Merry Christmas

11

Merry Christmas

    It was a warm evening, but not too hot. The revellers were sitting in the Andersons’ big kitchen-living-room with the ceiling fan going and the back door open to the shady verandah—and the screen door prudently closed against the mozzies.

    “We haven’t been able to elucidate the mystery,” explained Bernie politely, handing a plate of Christmas cake, “of why Nefertite isn’t singing on Christmas Eve as well.”

    “Shut up,” warned Ann.

    “But darling, the guests are all met, the feast is set—”

    “Yes, shut up, Bernie,” agreed Gil firmly.

    “No quotations are allowed on Christmas Eve,” explained Ted blandly, taking a piece of cake, since it was there, “unless they’re from your actual Night Before Christmas.”

    “I thought that was American?” said Honey dubiously.

    “My copy in my childhood was, certainly. A Little Golden Book,” Ted agreed courteously.

    “Then shut up,” suggested Ann blandly into the baffled silence. “Shove another piece of cake in your cakehole.”

    “Thanks,” said Ted feebly, as the Andersons’ Christmas Eve guests collapsed in mean sniggers. “Um, look, I’m sorry, but I have to ask this! And please believe I’m not taking the Mick. Is eating the Christmas cake before Christmas Day an Australian tradition?”

    “Nah,” explained Ann kindly. “See, Bernie let the man from the Lions sucker him into ordering two and I didn’t know, so I bought one down the supermarket. They’re exactly the same, mind you. So we thought we better start using them up.”

    “The fellow came and bearded me in the studio and told me all about the good work they do and, um, well, it wasn’t precisely building kennels for crippled puppies with Alzheimer’s, but very nearly, so what else could I do?” said Bernie plaintively.

    “Tell him to sling his ’ook?” suggested Gil politely.

    “Very well, Sotherland, how many did you buy?” he returned crossly.

    “I’ve got a large chest freezer that needs stocking up,” replied Gil primly.

    “How many?” he shouted.

    “None. Jen’s promised to bring the cake, also a Lions one, so I told him that, and when he embarked on his spiel regardless, told him that I was a gazetted member of the Freemasons and to boot an honorary Elk with the hat to prove it, and he went away.”

    Several people at this collapsed in horrible sniggers, not least old Andy MacMurray, who’d so far just sat there with a whisky in one fist and a plate of cake in the other looking stolid. Though Honey wasn’t laughing.

    “Anything up, Honey?” Gil ventured.

    “Um, not really. Um, well, was the Lion Steve Macdonald from Potters Inlet, Bernie?”

    “Uh—I think he said Steve, yes. A burly fellow, driving a red four-wheel-drive. Um, looked like an ex-rugger player,” he offered.

    “Australian Rules,” corrected Honey mildly. “Yes, he is. They run to seed in later life ’cos all they do is drink beer after they stop playing it.”

    “Er… we get that,” said Gil, exchanging a dubious glance with Bernie, “but is there something wrong? Was he the wrong person to insult with frivolous mentions of Elks?”

    “Hats, more like,” put in Jack stolidly at this point.

    “I stand corrected; the hat was the frivolous touch, yes. Oh—God, he’s not the man on the Council that has the say-so about drainage or roads or subdivision or building commercial premises up here, is he?” he said in dismay.

    “Should of thought of that before you opened your big mouth to ’im,” noted Andy drily.

    “Yes,” said Gil weakly. “Is he?”

    “No, but his brother’s on the Council. Steve’s in real estate, though, so he actually wants the place to go ahead,” the old man informed him with a sardonic gleam in his eye.

    Gil sagged. “Oh.”

    “So what was your point, Honey?” asked Bernie cautiously.

    “Um, well, it’s why Nefertite isn’t going to sing tonight, you see, Bernie.”

    Old Andy just looked neutral but all the rest of them were looking baffled and in fact Gil asked feebly: “Why, exactly, Honey?”

    “Well, some of the Lions, mainly Steve Macdonald, he’s the one that’s in charge, have got up a group of carol singers. Mostly kids. Two of his sons are in a silver band, too. Um, is that right, Andy? ’Tisn’t a brass band, is it?”

    “Nope. Silver band,” he confirmed.

    “Waits?” croaked Bernie.

    “What?” replied Andy blankly.

    Bernie avoided Gil’s and Ted’s eyes. “Waits. Carol singers who come around to one’s home and, er, carol.”

    “Caterwaul, ya mean. Yeah. Forgotten there was a word for ’em, actually,” the old man admitted. “They gave up on Potters Road at one point—well, before Steve’s kids were old enough they didn’t have enough that wanted to do it. And then we didn’t have enough people here. Well, not that’d pay ’em for caterwauling. They’re the same lot that tried it on at what they call ‘Holloween’. Halloween, if you can read, which none of the last two generations can, apparently.”

    All the rest of them were bereft of speech but Gil asked faintly: “Not singing?”

    “Well, no, but Walsingham told ’em he wasn’t into American commercial holidays and if they tried any tricks on him he’d set the dog on ’em—they haven’t got a dog, of course, only that great fat ginger cat of his, but mind you it’d take a bite out of anyone with very little encouragement—but he’d pay them any indemnity they cared to name if they would please not sing. Had ’em last Christmas, see?”

    Gil just nodded feebly, as the entire company collapsed in helpless splutters.

