Scheduled

21

Scheduled

    27th December. Wednesday. Crack of dawn. BLAA-AAAH! Gil fell off his stretcher with a gasp. BLAA-AAAH! He groped for his tracksuit trousers. BLAA-AAAH!

    “Gil,” came Honey’s voice from outside his door: “I think it’s more guests.”

    “Yes!” he gasped, opening the door. “That or Armageddon! What in Hell’s the time? Were they supposed to—never mind, presumably they’re”—BLAA-AAAH!—“here,” he ended limply. Honey was in a little skimpy cotton nightgown: smiling a little, Gil added: “Pop back to bed, I’ll sort them,” just as a very rumpled Phil and Jen appeared from the sitting-room, he in the red silk Paris pyjamas from Mummy—they might have lost some of their dye in the wash, as Honey claimed, but this wasn’t apparent—and she in the pink pair.

    BLAA-AAAH!

    Gil opened the front door and shouted: “All right, hold your horses!”

    Behind him Phil collapsed in sniggers, just as Ted’s voice said blearily: “Is that Armageddon?”

    “No, punters. –Yes: HULLO!” he shouted, waving at the laden, dusty station-waggon. “Park over there—OVER THERE!”

    Presumably they heard him: behind the heavy dust of the windscreen a hand was seen to wave and the waggon moved ponderously over to the left of the sweep. What had they got on there? Bikes? There was nowhere you could possibly ride a bike in these parts, the terrain was too steep and rocky, in fact nigh to mountainous… Hang on. Gil took another look at the things’ tyres. Mountain bikes? Jesus, how would the horses take that? Well, be thankful they weren’t motorbikes, yeah, but— Jesus.

    “Heck, I suppose they’ll want breakfast!” gasped Jen from behind him.

    “Mm; you’d better get dressed, Jen.”

    “Shit, and lunches,” said Phil feebly.

    “It is the twenty-seventh,” Gil remained him weakly. “We were expecting the first lot today.”

    “Expecting but not expecting,” murmured Ted.

    “Yeah.” Gil looked down at his person. “Uh—sneakers might not be a bad— Thanks, Jen,” he said weakly as she handed them to him. He hauled them on and hurried over to the station-waggon, which had now disgorged a burly, unshaven figure in very crumpled, baggy jeans and a tired grey tee that was the twin of his, Gil’s, tired grey tee that was his sleeping shirt.

    The Braithwaites. Right. Mr and Mrs, plus the kids. What Gil’s computer, he was absolutely positive, had down as the kids. In actual fact two giant hulks, one was male and one female but that didn’t count, in giant baggy shorts and giant black tees bearing in white—whitish—letters the legend: “I climbed Mt Kosciusko.” Souvenir of last year’s holiday? And had they taken the bikes up— In all probability, yes.

    In addition to these giant hulks there were two other giant hulks! Toby and Diana. Er… ye-es… Oh! T. Anderson and D. Loewenfeld. They were with the Braithwaites? Gil had thought it was a separate booking! Oh—the Braithwaites’ kids’ boyfriend and girlfriend, good grief! Okay, that made six at one blow and with the Grovers and their kids already here that made ten, so they had two to go. That’d be, uh, Halliday and, um, um, Parry. But they weren’t due until the 28th—or put it like this, they’d better not be.

    It turned out to be a quarter to six. Jack had vanished, presumably on one of his early-morning rambles, though Ted hadn’t heard him go. The Braithwaites hadn’t meant to get here this early but yesterday they’d made good time to—yeah, yeah. And decided to push on to—yeah, yeah. They were mountain bikes, all right. With, as Phil ascertained in awe, proper holder things on the roof for them, gosh, just like the Tour Down Under! If he said so. There weren’t actually a hundred of the things on the roof rack, though it did look like it. Only four. One for each hulk, quite. Oh, Dennis Braithwaite was also into it, was he? Only this time he thought he might just stick to the riding. On the whole this was possibly a wise decision, because as Gil explained, they didn’t have any real trails. Apparently that didn’t matter, it’d help them practise their off-road skills, ouch. Mrs Braithwaite—Amanda—was slightly embarrassed that they were so early and prevented the hulks forcibly from barging into the sleeping area of the bunkhouse to dump their gear, so they ended up having showers, having admitted that if it wasn’t too much trouble they would really love a cooked breakfast, thanks, Gil!

    Gil tottered back to the house. “They would really love a cooked breakfast,” he reported in hollow tones.

    “See?” cried Phil pleasedly. “I told you they’d be the go!”

