queensland—well, according to the bullshit on Gardening Australia. –Why the ABC imagines that a flamin’ Pom that lives in deepest Tazzie, with a climate closest ya can get to bloody Britain’s in the whole of the country, including the snow on the hills round Hobart in winter, is the type to tell the rest of Australia how to do its gardens beats me!”

    “Yeah, me, too, only the lovely goats’ milk soap brigade absolutely love ’im, apparently,” said George peaceably. “Permaculture? Um, well, yeah, think ya right about Queensland. Well, heck, when it’s not the old Pommy joker in the permafrost of Tazzie with ’is walled veggie garden that ’e’s got seventeen full-time professionals working on behind the scenes, it’s mostly Queensland, eh? Hard to stop stuff growing up there. Um, hang on, think there’s a young joker with frizzy hair that does it over in WA, too. Or is that only organic?”

    “Dunno. Uh—aw, yeah, I know the young joker ya mean: dug up ’is verge, the dobbers will of been ringing up the council like billyo. Well, um, s’pose Perth’s climate’s more like ours, yeah. –Well, there you are, it could be a goer here, then. Mind you, Pete’d have to immolate ’imself on ’is compost heap twenny-five hours a day.”

    “He’ll be up for that,” said George drily.

    “Yeah, but what I’m saying is, permaculture isn’t environmental.”

    “Yes, it is, Dad, it’s all organic.”

    “I mean it’s got nothing to do with the flaming New South Wales environment! Ruddy great taro plants and ginger plants and European fruit trees? –Not to mention the South American fruit trees!”

    “He been on about babacos again?” asked George, his shoulders beginning to shake.

    “Eh? No; what the Hell are they, when they’re at home?”

    “Dunno. South American, though.”

    “Look, George, do ya wanna inherit two-thirds of the property or the LOT?” said Andy loudly.

    “Two-thirds, if it’s Pete next-door, you nit. I don’t care what he grows. –Actually, if it’s all organic, I could run an ecolodge, he could supply me!” realised George. He collapsed in splutters.

    “Just think about it, ya flaming tit. What if ’is fucking babacos or ginger plants or whaddever the fuck got out and started contaminating the natural environment?”

    “They’d die the death, that’s what, Dad. Same like those whatsits of David’s. Uh—wait on... Nope, it’s gone. –Hey, Pete,” he said as Pete came back, “what were those plants of David’s that died the death?”

    “Out the front or the back?” replied Pete clinically.

    “The back. In the veggie garden. I don’t mean went to seed and he hadda pull them out, actually died the death.”

    “Okra. Lady’s fingers.”

    “Uh—if you say so. Well, it was some mad name like that, yeah,” George admitted. “Anything that gets out’ll die the death, Dad, ’cos like I say: twenny-five hours a day, min’.”

    “Ya got a point. Uh, these babacos wouldn’t be anything like lantana, then?” he said cautiously.

    “Nah! Uh, would they, Pete?”

    Looking pleased, Pete gave them a dissertation on the habits and cultivation of the babaco. The conclusion drawn by the MacMurrays, père et fils, being twenny-five hours a day, min’. And ya hadda be completely barmy with it. But okay, Pete Outhwaite qualified, all right.

    He then proved it by taking Susan’s four-wheel-drive to the servo to top up its oil before she left, but on the whole this was better than having her break down halfway between Outer Woop-Woop and Never-Made-It, so Andy and George let him.

    … “Cripes,” said Andy numbly, as, all three suitcases what she’d arrived with having been loaded up and the string of instructions to her father having dried up at last, she got into the thing and actually went. He sat down heavily in his disgrace of an armchair that made the place look like an Outback Aboriginal settlement, unquote, and Susan held no brief for the policies of the Howard government, unquote, it was completely disgusting that the indigenous Australians had nothing, but that was no excuse for Dad, unquote.

    George sat down heavily beside him in the almost as dreadful basket chair. “Yeah.”

    Pete sat down beside George in what used to be a perfectly good deckchair before Susan’s father had left it out in all weathers. “Yeah.”

    A contemplative silence fell...

    “Get ’em in?” suggested Andy.

    “Why not?” agreed George.

    “I’ll get ’em!” offered Pete. He went inside.

    “’E’s not all bad,” Andy conceded.

    “Capable of fetching the beer, anyway!” agreed George with a laugh.