    “Oh, dear!” said Ann, mopping her eyes. “So they are the same lot, Andy? I hadn’t realised. –But then of course Dot popped out with a basket of lollies for them.”

    “Good show,” said Gil feebly over the renewed splutters. “Could I just ask if they understood the word ‘indemnity’, Andy?”

    The old man snorted. “Whadda you think? But they understood the word ‘pay’ all right, little buggers. And before anyone starts, those bloody Macdonald boys are the ones that dammed the creek two winters back and flooded the main road.”

    “Did anyone ever prove that?” asked Bernie weakly.

    “Maybe not, but I saw ’em with me own eyes covered in mud that very morning. If that ning-nong Steve Macdonald wasn’t so busy with his flaming Lions and his flaming footy club and his ruddy school committees maybe he’d have the time to control his own kids!”

    “Is he on about the ruddy Macdonald kids again?” said George’s voice heavily from the back doorway.

    “Yes, just been telling us about the dreaded waits and trick-or-treaters, George!” said Gil with a laugh.

    “Aw—that. Faked-up Yank crap,” said George heavily. “Got room for one more?”

    Several people, not least Jack, looked at the doorway in fear and trembling, but it wasn’t his sister, it was a slim, youngish, brown-haired woman in neat jeans and a very neat red tee-shirt. “Jan,” he explained. “Found her down the track hiding from that blue-rinsed lot they got up the B&B.”

    “Good God,” said Gil dazedly, tottering to his feet. “Of course! It’s Jan Martin, isn’t it? –Gil Sotherland; we met at your library and later at Hollister’s antiques joint.”

    “Yes,” said Jan Martin from the Sydney suburban library, smiling at him. “Hullo, Gil. I didn’t need Derek to tell me about the concert this Christmas, because I’d booked already!”

    “Only she didn’t realise the B&B was gonna be all blue-rinsed wrinklies telling her about how the grandkids have all been taken off to Noumea this year by their flaming affluent parents,” explained George somewhat redundantly.

    “No, quite! By yourself, Jan?” said Gil kindly, having shaken hands.

    “No, Mum and I came together. She’s in her element,” said Jan Martin with a rueful smile.

    “See?” said Bernie to his helpmeet. “I told you your mum’d be bound to love it, Ann!”

    “Yeah,” agreed Ann mournfully, “but in our family you don’t stay at a lovely B&B with wonderful food when there’s a rellie that can’t cook just over the way, you inflict yourself on her and her hubby and criticise her rotten cooking and housekeeping non-stop for the whole holiday.”

    “Golly, just the same as in Blighty, then, Ann!” said Ted with a laugh, getting up. “Can you make introductions or something, George? Because apparently Gil and this lady have met, but I don’t think the rest of us have.”

    “I’m getting around to it! Well, um, Jan Martin. That’s Ted,” said George vaguely, waving a hand vaguely.

    “Have you been on the booze?” asked his father grimly.

    “Only since I spotted flamin’ Steve Macdonald and his flamin’ carollers down the bottom of Barton Drive and realised what our fate was gonna be tonight, Dad!” retorted George with some vigour. “The cartons are in the waggon, if fifteen of you huge strong blokes—not YOU!” he shouted as Gil, who had sat down, rose again.

    “I’ll get ’em,” said Jack heavily. “Should of let me go with you in the first place.’

    “No! This is MY TREAT, GEDDIT?” he shouted.

    “I’d of got it even without the shouting, George. Siddown. Have a piece of Lions cake,” said Jack calmly, going out.

    “Assume your male rôle, Pom,” said Ann heavily to her helpmeet.

    “Am I a huge strong bloke, too?” replied Bernie with a laugh in his voice. “Jolly good! Come on, Ted, put that down,” he said, as Ted introduced Jan tenderly to Honey and Ann.

    “Yes, we’ll look after you, Jan. They’re all a bit pissed, I’m afraid,” said Ann kindly as the unfortunate Jan Martin pinkened and laughed.

    “Ann and Bernie forgot to get mixers,” explained Andy. “Though there’s no excuse for ruddy George, he was sober when he started out. Where are the kids, by the way?” he added loudly to his son.

    George had collapsed onto a large, as yet un-done-up sofa that was not in its present state an embellishment of Ann’s and Bernie’s lovely big room. “Eh? Not coming for Christmas, told you that yonks ago, Dad.”

    “Not me flamin’ grandkids, I’m not in me dotage yet! Phil and the girl!” he shouted.

    “Aw. Um, well, they went into Woolie’s… Well, I dunno, Dad. They’ve got their own transport.”

    “They were going to look for that fuzzy stuff for the tree, Andy. Silver,” explained Honey.

    “Yeah,” agreed Ann. “They’ll be all right, Andy. You sit by Honey, Jan, and um, well, there might be mixers if George remembered to get them as well as the beer,” she admitted, looking dubiously at George, who had now closed his eyes. “Um, well, fancy a rum or a whisky? There is ice.”

    “Scotch on the rocks’d be lovely, thanks, Ann!” replied Jan with a smile.

    “Good. Give her a piece of cake, Honey!” ordered Ann cheerfully.