    “So you did. –Honey,” said Gil very clearly, “did you happen to mention to Pete, in the excitement of that detailed scheduling yesterday”—at this point Ted unfortunately collapsed in sniggers—“that the number of sausages we need to order is dependent not only on the number of guests for dinner but also on the number wanting cooked breakfasts?”

    “No!” gasped Ted helplessly, tears streaming down his face.

    “Shut up, Prosser. Buckle on an apron and get those bangers cooking! –Well, Honey?”

    “No. –Snags, not bangers, you’re Downunder now, Gil!” She beamed at him.

    “It’s all right, Ted, I’ll do them,” said Jen kindly to the now crestfallen Prosser.

    “You’ll have to, I’m afraid, Jen. Thanks. Um, shall I put some bacon under the grill, then?” he offered meekly.

    Gil eyed him drily. “Only if you’re volunteering to clean the damn thing at the end of the week, Ted.”

    “I’ll clean it today, if you like. –Shall I?”

    “I think you’d better, mm. And, uh, well, tomatoes?” said Gil weakly.

    “Pete didn’t calculate those, either!” noted Honey brightly. Suddenly she collapsed in splutters.

    “Exactly. –Look, this is chaos,” said Gil feebly, surveying the chaos the kitchen had suddenly turned into. Ted was now over at the bench, opening a packet of bacon. Jen was at the stove with a pan on the heat, had opened a packet of sausages, and was adding oil to her pan. Phil had commandeered the table and spread out numberless loaves of bread, damp paper packets of unidentifiable deli-like substances, plastic pots of other unidentifiable deli-like substances, jars of pickles, jars of mayonnaise, giant kilo packets of cheddar, a giant lettuce, and a pound of tomatoes which he was commencing to slice into a small, square dish. Honey, splutters an’ all, was clutching a large economy-size packet of cornflakes to her bosom.

    “We have got to work out a sensible morning schedule!” said Gil clearly.

    Nobody replied, though Honey looked at him hopefully over the cornflakes.

    “With definite responsibilities. Lunches are not a first priority, Phil!” he said loudly.

    Phil looked up. “I thought they were? I mean, there’ll be ten of them, won’t there?”

    “Breakfast comes first, so logically breakfast is the first priority,” said Gil clearly.

    “But if I don’t start now, Uncle Gil—”

    “I thought you’d all agreed that you’d draw up the combos and Jen and Honey would make the actual sandwiches?” he said loudly.

    “I thought I’d better take something over to the bunkhouse,” said Honey meekly, as Jen and Ted jostled for position over at the stove.

    “N—Ted! Do not fight Jen for possession of the bloody stove!” said Gil loudly.

    The jostling stopped and Ted turned round, looking very sheepish. “Um, sorry. Don’t think this is logistically feasible.”

    “No—stop laughing, Honey, he’s right. In future the bacon, the tomatoes and any fried eggs which may be required will be done in the electric frypan—the big one, Ted.”

    “Yeah. Good idea,” said Ted feebly, hauling it out.

    “Is it run in, though?” asked Honey fearfully, backing off.

    “Too late,” replied Ted cheerfully, laying his bacon in it. “Um, did you say eggs, Gil?”

    “Not this morning: things are complicated enough. All right, you lot, now hear this. –Phil! Stop mucking around with that ham and pay attention!”

    Everybody was now paying attention, though Jen was doing it with one eye on her sausages.

    “This will be the morning programme,” said Gil clearly. “First, once it’s been ascertained whether cooked breakfasts are required, Honey will take the dry ingredients over to the bunkhouse. That means cornflakes, muesli and bread, Honey. When you’re there, check whether they need any more coffee, tea or milk. Then set the tables, and fill their electric jugs. Only if no cooked breakfasts are required, Jen can help you with these tasks.”

    “Yes,” said Jen meekly. “And the spreads, Gil.”

    “Right: and the spreads. Incidentally, have a medal, whoever thought of putting them in that little flat basket.”

    “It was Mum,” admitted Jen.

    “Okay, medal for Sal! We clear on that?”

    “Yes,” they both said, nodding.

    “Good. Next, if cooked breakfasts are required, Jen will do the sausages on the stove and Ted will do the bacon and tomatoes in the electric frypan. There will be no demarcation dispute over the tomatoes,” he said, removing the remaining unsliced ones from the table, “because no-one will yet have started on the sandwiches: get it?” He handed the tomatoes to Ted.