    Jen had had to go into the city to re-enrol for her courses, so Rosemary was helping Phil with the entire bunkhouseful of punters on a long trek, and since the schools were, blessedly, back, there wasn’t a Macdonald boy in sight. Gil and Honey were sitting peacefully on the front verandah on their matching white mismatched verandah furniture, having a lovely time doing nothing...

    Up until about now.

    Gil stood up feebly. “What?” he said feebly. “I thought George wasn’t starting the new project for several weeks yet, Ted?”

    “I’d like to see a bit of Tasmania before we start,” replied Ted.

    He didn’t look to Gil like a chap that was looking forward to seeing a bit of Tasmania and he couldn’t have looked like it to Honey, either, because she jumped up and cried unguardedly: “But Ted, Susan’s gone!”

    Gil cleared his throat. “Well, yes: what the last honourable speaker said,” he agreed.

    Ted frowned. “That’s got absolutely nothing to do with it.”

    “Ted, that’s a lie!” cried Honey.

    “We merely went for a few rides together.”

    “Didn’t you walk her home a couple of times, too?”

    “Yes, and she took an ell,” he said sourly.

    “Yes, that’s what I mean, but she’s gone!”

    “I said, it’s got nothing to do with it.”

    “Well, we’ll be very sorry to see you go, Ted, but if you want to move on, it’s up to you, of course,” said Gil, trying to catch Honey’s eye.

    “There’s no need to give me meaning looks, I’m not going to stop him! We’ll miss you, Ted. Come back any time you feel like it, won’t you? And thank you very much for all the help you gave Gil with the plans and helping with the horses and everything.”

    “I second that,” said Gil solemnly, holding out his hand.

    “Uh—yeah,” said Ted feebly, shaking it. “Well, I’ll be off,” he said, hefting his pack.

    “Now?” cried Honey.

    “Yes, be in good time for the bus from Barrabarra if I set off—”

    “But it’ll take hours! You’re not going to walk all the way into Barrabarra on a hot afternoon!” she cried.

    “No, don’t be an ass: I’ll get the car,” said Gil.

    “No, thanks; I feel like the walk,” replied Ted firmly.

    “This time I’m giving you a meaning look,” said Honey with a sigh to her brother-in-law.

    “Mm. Very well, Ted, if that’s how you feel. Thanks for everything.”

    “No: thanks for having me. See you.” And with that he hefted his pack and strode off.

    After some dazed staring at the empty sweep Gil put his arm round Honey’s shoulders.

    “He’s mad,” she muttered. “What’s gone wrong?”

    Gil sighed. “Well, nothing and everything, I think, Honey.”

    “But what?” she cried.

    “Well, uh, Susan turned out not to be what he’d hoped, and what with the embarrassment of avoiding her—I realise she’s gone, but it’s sort of, uh, cumulative, I think—and then Jan Martin turning up again and the embarrassment of having to avoid her, I’d say the emotional load’s just got too much for him. –I think he did give Jan quite a bit of encouragement, a year back.”

    “How far did it go?” said Honey, staring at him.

    “I’d say not very far at all,” replied Gil calmly, “in physical terms, that is, but too far in emotional terms. Well, possibly it was just that she assumed too much.”

    Honey thought it over. “Yes. I mean, she is at that age, even if she is a lady exec.”

    “I think it was very much that. And it isn’t that things aren’t calming down again with Susan gone, but, well—”

    “Too many emotional complications and he just wants to shake clear of it all—yes.”

    “Mm.” Gil gave her a bit of a squeeze. “Oy, you would say if you felt like shaking clear of it all, wouldn’t you, Honey?”

    “Me?” said Honey in amazement. “No, I love it, Gil! I mean, since Phil came out I sort of feel, um, rejuvenated, I suppose. Silly, isn’t it, ’cos now I’m visibly the mother of a grown-up kid! And I know I don’t contribute much to Jardine Holiday Horse Treks, but I love being part of it. Though I will have to go back to work next week,” she added sadly.

    Gil had tried and failed to persuade her to give up the bloody job with bloody Barry and Kyle. He didn’t think she was clinging to it as a sort of Linus blanket, he thought she was very sensibly not putting all her eggs in a shaky basket of his making that already held far too many eggs. True, most of her earnings went on the rent for the bloody flat, but nevertheless.

    “Never mind, we’ll fetch you up every weekend.”

    “Yes, great,” agreed Honey. “—Oh, dear: I was so sure that one of them must be right for him!”

    “Me, too. Oh, well. He’s too emotionally scarred, poor Ted.”