    Explaining that it was a Lions one, and they were lovely, really, and it was lovely not to have to remember to buy one at the supermarket, only in her suburb they didn’t always come, so you worried about that and might just as well have worried about remembering to put one on the shopping list, Honey did so. Jan Martin didn’t seem to object to a piece of Lions Christmas cake any more than she seemed to object to Scotch on the rocks, and as Christmas Eve wore on it became fairly clear to the participants that Ted didn’t object to her at all. And that George was (a) regretting he’d had so much to drink so early in the piece and (b) not pleased with Ted’s obvious admiration for Ms Martin.

    Steve Macdonald’s waits duly came. All you could say of that was, as Gil did say as Mr Macdonald’s red four-wheel-drive roared back down the driveway: “I fully seize your point, Honey: whether before or after, Nefertite singing on the same night as that would have been sacrilege!”

    “Too right,” put in Jack unexpectedly.

    “Eh?” said George feebly, squinting at them. “Well, the kids are bad, yeah. But sacrilege?”

    Phil and Jen had come back in time for it. “Oh, God, yes!” he cried, shuddering. “What a dreadful thought, Uncle Gil!”

    “Yeah,” agreed Jack. “Go to sleep again, George.”

    As at this crack not only Ted, the two kids, Honey, Ann and Bernie but also George’s father and Jan Martin allowed themselves to snigger, George subsided definitively.

    And that was pretty much it for Christmas Eve up Potters Road.

    Ted walked Jan Martin back to the B&B, discovering to his chagrin that though she seemed to like him she didn’t seem to fancy him and she did seem far too interested in Gil, though she managed to phrase her questions as inquiries about the plans for the horse trekking holidays. He got home before the rest of them, but it wasn’t long before the sound of Phil’s ancient ute was heard. Gil had seemed pretty pissed when Ted and Jan left so he went outside to see if— Yeah. Out of it. He helped Phil to manhandle him inside, with a little support from Jen and Honey, as his legs seemed to be sagging a bit even though Phil reckoned he was holding his end up.

    “He has been doing too much,” worried Honey as they got him onto his stretcher, still out of it.

    “Well, to be fair, I think the Scotch was a factor, Honey. But I’ll try to hold him back,” promised Ted.

    “Good. He hasn’t been wheezing, has he?” she asked fearfully.

    “No, not at all. You noticed that? –No. Good. –Just undo his jeans, Phil, we won’t try to undress him,” Ted decided, removing Gil’s shoes.

    Once they were all in the kitchen he said to Honey: “What is all this about wheezing?”

    “Um, well, we honestly haven’t noticed any, have we, Phil? But his aunty rang just the other day and said to look out for it.”

    “Um, yes. My Great-Aunt Vera, a bit of a dragon,” said Phil on a glum note. “The thing is,” he burst out, “nobody tells me anything, and Daddy’s absolutely useless! I mean, I rang and asked him but all he said was, the surgeon had told him Uncle Gil was fine and just don’t let him overdo it and him and horrid Myra are sending me a stupid Palomino for Christmas!”

    Ted and Honey looked weakly at each other. After a moment Ted managed to say: “A Palomino isn’t to be sneezed at, Phil.”

    “I don’t want them to send me anything, I just want to know if we need to worry about Uncle Gil!” he said fiercely, brushing the back of his hand across his eyes.

    “Yeah. Well, I think it’s only natural that he should get tired when he’s had a serious operation on top of battle conditions,” said Ted, trying not to think of bloody Gulf Syndrome because he didn’t think he could take another round of that, frankly. “Um, and I dunno if he’s mentioned it to any of you, but, uh, there seems to be a girl in England that he’s keen on but, um, seems to think is too young for him.”

    “Mm, he did say something to me,” admitted Honey, looking anxious. “She does write, but not very often.”

    “Yeah. I think he’s been brooding about her a bit.”

    “I thought he might hit it off with Jan,” said Jen sadly. “He did seem to like her at the library, and they’ve got an interest in antiques in common…”

    “Not if there’s someone else, Jen,” said Phil.

    “No,” agreed Honey. “I think he likes her, but that’s all, Jen.”

    Ted Prosser was, frankly, conscious of a considerable feeling of relief that she thought so, because he wasn’t kidding himself that he had a fraction of Gil Sotherland’s charm. Or that bloody upper-class self-confidence that, to give them their due, blokes like him didn’t even realise they had. Jan had seemed pretty impressed—and then, he wasn’t too sure that the story about having already booked for the B&B when she’d first met Gil was true. Because he did know for a fact that Bob had had a cancellation very recently. And yet the place was now full, wasn’t it?

    “Yes. Well, let’s all keep an eye on him, but I’d say there’s nothing physical to worry about,” he concluded. “Better get off to bed, because someone’s got to be up at dawn to stop Jack digging an enormous hole and burying hot rocks in it!”

    And, Honey, her son and his girlfriend all grinning and replying kindly, “Hah, hah,” to this feeble sally, the company adjourned to bed.

    Jesus, the man was digging an enormous hole! “What the Hell are you up to?” croaked Ted, staggering over to him. “It’s Christmas Day!”

    Jack stopped digging and made a face. “This is for bloody Susan’s benefit,” he explained, leaning on his shovel. “See, reason she wasn’t over at the Andersons’ place boots and all last night was she was down in the Big Smoke at something really up-market out the three-car, two-boat, two-pool belt. Drove up last night, probably pickled to the gills, but she made it, can’t of been anything else on the road. Well—up here? There wouldn’t of been, eh? Asleep by the time we got in but she was up at sparrow-fart this morning getting the bloody turkey ready and wanting to know exactly why yours truly couldn’t be there for it. So I lied and said you types were relying on me to do the hangi.”