    Phil was very flushed. “But—”

    “Shut up, Phil. In the meantime you will have checked your list of sandwich combos against the actual ingredients and got the ingredients out for Honey and Jen—preferably while Honey’s in the bunkhouse, so you won’t actually be falling over each other: got it?”

    “Yeah.”

    “If the ingredients are lacking you correct the list of combos, okay?”

    “Um, yes, um, permanently?”

    “No, only the copy you’ll be using for the day in question,” replied Gil smoothly.

    “Um, yes. Oh, I see. Yes.”

    “You then go out and see to the horses.”

    “Y— Um, what about my breakfast?” he said lamely.

    “Horses eat first.”

    “Um, okay.” Phil got up, looking resigned. “I’ll get the list.”

    “Just hang on. Only if no cooked breakfasts are required, Ted goes with you.”

    “Right,” said Ted meekly.

    “Otherwise, you finish the grilling and then go out to see if he needs a hand.”

    “Right you are, Colonel, sir!” Ted agreed, less meekly.

    “Jen and Honey then take the fruit, the fruit juice and the cooked food over to the bunkhouse—incidentally, Jen, it can be your job to warm up that fancy food trolley that set us back a month’s income,” said Gil, looking at it pointedly.

    “Cripes, I’d forgotten— Uh, yeah.” Hurriedly Jen checked it and switched it on.

    “I won’t ask whether the two of you have practised taking it across to the bunkhouse, because I know the answer’s a lemon,” said Gil with a sigh. “It shouldn’t be too heavy, with the sausages, bacon and tomatoes in its whatsit.”

    “Jen’s been very busy,” said Honey.

    “Yes, I know. Just walk very slowly with it, okay? I will eventually get a proper path laid to the bunkhouse with a nice level surface but not until the exchequer’s a bit brighter—and nobody suggest it to Jack, please, he’s done far too much unpaid work for us already. If no cooked food is required, Jen and Honey take the fruit and the fruit juice over. And the yoghurt, if you want to spoil them, Jen!” he added with a smile. “They serve the guests and make sure they’ve got everything they need, then leave them to it. At that point,” said Gil, eyeing his nephew thoughtfully, “personnel may eat.”

    “All right!” said Phil crossly. “How’ll I know, though?”

    “Er—rumbling of the tum?” replied Gil politely.

    “No!—Stop laughing, Mummy!—How’ll I know from the paddock that you’re ready for me?”

    Gil passed a hand through his hair. “Wear your mobile phone, Jen can ring you. If all else fails she can go outside and shout.”

    “Yeah, the reception’s not so shit-hot up here,” he admitted.

    “I’ll shout,” agreed Jen.

    “Okay. Everybody clear?”

    Everybody was clear, except that Honey wanted to know when she and Jen should start the sandwiches.

    “As soon as you’ve had your breakfast.”

    “Yes, but Uncle Gil, if we’ve planned an early trek—” began Phil.

    “The treks can wait until the lunches are done, okay? If you’ve done your appointed tasks, you can give them a hand, but whose job did we decide it was to check that the punters are wearing something suitable and have got hats and have slathered themselves in sunscreen?”

    “Mine,” he admitted.

    “Right. After you’ve saddled the horses and checked on the punters, if the sandwiches aren’t done you can help.”

    “What about me?” asked Ted meekly.

    “After you’ve helped saddle the horses and checked the first-aid kit, Ted.”

    “Okay.”

    “So hop to it, everyone,” said Gil very, very mildly indeed.

    As expected, there was a blank silence and nobody moved.

    “It—it isn’t a usual day, though,” said Jen uncertainly.

    “Jen, it is, my dear: this is what we’ll have to cope with: maintaining a routine in the face of the unexpected.”

    “Well, um… Do want cooked breakfasts, do the sausages,” murmured Jen.

    “Exactly. –Honey?”

    “Um, do want cooked breakfasts… Um…”

    “Dry ingredients,” prompted Jen.

    “Oh, yes! I can take these over!” realised Honey, looking down at her cornflakes.

    Gil reached out a long arm and caught her just as she was about to vanish out the door. “Think. –Phil! Get that list!”

    “Oh, yes,” he recognised, vanishing.

    “I was just about to ask what you’d be doing, Gil,” admitted Ted.

    “Right. –Honey, we do not make sixteen trips in order to take sixteen different and quite distinct items over to the bunkhouse—not because it isn’t efficient: because if you start off like that at the beginning of the day you’ll wear yourself out well before the trekkers are back in the afternoon. Now, get a tray and put the cornflakes, the muesli and the bread on it. White as well as wholemeal, didn’t we decide?”