    “Yes,” said Honey, looking up at him uncertainly. “Was it just the lady in his village that married your friend Hill, Gil?”

    Gil made a face. “No; I think that was the last straw. Uh, well, you know his business folded?”

    “Yes, he mentioned it when he was doing those plans for you, last year. That’s why he doesn’t want to be a manager any more.”

    “Mm. There was a lot more to it. Look, sit down, I’ll get us some decent drinks.”

    Honey sat down obediently.

    “What is it?” she said when he came back with two tall tumblers that appeared to be filled with limes and ice.

    “Bacardi—couldn’t find any other white rum in Barrabarra, but it’ll do—sugar, limes, ice. It’s a Brazilian concoction. Guaranteed to knock the socks off.”

    Honey sipped it cautiously. “Cripes!”

    “Uh-huh.” He sipped his and sighed. “Don’t ever try getting on a horse, or even on One Donkey, after a belt of this,” he warned.

    “Heck, no! –Go on, tell me about Ted.”

    Gil made a face but told her the lot, not neglecting the full bit about the Gulf Syndrome scare, so-called—syndrome nothing: scientifically documented risk of chromosomal abnormalities, altered DNA, from the fucking depleted uranium ammo—for him, Colin, Hill, Guy and all the chaps who’d been in Desert Storm.

    “What about this time?” she croaked. “I mean, not necessarily now, but when they invaded and chucked Saddam Hussein out? Were they still making them use that dirty ammo?”

    “Who knows?” said Gil sourly. “Well, the sensible chaps have got their DNA tested again. Uh—yes, including me,” he said as she looked at him doubtfully.

    “Good. So, um, Ted’s chromosomes are okay, are they?” she added shakily.

    “Yes, he was quite definite on that point, Honey. I think that a large part of the trouble is that he feels guilty: he and his business partner never thought to investigate exactly why the Kuwaitis wanted them to shovel large chunks of desert into huge holes. Just glad to get the contract after they’d lost some civil engineering job they’d been tendering for.”

    “I see. He did mention that an old school friend had died not long before he left England, but he never told me anything about him working for him in the contaminated area.”

    “Uh-huh.” Gil passed her a large and none-too-clean handkerchief.

    Honey blew her nose hard and passed it back. “Thanks. I’m awfully glad you’re here now, Gil.”

    “Yes,” said Gil, staring across a view of scantily-gravelled sweep to a further view of scraggy, unkempt scrub interspersed with clumps of dead fawn grass and a few yellowish-fawn rocks, and beyond that nothing but blue. “Looking back, it all seems like a very bad dream. Almost as if it happened to some other chap... I suppose that’s a cliché, but it does. As for the sort of life Julian leads, that seems like a mad drug-induced fantasy!”

    “Mm,” agreed Honey. “What did his letter say?”

    “Oh—folderol, skiing in St Moritz, gave it away, too boring for words, all the same old crowd, unquote—they don’t let you in there unless your income’s a cool mill’ a month—opted for some sun instead, so they popped down to Mustique.”

    “Up its, and St Moritz’s too,” said Honey comfortably, raising her glass. “Here’s to us. Out of the swing of the sea.”

    “I’ll drink to that,” agreed Gil, drinking.

    “Gee, this is strong!” Honey reported after a certain amount of gasping, extra swallowing, and licking of the lips.

    “Yep! The real Brazilian McCoy. Learnt it off a real Brazilian lady.”

    “Has it got a name?” she asked idly, watching as a tiny butterfly fluttered across the sweep.

    “Yep.”

    “Can you remember it?”

    “Caipirinha, or thereabouts.”

    “Good-oh,” she acknowledged comfortably.

    Something very like that, mm! Gil drank almost pure rum flavoured with full-strength crushed limes—you bunged the cut-up lime in the tumbler and squashed it viciously with a h’implement—and sighed deeply.

    “It’s been lovely, Deanna,” said Jan Martin, smiling brightly, “but I’m afraid I really ought to get back. You know what it’s like when one starts a new job. I’ll pay for the whole two weeks, of course.”

    Deanna looked at her in distress but could think of nothing tactful to say. Except that of course they wouldn’t charge her for the whole two weeks.

    “Cripes,” said Bob numbly as she reported to him in the kitchen. “Well, uh, does she need a hand with her bags, love?”

    “No, she’s actually gone,” she said sadly.

    “Oh,” he said numbly. “Well, uh, give you a hand to strip the bed and tidy the room?”