    “It all becomes strangely clear,” said Ted heavily.

    “Thought it might, yeah. So I come on over and see, she’s the sort of dame that—”

    “Checks up on you: yes,” said Ted heavily. “Sounds like my bloody ex. Wouldn’t even trust me to go to the shops she’d told me to and buy what she’d told me to: even when I came back with precisely a quarter of a pound of sprouting broccoli as ordered she hadda see the fucking docket!”

    “Yeah,” replied Jack succinctly.

    “Had that, have you?” said Ted moodily.

    “Fair bit of it, yeah.”

    “Uh—no: sprouting broccoli, I mean,” said Ted sheepishly.

    “Oh! That muck! Yeah, one of Susan’s favourites, that is. All blimmin’ stalks.”

    “Yeah. Uh, are you gonna light a fire in the hole, Jack?” he added, giving in and grinning.

    “If I don’t she’ll wonder why there’s no ash about.” Their eyes met. Suddenly they both broke down in snorting hysterics.

    “Dump the woman,” suggested Ted weakly at last, wiping his eyes.

    “I would if she wasn’t George’s sister, but we got Christmas to get through, yet,” admitted Jack.

    “Right.” Ted hadn’t been privileged as yet so he then asked cautiously: “What’s she like to look at, Jack?”

    Jack scratched his short, tight curls. “Blonde. Well, helped along. Skinny.”

    Damned with faint praise, was that? Ted looked at him doubtfully. “Attractive, then?”

    “Yeah, if that sort appeals. Keen, too,” he admitted.

    Gee, all that and sprouting broccoli, too! “Uh-huh. Well, still sounds bloody like my ex.”

    “Yeah. You wanna chuck us over that pile of manuka?”

    “Um, sorry, what?”

    “Uh—forgotten what the Aussies call it. Well, tea-tree. –That,” he said, nodding at it.

    “Oh! Sorry!” Ted picked up the pile of scraggy dry branches and passed it over.

    “Right,” said Jack, dumping them in the hole.

    “Would it be deeper than this if it was a real one?” –It was about a foot deep.

    “Yeah. ’Least twice that. Three times, maybe,” he grunted, producing a box of matches.

    “Look, Jack, this is bushfire country,” croaked Ted, recoiling.

    “Yeah, that’s why that bucket’s standing there full of water. This’ll spit like crazy, shouldn’t wonder,” he noted.

    “Then don’t do it!” said Ted, rather loudly.

    Replying mildly: “I’ve started, now,” Jack lit the pile of scrub in his hole. Flames flared, smoke billowed up and the stuff spat sparks like crazy.

    “Jesus, Jack!” gasped Ted. “Dowse it!”

    “Give it a chance,” he replied unemotionally. “Don’t worry, there’s no wind, she won’t take hold.”

    Breathing somewhat heavily, Ted watched the subsequent proceedings grimly. The fire died down as suddenly as it had blazed up, Jack noted: “Manuka scrub. Does that; only good for kindling, see?” and poured water on it at last.

    “Your ex ever threaten to throttle you?” asked Ted sourly, as the man looked at the resultant blackened mess with satisfaction.

    “Eh? Yeah, all the time. Said I was as stubborn as a mule, if that’s what you’re getting at,” he replied mildly.

    “As stubborn as a mule and as mad as a hatter!” replied Ted loudly. “If that mess is really out, I’m for some breakfast!”

    “Think it might be out, yeah, under them six inches of water.”

    “Oh, shut up!” said Ted loudly, walking off and leaving him to it.

    Jack looked after him with a very ironic expression indeed on his wide, high-cheekboned face.

    Gil, Honey and Phil all collapsed in helpless splutters at the end of his heated report, so Ted concluded they were as bad as bloody Jack. Jen didn’t laugh, but she did say: “There’s no wind today and it sounds as if he took plenty of precautions. People do light campfires in the bush, ya know, Ted.”

    “Yeah,” agreed Jack laconically from the back door. He came in and sat down, to further splutters from Honey.

    “Oh, shut up, the lot of you,” said Ted tiredly. “Just open the presents or whatever you do in Australia on Christmas morning after very nearly being barbecued in a bloody bushfire.”

    Honey collapsed in splutters again, unfortunately, and Gil noted: “Alliterative,” but once everyone had finished their coffees, incidentally made in Ted’s brand-new coffee-pot that had been his present to himself, they went into the front room, which was now doubling as Phil’s and Jen’s bedroom, admired the tree, now draped in silver fuzz as well as all the ornaments and tree lights Jack had provided, and got on with it. Very much to Ted’s relief Gil appeared as stunned as he was by the presents that had suddenly sprouted under the tree labelled “Gil” or “Ted”—and Jack appeared completely embarrassed by those labelled “Jack”, serve ’im bloody well right!

    “I thought we said we’d hold off on presents for us?” croaked Gil, having discovered a glorious pair of pale lemon silk—ye gods, silk!—pyjamas in a package covered with bright red and white Santas on an emerald ground. An ordinary-looking package—quite: he’d assumed it might be, um, well, socks, or—well, something ordinary! “Who the Hell are these from?”