    “Mm.” Glumly Honey found a tray and filled it.

   Meanwhile the sound of Gil’s printer had been heard in the background and Phil appeared with a sheet of paper. “What are you doing with my bread?”

    “Shut up. Priorities,” his uncle reminded him brutally. “What else did Jen say, Honey?”

    “Oh, yes: spreads.” Honey put the little square basket of them on the tray.

    “I’d check to see if those jars’ve actually got anything in them,” noted her son sourly.

    “You’ll check that list, little chummy!” retorted his uncle swiftly. Scowling, Phil sat down and began correlating his list with the ingredients he’d put on the table.

    Gil opened the back door for Honey. “Come on, I’ll give you a hand to check the bunkhouse.”

    “Thanks, Gil,” she agreed gratefully.

    “Don’t let him carry the tray, he carries stuff lopsided!” cried Jen.

    “I know; I won’t.” Honey went out.

    “What happened to my sun-dried tomatoes?” cried Phil angrily as his uncle was about to follow her.

    “I think you might have used them all yesterday, Phil. The Grovers’ lunches, remember?” replied Gil very mildly, going out. The door closed gently behind him.

    Silence reigned in the kitchen of Jardine Holiday Horse Treks for an appreciable period. Ted Prosser, for one, was taking a mental vow it wouldn’t be him that broke it.

    “Crikey, he’s got an organised mind!” concluded Jen. “You can see why they made him a colonel!”

    “Well, yeah, but does he have to shove it down your throat?” replied Gil’s nephew sourly.

    It got too much for Ted. “Phil, he refrained from shoving it down your throat, you benighted ass!” he said with a laugh. “Now, for God’s sake finalise those ingredients—or fudge something up, I don’t think he’ll inspect it today, but something that Jen and Honey can follow—and we’ll get out to the horses. –I think that was our next task.”

    “I haven’t even had a wash yet!” replied Phil crossly.

    “Nor has anyone. You’d better set your alarm for five-thirty,” returned Ted extra-mildly.

    “But heck—!” the unfortunate lad cried.

    “Yeah, we better had, Phil,” agreed Jen serenely.

    “It’s all right for some, but I’m not in the army!” said Phil crossly.

    “Shut up, Phil. This is never gonna work without organisation,” said Jen calmly. “Go on, fake that list up and get on with it, ya said yesterday that Blackie needed a good currycombing but you were too tired to do it last night, ’member?”

    “Shit,” he muttered. “Um, maybe we won’t use him.”

    “It’s Wednesday,” Jen reminded him.

    Scowling, Phil went over to the wall and scowled at the timetable. “Bugger,” he concluded. “All right, you can do without sun-dried tomatoes, and I don’t care if the combos are peculiar!” With this he strode out, abandoning his list.

    “Wednesday?” murmured Ted.

    “Yeah.” Jen turned the heat off under her pan and put a lid on it. “See, if some of them want lessons this morning, they’ll need Blackie, he’s the most placid of the polo ponies.”

    Ted gave up and went over to the wall. “Wednesday, Wednesday… Oh. Here. Mm. And if they don’t want lessons he’ll offer them a short trek, right. But hang on, there are twelve horses plus the two ponies for the kids, and Phil’s Goldie—”

    “Nah.” Jen inspected the innards of the food-warmer. “Well, it’s hot,” she reported dubiously. “Ten punters in, see? Eight adults, so that’s eight horses in use, then if Gil takes them on a short trek he’ll have to have one: nine; and you and me: eleven.”

    “Then—”

    “Nah, had ya forgotten Susan said she’d come over again today?”

    Ted gulped. “Yeah,” he admitted feebly.

    “Twelve,” said Jen placidly.

    “Yeah,” he admitted feebly. “Um, when did Gil say he’s expecting those two extra horses to arrive?”

    Jen eyed him tolerantly. “He’s expecting them to arrive early next week.”

    “But?” he said faintly.

    “Over New Year’s? You gotta be joking!”

    Ted concluded he was joking …Oh, shit, he’d completely and utterly forgotten about Susan Pendleton, and it wasn’t as if she wasn’t a perfectly pleasant woman, and yesterday had been a very pleasant day… Oh, shit.

    27th December. Still Wednesday. The morning’s riding lesson was over, the lunch had been consumed—the workers discovering Jen and Honey had forgotten to make enough sandwiches for them—the younger Braithwaites, who on admitting they’d never been on a horse had been forced to do the riding lesson rather than go off with Phil’s lot, had leapt upon their bikes and wobbled off into the untamed bush, and funnily enough Mrs Braithwaite and Mrs Grover, both of whom had opted for a morning lesson rather than a long trek with Phil, had emerged from the bunkhouse about an hour after lunch and gone off together to inspect Springer House Art & Crafts Centre. Gil went very, very cautiously into the kitchen—

    “Oh, thank God!”