    Deanna frowned horribly. “Yes. In a minute.”

    “Um, it wouldn’t of been anything we said or done or didn’t do, love, it will of been ruddy Ted Prosser disappearing into the boo-eye like that.”

    “Mm.”

    Bob sighed. “Siddown, I’ll make us a cup of coffee.”

    “Don’t touch his coffee-pot!” said a deep voice with a laugh in it from the back door.

    “Don’t you start,” said Bob heavily as Jack came in with a bunch of something unlikely-looking in his fist. “What the Hell’s that, did ’e ask you to pick it, as if I didn’t know, and, last but not least, would it by any chance be what give ’im the hay fever?”

    “I better take your points in reverse order,” decided Jack, the sky-blue eyes twinkling.

    “Noddif ya wanna live to see lunchtime, mate, she’s just found out that Jan Martin’s slung ’er hook a week early because of flamin’ Ted.”

    “It’s not the money, Jack,” said Deanna sadly.

    “Uh—no. –Cripes, has she? Had an idea it was Gil she was keen on.”

    “That was at first,” said Deanna dully.

    Bob cleared his throat. “Yeah. They tend to be like that. That Ma Simmonds with a D in our Mimosa Room, fifty if a day, she was all over ’im the other day.”

    “This the ripe-looking dame with the bleach job? –Right,” Jack agreed.

    “Claimed she used to ride when she was a kid. Funnily enough Gil didn’t offer to put ’er up on old Molly on the strength of it.”

    “Blackie’s pretty sturdy, too,” Jack objected mildly.

    “Eh? Not that! Well, dare say she’s fourteen stone if an ounce, but none the worse for— Uh, never mind,” he muttered, hurriedly plugging the jug in with his back turned to his wife. “No, there was a crowd of them going for a ride and Molly was the only horse free.”

    “Aw, right.” Jack dumped his foliage on the table and sat down opposite Deanna. “Dare say Jan’ll get over it, Deanna,” he offered kindly.

    “I was absolutely convinced they were right for each other,” she replied with a frown. “And so was Honey!”

    “Thought you said that it was Honey that’d be right for— I never spoke!” said Bob quickly. He spooned instant coffee busily into three mugs.

    “She’s too casual for him. I know he’s just been backpacking around the country but underneath he’s the sort of man that likes thing to be nice,” said Deanna sadly.

    “Um, yeah,” agreed Jack, eyeing Bob’s back warily. “Well, yeah, knows all about cutlery and stuff. Phil found some weird old knives in old Uncle Dave Jardine’s sideboard and Ted spotted what they were.”

    “What were they?” asked Deanna.

    Jack shrugged. “Forget.”

    “You’re useless, mate,” warned Bob drily.

    “Don’t be silly, Bob,” said Deanna listlessly.

    The jug had almost boiled so Bob hurriedly filled her mug, informing her she was having it with milk and sugar and liking it.

    “Thanks,” she said listlessly.

    Bob handed Jack a mug and sat down beside him with a sigh. “We did say, when we decided to go in for this lurk, that getting emotionally involved in the punters’ lives was a risk that we were gonna avoid,” he said heavily.

    “Uh-huh.” Jack drank coffee, eying Deanna warily.

    “Yes, but Jan was different,” she said earnestly.

    “Not one of the lovely goats’ milk soap brigade: no,” Jack agreed incautiously.

    Bob cleared his throat.

    “It’s all right, they’re all saying it,” said Deanna with a sigh. “She did admire the soap, Jack, and it is lovely soap, but you’re right, she was wasn’t one of the usual mob. Oh, well.”

    “Let’s have a biscuit,” decided Bob as she sipped coffee and looked marginally more cheerful.

    “It’s only just gone nine, Bob,” she pointed out wanly.

    “All the more reason to have a biscuit now: get in early so’s we can have proper smoko round tennish!” replied Bob heartily, getting up. He fetched a large, round tin. “Nice, eh?” he said, showing it to Jack. “English cottage garden, see? Good tight seal, too. Her Aunty Allyson gave it to us for Christmas. Only she went and wasted the biscuits on the punters. So,” he grunted, operating on the lid, “what it is, is— Shit. Okay, dry as dust Arnott’s take-yer-picks. Plain oval ones or plain oblong ones, really.”

    “Ta,” said Jack calmly, taking an oblong one.

    Deanna took an oval one. “I suppose we really ought to tell Aunty Allyson there’s a room free for the best part of a week,” she admitted glumly.