    “And these,” croaked Ted, having just discovered a pale blue pair.

    “Me, sort of,” admitted Phil.

    “WHAT?” shouted his uncle terribly.

    “Just shut up and listen,” said Jen mildly into the ringing silence that succeeded this shout.

    “Yeah,” agreed Phil gratefully. “See, Granny sent me half a dozen pairs, so we thought maybe you could both do with some. Well, heck, you haven’t got any pyjamas, Uncle Gil, and Ted’s only got those cotton short things!”

    Shorty pyjamas were, so Ted had learned on the other side of Tasman, a norm of the Antipodean lifestyle. Admittedly he tended to wear his with an old tee-shirt, not the shirt that went with the shorts, because it was doubling as a shirt, but— He looked at the kid limply.

    “We thought,” said Jen with her innocent smile, “that they’d fit, because they’re really loose on Phil. He kept the pea soup ones, we didn’t think either of you would like them.”

    “No. Thanks,” croaked Gil feebly.

    “Uh—yeah, well, thanks, it was a kind thought,” croaked Ted, looking at his limply. Powder blue. God.

    Honey got up and wrenched Gil’s out of his hand. “Stand up,” she ordered. She held the bright lemon pyjama pants to his waist. “They fit!” she decided brightly. “I know there’s a red pair, Phil, they turned your sheets pink in the wash. What other colours were there?” she asked, sitting down again.

    “Um, red, yellow, blue, pea soup, pink—Jen liked them, so I gave them to her—and white. The white ones are really see-through,” admitted Phil.

    “Uh, Phil,” said Ted cautiously, “it’s very decent of you but I’m sure your grandmother didn’t mean you to give them away and, um, well, Hell, did they come from Bond Street, or what? I’ve never even seen silk pyjamas!”

    “They’re soft, aren’t they?” said Honey admiringly. “I always thought silk was quite stiff.”

    “Washing silk,” said Gil very, very faintly. “The label in the jacket says ‘Rue de la paix’, Ted, and since Mummy rarely shops anywhere else— But I do assure you the chap she’s now married to won’t even notice how many dozen pairs of silk pyjamas she buys.”

    “Right. I’ll wear them and be grateful, then, Phil. And in revenge,” said Ted weakly, “that strangely shaped package is from me. I wouldn’t shake it,” he added limply as the boy shook it.

    Happily Phil opened it. Car polish. “Ooh, thanks, Ted!” he beamed.

    Jack cleared his throat.

    “Not a joke,” said Ted mildly.

    “If you say so,” he conceded.

    “That probably is a joke,” admitted Honey on a glum note as Phil seized another package with his name on it. “Well, it’ll seem like one in comparison, it’s from your other grandmother.”

    “Really? I say, that was decent of her! We must try and get up there, Mummy!” Eagerly he opened it, what time the spectators held their breaths, with the exception of Ted, who didn’t know anything about Verity Jardine Corbett. “It’s a box,” he said in mystified tones.

    It was a painted wooden box, in fact painted and polyurethaned, about twenty centimetres square. The decorations included yin and yang symbols, suns, stars, moons, several horrid eyes, flowers, leaves, butterflies and snakes against a lot of a deep blue which might have been meant to be the sky or might not.

    “Um, yeah,” said Honey on a weak note. “A friend of theirs makes them: she’s got a stall, and they sell them at their place, too. Open it, Phil, I think it— Yeah,” she said limply as he opened the box to reveal some bubble-wrap and once that was removed, a series of compartments containing—

    “Is it a rock collection?” he wondered. “Um, but these long ones are wax—I see, candles—and, um, well, these heavy ones are rocks, but these—”

    “Crystals,” said Honey heavily. “And/or wind chimes. Sorry.”

    “Ooh, yes: here’s a piece of paper that tells you all about— Crumbs,” he concluded numbly.

    “I think they’re meant to bring good luck or something, aren’t they?” fumbled Jen.

    “Only if placed or hung right, Jen,” said Honey heavily. “Well, it’s an honour, really, Phil: it’s a whole collection and she doesn’t usually favour anyone with more than one.”

    “Gosh, it’s all mixed up with feng shui and— I say, it’s the most complete garbage, Mummy!” he said in awe, looking up from the instruction sheet.

    “Ooh! Quick, quick!” panted Gil, holding out his hand for it. He read it avidly. “Jesus,” he concluded limply. “There’s bits of Zen and I think bits of Zoroastrianism, and just plain Voodoo alongside the feng shui—and are thems there the eye of Horus?”

    “Never mind, she means well, and it was a very nice thought! I’ll write her a thank-you letter!” decided Phil happily. “Open this one, Jen.”

    The company watched with a certain sensation of relief as Jen opened it, discovered it to be a very ordinary 2006 diary from Jack and assured him, beaming, it was just what she needed to keep track of her classes!

    After all that, Ted’s embarrassed gratification at receiving a pair of rubber flip-flops from Jen because he didn’t have any—the kids must’ve snuck into his room and measured his boots—and Jack’s embarrassed gratification at receiving a very ordinary Kmart checked shirt from Honey because he’d done too much for them and it wasn’t much, Jack, were as nothing, really.

    “Er, there is one more,” noted Gil, exchanging glances with Jen, as Honey began carefully folding up the scattered pieces of Christmas wrapping paper.