    “Yeah hi, Gil,” replied Pete Outhwaite with a twinkle in his eye.

    The place was as neat as a new pin, there was stuff laid out neatly on the table, Honey was sitting at said table wearing an apron and neatly chopping stuff—

    “My God, I wish you could work for us permanently, Pete!” said Gil fervently.

    “Bit of a schemozzle this morning, was it?”

    “And a half! Added to which I’ve just made the discovery that even if they’ve had some riding experience they may want a lesson, and even if they’ve never sat on a horse before they’re fully prepared to gallop off into the untamed bush!”

    “Ya might’ve expected that.”

    “Yes, but seeing it in action—!” Gil shuddered. “And they’re huge ones, Pete—huge,” he whispered.

    “Oh, yeah, I forgot,” said Honey placidly. “Those ones he had in the computer as kids, technically they are, they’re the Braithwaites’ kids, only they’re grown up.”

    “Grown up? Man and woman mountains!” said Gil wildly.

    “Yeah. Huge. So those quantities of yours won’t be quite right, Pete,” finished Honey placidly.

    “Right,” said Pete feebly. “For the rest of the week, is this?”

    “Yes,” admitted Gil. “Sorry: I done me best, I asked when they rang and—”

    “Yeah.” Pete went over to the schedule he’d put on the wall beside Gil’s schedule and swiftly amended it in ballpoint.

    “Doesn’t the computer have to do that?” said Honey faintly.

    “Well, no: played with that program so often I’ve got the amounts in my head. Besides,” said Pete, clearing his throat slightly, “quantities for a dozen aren’t all that hard to estimate.”

    Alas, Gil collapsed in ’orrible splutters at this one, but it didn’t matter at all: Pete just grinned and offered him a cuppa. Phew!

    After that the rest of the day went like clockwork, huge amounts of sausages, chops, potato salad, coleslaw and other salad were consumed, an entire pot of crunchy mustard vanished like the dew and Mrs Braithwaite asked Honey fervently for the recipe for the wonderful pineapple and passionfruit cheesecake.

    28th December. Thursday. Crack of dawn. BLAA-AAAH! Gil fell off his stretcher with a gasp. BLAA-AAAH! Jesus, was this gonna go on every time a guest was due? He groped for his tracksuit trousers…

    Grey four-wheel-drive, covered in dust. Parry, S. Ulp, female Parry, possibly around his age, colour of old leather and about six-foot in her huge booted feet. Brought her own sleeping-bag, brought her own—saddle? Oh, God!

    “Um, Ms Parry—uh, Sandy, right—we’re pretty amateurish, the treks are just, well, dawdling. One-day, maximum,” he croaked feebly.

    That was okay: she’d been stuck in an office for months on end—had a secondment to the bank’s head office in Zurich, never intended setting foot in the place again as long as she lived and nobody breathe the word “skiing”: it had been nose to the grindstone for eighteen months solid! Just dying for some fresh air!

    “Yes, well, we’ve got that,” said Gil feebly. “Um, you won’t need your sleeping-bag, Sandy, the bunkhouse is fully equipped with mattresses and linen.”

    Thought she might sleep out, had enough of four walls—okay to pitch her tent?

    “Uh—yes, of course, if you really—”

    She really. They went up past the bunkhouse and found the ideal spot for it—not under a tree, Sandy explained clearly why you didn’t wanna do that and even though the sky was a perfect pale blue—uh, very pale, how the Hell early was it?—Gil conceded meekly you wouldn’t want to, no. It was one of those funny little half-globe tents. Bright pink. He could only conclude it must have been the only colour the shop had had left.

    … Six oh-seven. Oh, well.

    28th December. Still Thursday. Still ack-emma.

    “Uh, no, you can’t have a full-day trek today, I’m afraid, um, Scott, um, Lissa,” said Gil feebly to the two towering junior Braithwaites. “There was a full-day trek yesterday, and we don’t schedule one on top of another.”

    “But we never went! And Toby and Diana are fit, they can do another, easy!”

    Uh—the hulking boyfriend and girlfriend, right. Gil didn’t argue, he just said mildly: “I’m afraid it’s the choice of a lesson or a half-day trek this morning.”