    “No, we didn’t oughta,” replied Bob calmly.

    “All right, love, we won’t!” she said in terrific relief. “It’d be the last straw, really!” She ate up her biscuit looking much happier and, since Bob had craftily placed the open tin just in front of her, absent-mindedly took another one.

    Winking at Jack, Bob chose an oblong one for himself and having tasted it and reported: “The word ‘tinder’ comes to mind,” asked: “What is all that greenery, anyway?”

    “Cuttings.”

    “Cuttings what of?” Bob asked clinically.

    “Stuff Ann’s Aunty Rae sent over. Well, only the old joker come—Vern, think it is. He’ll be in the doghouse, he found an old tractor and hauled it home.”

    “Does it go?” Bob asked clinically.

    “Nah, ’course not. Anyway, ’e come, ’e gave a huge great bunch of stuff to Ann, and she stuck what she could identify in the garden—it’ll croak in this weather, but too bad—and gave the rest to David and he sent this lot over for you, that clear enough for ya?”

    “Uh—clear as mud, mate. For us?”

    “I think this is, um, well, it might be rosemary,” said Deana cautiously, fingering a bit.

    “Herbs, then: he’s gonna cook something with ’em,” decided Bob.

    “Bob, these don’t look like herbs!”

    Jack cleared his throat. “Well, yeah, that one ya got there is, Deanna. It’s a bit of laurel—bay tree. Bay leaves?” he offered as she just looked blank

    “Oh! I know, people grow them in pots by their front door!”

    “In Pongo, yeah, maybe,” allowed Bob drily. “Not in Outer Woop-Woop in thirty-five degree heat, Ann’s Aunty Rae must be as mad as yer Aunty Allyson.”

    “It’s only about twenny-six,” noted Jack calmly.

    “Now, yeah. Slated to hit thirty-five this arvo, though!”

    “Yeah. Well, I think the old dame’s under the impression that Ann’s got a potting shed.”

    After a moment Bob conceded: “She’s got a shed, yeah.”

    “Yeah. Well, there you are.”

    Deanna picked up the length of bay again. “Um, maybe he’s gonna dry them?”

    “Don’t look at me,” Jack responded drily, since they were both looking at him. “I merely brung them over like what ’e asked me.”

    “Why couldn’t ’e bring them over ’imself?” Bob asked clinically.

    “Dot was up-chucking, Rose was bawling, Nefertite was burning the toast under the impression she was helping them out, and he was sneezing his head off.”

    “Again?” cried Deanna.

    “Before or after this load of hay fever inducers arrived?” Bob asked clinically.

    “Ya got a point. None of them are actually flowering, though. Think it’s still whatever it was in the first place.”

    “The wind’s changed, the pollen must be blowing over in this direction!” cried Deanna agitatedly.

    “Yeah. Be nice if we could figure out what from, eh?” replied Jack drily. “Then we could accidentally spill a bottle of weedkiller on it.”

    “You said it, mate!” agreed Bob fervently. “Shit, whaddare we— Shit.” He investigated the chest freezer.

   “Anything?” asked Deanna hopefully.

    “Yeah: three giant Tupperware pots of lavender ice cream, that spare turkey ’e bunged in here ’cos dunno why, them ducks he bunged in here ’cos duck done fancy could well be a goer only we’ve served a lot of poultry lately, don’t bother to point out the punters come and go every week, thanks, and three—no, four—nice cheesecakes.” He bent right into it. “Plus that side of lamb what it’s been universally decided isn’t gonna see the light of day until the day after Nefertite’s done her big concert. –She gets nerves beforehand, mate, can’t eat,” he explained kindly to Jack.

    “Yeah, I know. That it?”

    “Bob, what about those lovely casserole dishes of moussaka he made?” cried Deanna.

    “Those lovely punters that filled the restaurant without bothering to book last Sundee ate ’em, if you recall.”

    “Ooh, yeah. Help!” she gulped.

    Bob investigated the freezing compartments of their two fridges. “More ruddy lavender ice cream, the man’s a maniac! Uh—hang on, I tell a lie. One leftover kiwifruit one. Better than a poke in the eye with a burnt stick, I suppose. Think there’s only our stuff in the other one. Um—yeah. Lean cuisines in case there’s an emergency that doesn’t require actual food, and my Peters vanilla, they’re not getting that! Hang on, what’s this? Ugh! Uh—chicken livers,” he reported feebly.