    “On the tree!” beamed Jen. “Go on, Honey, it’s for you! The little gold box!”

    Honey stood up uncertainly. “Um, this? I thought it was just an unusual ornament.”

    “No, but we could keep the wrapping paper and the gold string and turn it into an ornament for next year!” she beamed. “Go on, Honey: it’s from Gil!”

    Smiling uncertainly, Honey opened it. She gasped.

    “Like it?” said Gil, grinning. “Only cut-paper work, but—”

    Forthwith Honey burst into tears.

    “Oh, Lor’!” he said, scrambling up and putting his arm round her. “Don’t cry! Jen and I found it quite by chance when we were foraging in the antique shops of suburban Sydney, and I got it for literally a tenth of the going price!”

    “It’s too good,” she said soggily.

    “Rats,” replied Gil cheerfully, giving her his handkerchief. “Late Victorian. Blow your nose and let me pin it on you.”

    Blowing her nose and smiling shakily, Honey let Gil pin the brooch to her very ordinary faded blue tee.

    “I love it,” she said shakily, peering down at it. “It’s one of my nicest presents ever, Gil!”

    “What about Bunnifer?” objected Phil with a laugh.

    Bunnifer was an ancient toy rabbit that lived on her tallboy next to her bottle of Arpège and that Phil had had off Barry and Kyle at a small discount—how small he hadn’t revealed to his mother—last Christmas. Honey had bawled over that, too. She had fallen in love with it when the thing had appeared in the shop but of course would never have dreamed of treating herself to it.

    “Next to Bunnifer and my scent!” she beamed. “Thank you, Gil!”

    “It’s to wear, you know, not to sit on the tallboy next to Bunnifer and the scent,” he warned.

    “I’ve brought the scent, I’m going to wear it to Nefertite’s concert!” replied Honey happily.

    “Good, you can wear the brooch, too,” he said firmly. “Well, now, that’s it!”

    “No, there’s one more right under the tree,” realized Honey. She knelt and retrieved it. “Oh, yes: it’s for you, Gil. From someone in England; there was a note saying not to let you have it until Christmas Day!”

    Gil had already opened the hideous tie from Aunt Bea—no taste, right—and the exceedingly tasteful jodhpurs from Aunt Vera, the latter causing Jack severe hysterics; not to mention the horseshoe-shaped tiepin from Hill Tarlington, who thought he was funny, the Aintree souvenir ashtray from Martin Richardson, who thought he was funny and didn’t realise that that sort of stuff was becoming collectible, and, indeed, the appalling canary-yellow sweater from bloody Julian. Cashmere—quite. So he stared blankly at it.

    “Um, from your friend Adam?” ventured Phil.

    “As an apology, you mean? No, that gen-yew-wine Yankee sheepskin jacket was from him and the girlfriend. They must think the winters here are like Montana’s.”

    “You were cold last winter,” Honey reminded him. “You’ll get the wear out of it, and it’ll be just the thing to keep your chest warm. –Open it, Gil!”

    The parcel was carefully wrapped in a glowing metallic paper that featured Christmas holly, Christmas bows and Christmas bells, and adorned with lots and lots of ribbon…

    “Bloody Customs had had a go at it but we fastened it up again for you, didn’t we, Phil?” said Honey happily.

    “Er—yes. Did you? Mm. Thanks.” Gil unwrapped it.

    “A book,” said Phil helpfully.

    So it was. The Hospitality Manager’s Guide to the Successful B&B. One of “The Hospitality Manager’s Guide—” series. He opened it. “To Darling Gil, Wishing you a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, from your loving Rosemary.” Gil bit his lip.

    “There were two books, I think,” ventured Honey as the silence lengthened.

    “Yes—well, it felt like it, but we didn’t look,” added Phil.

    “Mm? Mm.” He felt numbly in the parcel again.

    It wasn’t a book, it was a book-sized framed photograph.

    “Blast!” said Gil violently. “’Scuse me!” Blindly he stumbled out with them.

    In his wake the silence lengthened again.

    “Um, would’ve been from the girlfriend,” ventured Ted at last, clearing his throat.

    They nodded.

    “Was there a letter as well, Honey?” he asked.

    “Um, no.”

    Oh, God. “Well, uh, I gathered she’s not much of a correspondent,” he said feebly. “Uh—sorry, Jack, has he mentioned her? A lot younger than him.”

    “Yeah; Rosemary,” said Jack stolidly. “I could do with a cup of tea. I’ll put the jug on.” With this he went out.

    “He’s not miffed about anything, is he?” said Phil uncertainly.

    Ted passed a hand over his thinning hair. “I don’t think the emotion in his make-up, Phil, and let’s just pass over the fact that the expression’s not in his vocabulary, shall we? It’s just the usual Antipodean male embarrassment at anything approaching an emotion, I think.”

    “It’s that generation,” said Jen calmly. “Mind you, some of the younger ones are just as bad, ’specially if they come from traditional families with mums that have always spoiled them.”

    “Yes, but your side’s getting us there, Jen!” said Phil with a sudden laugh.

    “It isn’t as bad as it was in the old days, that’s for sure,” she replied calmly. “Come on, Honey, some of this wrapping-paper’s really nice, we can save it for next year!” And with that they both began carefully collecting up and folding wrapping-paper.