    “Nobody needs lessons! Heck, Sandy doesn’t need a lesson—do ya?” objected the hulking Scott.

    Sandy eyed him drily. “Not a riding lesson, no. I’m just fitting in with whatever Gil’s got scheduled for us. Choice of a half-day morning or a half-day afternoon, is it, Gil?”

    “Yes, that’s right, Sandy,” he said gratefully.

    “Right: morning it’ll be. Might go for bit of a hike this arvo. –Thought you guys had your mountain bikes with you?”

    “We came to ride, though,” said Scott sulkily.

    “Shut up, Scott,” said his father heavily. “Personally I’m not up for another full day in the saddle. What’s the name of that liniment stuff you recommended, Gil?”

    “I can do better than the name, I’ll fetch you a bottle, Dennis. How many is that for the morning trek, then?”

    That was the two Grover kids—Mrs Grover thought she wouldn’t, today, and Mr Grover, on being assured that Jen would go along to keep an eye on Harry and Sally, decided thankfully he’d have a morning off and he wouldn’t mind some of that liniment, too, actually, Gil—the four young hulks, and the wiry Sandy Parry. Mrs Braithwaite, though assuring Phil that the horses were lovely, thought she wouldn’t, this morning: come on, Dennis, I’ll rub some of that into your back and maybe we can wander over to the crafts place later, and they said there’s a lovely bush walk…

    Phew.

    There was still no sign of Halliday but possibly he, she or it would turn up in due course: it was only, Gil’s wristwatch informed him, nine-fourteen ack-emma, though it felt like half-past forty-two.

    28th December. Thursday. Eleven-oh-two. PIP-PIP! PIP-PIP!

    Mrs Halliday. Felicity. “I’m sorry I’m so late—” Etcetera. Anything less like the hard-bitten, stringy, leathery Sandy it would have been hard to imagine. The car was one of those little runty things. Bright metallic purple. Felicity herself was, at a guess, fiftyish: fluffy, plumpish, and bedecked in a gauzy frilled floral blouse over a bright yellow singlet above a pair of obviously very new jeans. The feet were in pom-pommed slippers but she gave a shriek and removed those. Drove in ’em—right.

    “It is only a bunkhouse, I’m afraid,” said Gil feebly, leading her over to it. They had all been told, given the lack of storage space in the bunkhouse, one bag, but Felicity’s was a large suitcase, into which she’d crammed everything including, judging by its weight, the kitchen sink. He set it down with a sigh of relief.

    “Of course!” she said eagerly. “It’s very smart! I’ve never been in a bunkhouse before, but this year I said to Leanne—we usually go together, we’re both on our own, you see—I said to her, ‘You can go the rounds of those fancy B&Bs and gourmet restaurants in Tazzie if you like, but I’m really sick of that sort of place, I’m having a real Aussie country holiday with horse riding!’”

    “Mm.”

    “Do you do round-ups?” she asked hopefully.

    “No, it isn’t a farm—uh, cattle station or sheep station, Mrs—uh, Felicity,” he said feebly.

    “Not even whips?” she asked wistfully.

    Er, was this getting kinky? “I can teach you to handle a crop if you like, but we don’t really offer dressage, Felicity.”

    “No—that’s when they go sideways and backwards and hold their feet up, isn’t it? They’re so clever! And the lady riders always wear those wonderful hats. No, I don’t imagine I could ever do that, Gil—well, for one thing I haven’t got the figure for it!” she said with a giggle. “No, you know. Whip-cracking.”

    “Uh—oh! Gosh, do some places offer that? No, I’m afraid we haven’t got anyone who’s an expert at that.”

    “Never mind. Leanne said I’d probably take someone’s nose off, never mind whipping a cigarette out of their mouth, and I probably would, but it’d be fun to try just the cracking, wouldn’t it?”

    It would, actually. Maybe Andy would know of someone who could do it. Gil made a mental note to ask him, and having shown Felicity the ablutions block—she thought it was very shipshape, gulp—admitted limply that this morning the others had gone off on a half-day trek—more apologies for arriving so late—but if she fancied a riding lesson—?

    Poor little Mrs Halliday looked sadly around the deserted sitting-dining room with its row of electric jugs shouting “Make yer own and like it, Punter!” and said: “I might have a coffee, first… Well, yes, a lesson’d be lovely, thank you, Gil.”

    Gil took a deep breath and prepared to break what had been going to be one of his strictest rules. “Look, would you like to come over to the kitchen and have one with us?” She’d love to, that’d be wonderful: like a real farmhouse holiday!