    “Toast followed by cheesecake and fancy ice cream, then?” suggested Jack drily.

    “This isn’t funny, mate,” Bob warned him.

    “Gil’s got half a dozen that’ll want lunch but Rosemary can cope with those. You better get hold of Pete. Uh—he’s over with Honey and Rosemary, actually,” he said as Bob got up and went to the phone, “but he is free.”

    “We have got a contingency plan for when David needs to work on his music,” said Deanna on a weak note as Bob punched numbers, muttering about stupid modern phones designed by pointy-headed whizz-kids.

    Jack eyed her drily. “Yeah.”

    “Just not for hay fever,” explained Bob. “Hullo! Who is that? Blast! –Uh, sorry, mate.” He hung up.

    Helpfully Deanna told him Jardine Holiday Horse Treks’ number.

    “I know! Who designs this plastic crap?”

    “I could ask him if you don’t want to, Bob,” she said mildly.

    “I’m asking him, if I can ever get thr—Hullo! Who is that? Who? Meggy Who? –Oh, hullo, Honey, ’tis your place,” he said in relief. “Oh, only four, eh? Thought your phone was quite high up?”

    “She stands on a chair,” murmured Jack.

    “Stands on a chair, eh?” said Bob into the phone with a smile in his voice. “Right, the ones that are having a good break now because she hasn’t started school yet. Good on ’em, let ’em enjoy it while they can, ’cos they’ll have thirteen solid years of Purgatory to come. …Cookies? Aw, right, yeah, all the kids pick up Yank garbage these days, don’t they? Never realised Sesame Street was still going. Listen, we got a bit of an emergency, David’s down with streaming hay fever.” He paused while the phone emitted noises of shock, horror and consternation. “No, well, could be the last lot come back,” he conceded. “Anyway, could we possibly borrow Pete?”

    “Bob!” hissed Deanna, turning scarlet.

    “What?” he returned on a defiant note. “—Yeah, gidday, mate. –Yeah, that’s right. The idea was the freezer’d always be full of something but the hay fever took us by surprise. …Eucalypts? Fucking Hell, mate, he can’t be allergic to those, we’re surrounded by ’em! …Uh, dare say they don’t always flower at the same time, no, but shit, he’s been out here for years, ya know! Lived in SA for— How long was it, that David was in SA at yer Aunty Kate’s mercy, again?” he said to Deanna.

    Weakly she replied: “Don’t put it like that. Well, she keeps moving, of course,”—here Bob winked at Jack—“so he was only technically next-door to them for about three or four years, I think. But he was in SA for about ten years: it can’t be an allergy to the eucalypts!”

    “Wouldn’t of thought so, no. –Oy, Pete, it can’t be an allergy to the eucalypts, he’s been in Oz for something like fifteen years, all up, and will ya stop spreading doom?”

    At this point Jack had to clear his throat.

    “He is a bit like that!” hissed Deanna.

    Too right. Jack had never been under the impression that there were very many flies on Bob Springer, but this certainly confirmed that impression. He nodded feelingly.

    Bob, meanwhile, was arranging for Pete to come over. “Done!” he reported happily, ringing off.

    “Good,” agreed Deanna.

    “Now if someone’ll get out a notebook and write down exactly what’s what in this here kitchen as we speak,” Bob added with relish, “maybe—just maybe—we’ll be able to put everything back where it oughta be before David blows a gasket.”

    “Ya reckon?” said Jack drily. “You oughta cop a load of what Pete’s done to the Jardine place’s cupboards. Mind you, he’s training Rosemary up good, she can just about put the peanut butter and the frying-pan back in the right place, now.”

    “David’s just the same,” Bob admitted. “Ya wouldn’t think ’e was fussy to look at ’im, but when it comes to ’is kitchen—or ’is music, actually—by cripes!”

    “Don’t be silly, Pete won’t upset things in David’s kitchen,” said Deanna calmly, getting up. “I’ll just check on what veggies there are, that’ll be a help.”

    “I was gonna suggest another cuppa before ’e gets here,” said Bob feebly.

    Jack got up. “Not for me, ta, I better get on with it.”

    “So whatcha doing today?” asked Bob chattily. “Nefertite’s roof, is it?”

    “No, George and Pete and Ted pitched in: we already got the basic structure up.”

    “Already?” gasped Deanna.

    “Sure. It’s not hard if ya know what ya doing: the whole thing’s prefabricated, ya know.”

    She nodded numbly. “I must pop over and see it, Jack; I thought you’d only just flattened the ground.”