    After a little Ted tottered out to the kitchen. Jack was making a pot of tea, all right. “I need staying with flagons too, Jack,” he sighed.

    “Yeah. I know she’s younger than him, but how old is she?”

    “Uh—not sure. A lot younger, was my impression.”

    Jack grunted.

    Ted leaned on the sink bench. “Merry bloody Christmas,” he said eventually.

    “I’ve had worse,” said the New Zealander stolidly.

    “Uh—yes! Me, too! At least it’s warm!” admitted Ted with a laugh.

    Jack of course was used to having Christmas in summer but he grinned at him and conceded: “There is that. And the kitchen’s not full of bloody females martyring themselves over a turkey that no-one wants in this weather, either.”

    “That’s a plus!” conceded Ted, shaking slightly.

    “Yeah. Nip out to the verandah and let the blinds down, wouldja? It’s gonna be a stinking hot day and if we don’t get them down now, the sitting-room’ll be hot as fire later.”

    “Uh, sure. Blinds?” he croaked.

    “Put ’em up yesterday while you took Honey down the supermarket. Present from Gil and me to the house,” he grunted.

    Right. Ted went out, freed the cords that were hiding behind the verandah posts and lowered the giant striped canvas blinds that he hadn’t even noticed nestling coyly in the shelter of the overhang. He wasn’t going to ask why they hadn’t let him be involved, because he knew bloody well it was because the pair of them knew just how broke he was! Oh, well, Merry Christmas. And it was certainly warm.

    Honey was right in saying that Rosemary didn’t write very often. In his room Gil looked glumly at the photograph for some time. Then he got out the very creased little packet of letters. It smelled deliciously of lily of the valley. The first one was dated in August, in a round, childish hand.

Darlingest Gil,

    I expect you’ve had time to find your nephew and get settled by now. Don’t forget to let me know if you change your address! Have you seen any kangaroos or koala bears yet? Wouldn’t it be lovely to have a koala bear as a pet? Though one is sure they’re protected these days, one wouldn’t wish to take them from their natural Environment.

    I’m writing this from Près de Nice, as you can see: Dad’s friend Mr Horton’s taken a villa for the summer. Quite Nice, really! (Hah, hah.) It’s very pretty, pale pink with white pillars, those funny curly ones, is it barley sugar they’re supposed to look like? Wouldn’t it be lovely if we had a pretty pink house? What do you think?

    The villa is quite full with the house party but I won’t bore you with the list, darling Gil. Several very silly young men, mostly English, of course. One cannot see why they have to assume that everything English is better. It’s quite a relief to drive out with a Frenchman for a change. They may be terribly superior but at least they don’t tell one that the food’s too oily and the sun’s too hot and one can’t get a decent cup of tea! Honestly! Like something out of the 19th Century!

    We’re not very near the sea, unfortunately, but then the beaches are simply horrid at this time of year, wall to wall bodies. The pool is rather nice so we usually just use that. Dear Mr Horton has been trying to teach one to swim properly only I’m afraid that “duffer” is the only possible word!

    Several lovely dinners in the local restaurants, extra-fabuloso, one cannot possibly describe, but you’d love it all, Gil! Mr Horton’s friends the von Sturmers (? there may be some dots somewhere in that, not absolutely sure where) laid on a lovely dance, but the nibbles rather disappointing, well they are Germans, after all, and one suspects that they didn’t know quite what to ask the caterers for! Lovely real pink fizz, however! Extra-fabuloso!

    You will be pleased to know that I have found a very helpful book on how to run one’s B&B and do the accounts and everything, with excellent advice on what not to do and what is a good investment, so I’m just going to skip the very British bits! The young man in Smith’s was ever so helpful and in fact knows someone who runs a small private hotel in Cornwall, isn’t that a coincidence?

    Must dash, dearest Gil, we are taking the cars to what is rumoured to be a very private little bay for a moonlight swim, if only you were here, dearest one! It won’t be half so much fun without you! Take care of yourself and write sooner than soonest, my darling one, to your loving,

Rosemary.

XXX x 1 million!

    The second letter was dated about a month later, in September.

Darlingest Gil,

    The flat sounds quite terrible, my dearest one, can’t you possibly get them out of it? You mustn’t sleep on a hard, narrow little bed with your poor lung! But I agree, of course you must look after your poor little sister-in-law. I must say, the way your horrid Father behaved was totally disgraceful. The weather sounds terrible, Gil, I thought Australia was supposed to be warm? You must wrap your chest up very well every time you go outside, even if it’s just to put the rubbish out, that’s precisely when one can catch a chill.

    We’ve come on to Paris with Mr Horton and Ronny for ‘la Rentrée’, not terribly exciting, the streets still very hot and dusty. Ronny Horton, who is, one has to admit, an utter idiot, claims that one cannot beat London in September but this, as I promise you I told him, is bilge of the highest order! Extra-fabuloso little cakies here, darling, does the name ‘baba’ ring any bells? One has a suspicion, soaked in naughty rum! The coffee pitch black, quite undrinkable, you’d hate it, darling, but fun! Extra-fabuloso orange juice which one can buy in the most unlikely little cafés. Jean-François assures one that one must say ‘jus d’orange pressé’ and refuse utterly when they try to offer one ‘en bouteille’!