    Er—yeah. So after two mugs of instant coffee, a quantity of fruit-cake which had mysteriously appeared in a tin in their kitchen, and a prolonged session of giggling with Honey, the pair of them agreed to let him give them a lesson. He put them up on Blackie and Molly, the fattest and most placid of the ex-polo ponies—Molly was all of seventeen but her former owner had reported she pined if she wasn’t ridden—and attempted to teach them to stay on and—not grip with the knees, no, too much to hope for. Stay on, look ahead over your horse’s ears and remember it’s got more sense than you have. Something like that.

    “See—” concluded Honey breathlessly as, Pete having appeared to remind them it was lunchtime, Gil helped her down, “—ooh! Thanks, Gil! –See, if you go on one of the short treks you can have a leading-rein on and just stay behind Gil, Felicity.”

    “Oh, good!” she beamed. “So you are used to duffers, Gil!”

    Something like that. Starting to get used to ’em, yes, Felicity.

    28th December. Still Thursday. Pip-emma. The morning trekkers had mercifully been fed out on the trail and got back around one-forty, good for Phil. Gil had sincerely doubted he’d be able to manage those four hulks. –Ted hadn’t gone, since Phil and Jen didn’t really need him: he was over at the Walsinghams’ helping Jack peg out for Nefertite’s kitset house.

    “No, you can’t have another half-day trek this afternoon, Scott. It was either a half-day this morning or one this afternoon.”

    “But we’re fit! I tell you what, we could just take the horses—”

    God, already? “No. Sorry, but that’s no go. No-one goes out without supervision. Our risk management plan’s been approved by our insurers, and that’s it. –Not open to discussion, Scott.”

    “No, and shut up!” shouted his father. “You’re making a bloody pest of yourself! Get out on your bike if you want exercise!”

    Right; have a medal, Dennis Braithwaite. Gil offered him the next best thing: a sit-down on the verandah and a drink. Fancy a Johnnie, Dennis? Dennis didn’t mind if he did, and they were joined in very short order by a grinning Lance Grover. So there ya were. As Lance remarked, quite some time later that afternoon, this was the life!

    … 28th December. Still Thursday. Considerably after sundown. Everyone had eaten, Pete had been persuaded that he could go off to the pub with George as they didn’t need him to supervise the dishes—they had a dishwashing machine, it had seemed the better part of valour and Gil was now thanking his lucky stars he hadn’t listened when Jen had tried to claim that dishes for only a dozen people would be a breeze—and Ted had been persuaded that he could take the night off—yes! There was nothing much left to do! Go!—and had gone with them. And the very last of the tidying up was being done. And since Molly was awake and came over to the paddock fence a horse nut or two was slipped her way— Er, yeah. Mustn’t spoil her, she was already fat as butter. Those sheets discovered earlier on the lines behind the bunkhouse had been determined to be Sally Grover’s—an accident, not that sort of accident, a bottle of Coke. Right, but there had been no need for Anita to— Yes, of course there had! Gil checked the lines: as he’d thought. He rescued the sheets, folded them up neatly, and popped in to replace them in the cupboard in the bunkhouse. Jesus, what was that crap they had on the box? –Never mind, they all seemed happy. Well, possibly Sandy Parry didn’t really want Anita Grover to show her her knitting pattern—beg your pardon, crochet pattern—but she was letting her. Gil escaped.

    Oops. In the kitchen Felicity Halliday was happily helping Honey write out a shopping list.

    “We thought we’d go down to the supermarket tomorrow morning, Gil, Felicity hasn’t seen Barrabarra yet,” explained his sister-in-law happily.

    “Uh—yeah. I mean, nothing to see, but, uh—”

    “I’m really not up for the long trek tomorrow, Gil,” explained Felicity happily.

    “No, but, um, I thought, ’nother lesson?” he said feebly

    “That’d be lovely, but if it isn’t too much trouble could I possibly have it in the afternoon?”

    “Of course, no problem.” Gil tottered into the sitting-room.

    “There’s a guest in the kitchen,” noted Jen immediately.

    “I know, Jen, I know, but the poor woman’s lonely, she’s got nothing in common with those sporty types out there—Hell, even Anita Grover’s proposing getting out on the long trek tomorrow, crochet patterns an’ all—”

    “Just so long as ya know,” she said placidly.

    “Mm.” Phil was asleep on the sofa, in fact snoring. “Look, you two had better get off to bed. I’ll leave you to it. Uh, where’s Ted?” he asked as it dawned he wasn’t there.

    “Down the pub with George and Pete,” Jen reminded him tolerantly.