    “Nah, poured the slab getting on for two weeks back.”

    “Good on ya, mate, that’s really great progress,” said Bob limply. “So, uh, is it the windows today?”

    “Nope, they’re in. They come prefabricated, with the glass already in the frames, and you fit them in once the walls are up. Put it like this, that’s the idea. Then ya spend the next week filling in all the gaps: that’ll be the next job. But there’s no hurry for that in your climate. So as there won’t be any more heavy machinery I’m fixing the paths and garden walls for ’em.”

    There was a short silence.

    “What paths and garden walls?” said Bob feebly. Last time he’d looked there’d been Dot and David’s pretty little suburban-style picket fence and zilch. Certainly nothing related to a path anywhere near the site of Nefertite’s house. True, there was a bit of a track between the Walsinghams’ place and Ann’s back door. Take your pick: walk on that or the gravelled drive, the track was much smoother in summer but much, much muddier in winter.

    “Bit of a path between Nefertite’s place and David and Dot’s, upgrade that path between them and the crafts centre, put up a bit of shelter for the gardens,” said Jack, going over to the back door. “See ya!”

    In his wake Bob and Deanna stared at the closed door.

    Finally Bob said in a very faint, faraway voice: “Ya know how some of us had this mad idea, forty years or so back, that this was gonna be a complete Walsingham takeover of poor ole Jack?”

    Deanna gave a loud giggle. “Yeah! Isn’t it wonderful? He’s taking them over!”

    “You said it! He’ll have that garden of ruddy David’s growing them creepy lady’s finger thingos yet!”

    “Exactly! And Ann’s chooks’ll be completely self-sustaining!”

    “Uh, think ya mean the garden and the— Well, yeah, know whatcha mean: yeah. Silverbeet till it comes out yer ears!”

    Nodding ecstatically, Deanna opened the fridges and investigated the vegetable crispers. “Ooh, help.”

    “Answer’s a lemon, is it?” said Bob without surprise.

    “Yeah, literally!” Deanna held up a lemon and collapsed in giggles.

    Bob Springer rarely thought of his ex—he wasn’t much given to looking back, never did you any good, did it?—but at this point it came back forcibly to him just what her reaction would have been. Screeching and recriminations woulda been the least of it. “Yeah,” he agreed, grinning broadly “So it is! Well, we better not show any actual enterprise and nip straight down the supermarket. Better wait for Pete to give ’is orders, eh?”

    “Too right!”

    “If you came over here I could give you a nice big kiss,” offered Bob. “With or without the lemon, I’m easy.”

    Smiling, Deanna came over to him and allowed him to give a her nice big kiss. “I think there’s some parsley outside,” she offered.

    “Good-oh, parsley and lemon. Any actual veggies?”

    “No,” replied Deanna cheerfully.

    “Good-oh,” repeated Bob happily, hugging her.

    Jen’s hurrying down to Sydney to re-enrol had reminded Pete—with something of a jolt, true—that the new academic year would be starting in less than three weeks and he’d better do some preparation—well, check his notes, anyway, his teaching stuff was all pretty cut and dried and he’d long since revised those tutorial exercises he hadn’t been satisfied with, and prepared the exams for the coming year. –George had once pointed out sourly that no other academic in the whole world got their next year’s exams prepared the year before, but he’d managed to ignore him. There was still quite a lot to do, though: he’d better check that the library was putting all the books on closed reserve that he’d put on his list, because one year they hadn’t, and then he was miles behind with his reading, hadn’t opened a journal for two solid months—

    “All right, go back,” said George sourly, as the fixated maniac, having finished ironing all his clothes including the underdaks, no kidding, began folding them with maniacal precision and putting them in his bag.

    “You’re leaving yourself in a few days. Jack’ll keep Andy company.”

    “I thought you were thinking over that idea of settling on a bit of this place?” he said sourly.

    “I am thinking it over. I don’t know, all things considered, that it would be the right move.”

    “All WHAT THINGS?”

    “Don’t shout,” replied Pete calmly. “It’s not something that needs rushing into.”

    “Pete, at our ages maybe we oughta start rushing, ’cos if we don’t, before we know it we’ll end up with the hearing aids and the walk-shorts, wondering where the fuck it all WENT!”

    “Rubbish. We’ve both got about fifteen years before we even reach retirement age.”

    George glared. “Well, what about Honey?”