    Several lovely meals, of course extra-fabuloso, but almost too fancy in some cases, Gil, between you and me, and one longs for just a simple little lunch like that one we had together! Everyone seems to drink very strong red wine here, quite disappointing, especially after the lovely fizz Mr Horton always gave us in the South of F. I did say to Jean-François, couldn’t one have a glass of white if they can’t manage a lovely rosé, and he looked down his nose in that way they do and said I was in France now! Really!

    My B&B book not proving as helpful as one had hoped, it has got very technical and one may have to give it up, all those financial things just do not make sense. Ronny H. of course v. superior, said girls don’t learn anything at school and it would do me good to start at the bottom in the bank like he had to! Can you believe the hypocrisy of it? When his father owns the bank!

    Must dash, dearest Gil, we are due at a very stuffy dinner party where I am quite sure I won’t be able to talk to a soul. My French is quite good, that is not the problem!! Mr Horton has promised l’Opéra for next month, I thought that would be nice but oops! It is going to be horrid Wagner, he is very excited about it, silly man.

    Take care of yourself and write soon, my darling one, to your loving,

Rosemary.

XXX x 1 million!

    Gil still had no idea who most of these people were. He looked sourly at the third letter. It could fairly have been described as a corker. It was dated in October. The end of October, however, which made it about a seven weeks’ gap since the previous one.

Darlingest Gil,

    Quite a lot of news, which I must confess is not all good. But first, the opera! The Wagner was wonderful, Gil darling! I cried buckets and poor Mr Horton was quite overcome and said he shouldn’t have brought me. So he took me off to a dear little café where one was plied with medicinal brandy, and silly me burst into tears all over again, because it was just so beautiful! Tristan and Isolde, have you ever seen it? Glorious! So he got me into a taxi and somehow, Gil, I don’t know why I did it, but I let him kiss me and you know how it is once one starts, especially after one’s been terribly pure for ages. And he is older, of course, not crass like stupid Ronny or that French bore, J-F. But I should never, ever have let it happen, dearest Gil, can you ever forgive me? Not that one ever claimed to be a saint, of course. It was only the one time, however, I can promise you that, or technically speaking three, but I said to him very firmly that it was no use saying he’d see me tonight, I was going straight home to England and the whole thing had been a mistake. Though of course not as such, but emotionally, since one is utterly committed to Someone Else.

    One has to admit one was then offered all sorts of things up to and including becoming the third Mrs Horton, and positive he would get his K in the New Year’s Hons, ludicrous, really, and one had to say one truly admires Her Majesty but holds no brief for the rest and is actually a Republican at heart. Even though they probably would abolish all the lovely stuff at Westminster Abbey and so forth.

    So I came straight home. I must say he did have the decency to book my flight and put me into the taxi, one cannot imagine a very young man like that idiot J-F behaving half so well and in fact did not. I have to admit, darlingest Gil, there was a teeny episode with J-F, which is why one is all the more determined not to go back to Paris. It was next to nothing, darling, just a sort of mutual come at his horrid flat, one cannot imagine why a person who is doing quite well in publishing and has an awful mother in Neuilly who looks down her nose at one as if one wasn’t quite quite has to pride himself on living in a scungy, smelly dive, never mind if it is next-door to their famous Butte! But it meant less than nothing, darling, I swear it, and would never have happened without those glasses of something horrid.

    So I read my B&B book concentratedly all the way home, still terribly technical but except for the v. hard parts, have finished it! Lots of excellent advice, darling Gil. Dad said I had been an idiot and poor Mum cried, so it serves me right, I felt dreadful. So when I said couldn’t I possibly just be ordinary and do a Course and not have to do stupid debby things or stay with horrid rich people any more they gave in, and I’ve started! It’s only at the Polytech in Portsmouth, darling, and everyone totally well behaved and focussed, especially the boys. So I went to the optician and absolutely insisted on horn-rimmed specs but the lovely young man said my eyes are perfect, but when I explained said that his father wouldn’t like it but he could just sell me the frames and some plain glass in them, so I said Done! And they’re making the most tremendous difference, darling, everyone takes me for an utter Swot! Though one has to admit that whether one will pass anything is another matter, it’s awfully hard and one doesn’t guarantee one will distinguish oneself. But in any case one will have tried and it isn’t a frivolous sort of life and I am working for us. And I’ll keep the textbooks, you’ll probably find them very helpful!

    Must dash, dearest Gil, I’m staying with Aunty Mary and she’s very strict about getting to the dinner table on time. Poor James, the official boarder, missed out entirely on the apple pie last Wednes., because he was late and she let Uncle Dan have a second helping!! On purpose!!

    Darling, don’t panic if you don’t hear from me for some time, because I shall be very, very busy studying. Take care of yourself and write soon, to your loving, and very, very, very, very sorry,

Rosemary.

XXX x 10 million!

P.S. Send me a photo of you holding a koala bear if at all poss., Gil! XO

    Slowly Gil folded the letters up and put them and the photograph in the top drawer of the battered bureau that Phil claimed only needed stripping and varnishing to be a real antique.

    On second thoughts he took the photograph out again and set it firmly on top of the thing.

    “Start as you mean to go on, or some such thing,” he muttered. Taking a deep breath, he went out, fully prepared to be jolly. Ho, ho, ho.

Next chapter:

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