    “I could say what about that nice Lisbet you met last Easter? Don’t bother to shout, Jack’s told me all about her.”

    “There was nothing in it,” said George, frowning.

    “I could say ditto. I like Honey very much but I don’t think we could ever put up with each other if we lived together. That’s one of the things that would affect any decision to settle here.”

    George sighed. “Pete, you’ve been living in her pocket all holidays, you twit.”

    “Yes, that’s why I don’t really think it could ever work out.”

    “Well, are you at least gonna see something of her when you’re back in Sydney?”

    “Probably not.”

    “In that case I can guarantee you’ll never have any sort of relationship with ’er, mate, because she may be a bit different from the usual run—blessedly different, if you ask me—but there’s not a woman on earth that’s gonna put up with being ignored!”

    “I’m not envisaging a relationship. And I’ll need to think over any sort of change of lifestyle.”

    “Pete, ya WON’T think it over, you’ll go back to that frozen rendered monstrosity of yours and sink back into your ruddy monastic isolation and the safety of doing NOTHING!”

    Pete looked down his lumpy nose. “Monks aren’t isolated, as a matter of fact: they live in communities. You’re thinking of hermits.”

    “All right, not monastic isolation, HERMIC!” shouted George.

    There was a moment’s startled silence.

    “It may not be a word but it’s you, Pete,” warned George grimly. “I’m going for a walk. Don’t come, thanks.” He marched out.

    Pete frowned but got methodically on with his packing.

    The man simply fronted up to all three of them and said: “I’m afraid I have to be getting back, haven’t so much as looked at my uni work these past two months. There’s plenty of lasagna in the freezer, Rosemary, and you’re on top of it all, now, you’ll be fine. It’s been a great summer, Gil. Don’t know when I’ll be up again for a while, with George down in Tazzie this year. Anyway, take care, and all the best! You too, Honey. You’ve got my number if anything goes wrong, Rosemary, but you’ll be fine! See ya!” And slung is ’ook.

    Gil was so angry he was incapable of speech.

    After quite some time Rosemary uttered: “Jen did say the term starts in March, here.”

    “Semester,” said Honey automatically. She swallowed hard.

    Scowling horrifically, Rosemary put her arm round her shoulders, and Honey burst into tears.

    Gil couldn’t take it: cowardly though it was, he went outside.

    When he came back in they were both sitting at the kitchen table, both tear-stained, but drinking cups of tea. The ambient temperature was hitting thirty-five today, but luckily Rosemary didn’t seem to mind the heat.

    “Sorry. Thought I was going to lose it: start shouting or something,” he said grimly.

    “Yes, of course, Gil, darling,” agreed Rosemary quickly.

    “It’s all right, Gil,” said Honey bravely, holding up her chin. “There was never anything—you know. We’re too different. He was already starting to drive me mad and I could see I was driving him mad, too.”

    Gil sat down with a sigh. “Yeah. Well—the universal panacea?”

    Rosemary poured him a cup, smiling determinedly. “Never mind, Honey, darling, you’ve got us and Phil and Jen.”

    Honey finished her tea and sighed deeply. “Yes. That’s all I want, really. To tell you the truth, I—I did sort of try to imagine living with Pete, actually. Only I—I couldn’t sort of make it work, in my head, y’know?”

    Gil wasn’t too sure what to reply to this, but Rosemary returned warmly: “Then it would never have worked out, Honey! It’s not just the sex, you have to feel the rest of it’s right!”

    “Yes,” said Gil, sagging. “You do. That’s exactly it!”

    Much later that day, when Honey was safely in the Land of Nod—Rosemary had reported, smiling, that she was hugging her lovely Bunnifer—and Phil and Jen had turned in, yawning, after a strenuous day out with a new lot of university students who were presumably having a last fling before the academic year started, Rosemary acknowledged as they washed and dried the Milo mugs: “Well, one needn’t absolutely conclude that there’ll never be anyone for her: she’s had a lot of changes these last few years, with Phil coming out and then turning Uncle Dave’s place into Jardine Holiday Horse Treks, and I don’t honestly think she’s at the stage of wanting anyone new in her life. And Pete would have been all wrong for her, you know, Gil. But anyway, not everybody has to have a partner, do they? And we’ll always be here for her!”

    Gil looked at the little flushed figure in its crumpled jeans and pink tee-shirt and smiled. “Yes,” he said, putting his arm round her. “We certainly will!”

Next chapter:

https://theroadtobluegums.blogspot.com/2022/11/home-run.html