    “Oh, of course. Well, he’s got his key.”

    “Yeah.” She shook Phil’s arm. “Phil! Phil! Go to bed!”

    Right, that was that. Gil locked the front door, told Honey and Felicity to take their time, there was plenty of coffee and cake—gales of giggles—and tottered off to Bedfordshire.

    29th December. Friday. Eight fifty-one ack-emma.

    “Golly. Smooth as silk,” croaked Gil, collapsing onto a kitchen chair next to Honey and Felicity, the trekkers having been waved off, all eleven of ’em, in the charge of Phil on Goldie—even Scott Braithwaite hadn’t asked to ride him—Ted on Dappled Lightning—in his day a nippy little horse but now very unlike his name, which in fact had got shortened to Dappo—and Jen on Paint, who was, surprisingly enough, a pinto. Piebald if you came from the right side of the Atlantic.

    “Isn’t it supposed to be, Colonel?” replied Honey with a giggle.

    Gil just looked at her, whereupon Felicity also giggled. Ooh, how shaming!

    Felicity then noted that those big Braithwaite children were a bit of a pain, really, and in her opinion it didn’t necessarily help if the father shared the kids’ interests, ’cos where was the discipline? Yep, have a medal, Felicity Halliday. Or at least a pot of crunchy mustard.

    “Honey, have you got crunchy mustard on the—”

    Of course. Yes. And he’d asked them that three times! More giggles. And off they went in Felicity’s smart little purple car. Er—shit, had anyone vetted that shopping list? Pete couldn’t have, they’d drawn it up last night, long after he’d gone, and he didn’t come first thing. Jen couldn’t have, the punters had required a huge cooked breakfast and she’d done three dozen sausages in the end, poor little soul, chained to the damned stove for well over an hour. Ted had done relays of bacon and tomatoes and, since several people (not good old Sandy) had asked Honey if there’d be eggs this morning, relays of fried eggs, so he wouldn’t have had the time, in fact he’d barely had time to help Phil with the horses and as a matter of fact Gil had done most of it. Oh, well, it wasn’t that far to Barrabarra: if anything had been left off someone could always go down again, or if really in strife, use the shop in Potters Inlet. Or the servo, yes: milk, bread and Coke in abundance, though it didn’t, like the big city ones, do pizzas, as Phil had reported sadly. Went with the no fish and chips shop—uh-huh.

    Um, well… The accounts needed looking at, but first, a recce. Their washing-machine seemed to be full of piles of jeans, shirts and underpants—which the locals politely called underdaks, or, Gil had discovered, having hysterics in front of the telly one night, undies, with perfect seriousness. A benighted male tennis star doing a benighted ad for undies! …Crumbs, and aprons, how had they managed to use— Er, on second thoughts Pete Outhwaite did strike forcibly as the type that insisted on a clean apron whenever he—Yeah. And lots of tea-towels, be from all that washing up that Pete did as he went. Carefully checking to make sure that Phil hadn’t dumped his red pyjamas in with everything else, Gil removed a flimsy little lacy bra of Jen’s from the wash, put the right amount of detergent powder in, first prudently checking to see that it was the right type of powder for the front-loading machine—Honey had got the top-loader type by mistake one time and the laundry had filled with soap bubbles—checked that the thing had the right settings up and finally, remembering only at the last minute that the actual water had to be turned on, the thing wasn’t quite magic, set it going. It’d take the best part of two and a half hours, no kidding, even set at cold wash with its water heater not on, but never mind, the washing dried in no time in the Australian sun. On second thoughts he washed Jen’s tiny bra by hand, why not?

    “Washing yer undies?” drawled a sardonic voice as he pegged it out.

    Gil gasped, and leapt. “Hullo, Bob,” he said feebly. “—Thought you Aussies only called the male nether undergarment ‘undies’?” he added, rallying slightly.

    “Then ya thought wrong, mate. How’s it going?”

    “Better than you’d expect, Bob!” Gil admitted with a laugh. “Though I have to admit that that’s almost solely due to Pete Outhwaite’s help in the kitchen.”

    “Right. Doing puddings and so forth, is ’e?”

    “Yes: lovely puddings that vanish like the morning dew. They’ve got enormous appetites, Bob—enormous! Well, eat like horses, really.”

    “Hah, hah. No, well, David said he thought it might be like that; I mean, our lot can get through the dainty nosh like nobody’s biz but yours’d be even worse. Younger and fitter, eh?”

    “Most of them, so far, yes. ’Orribly fit.”

    “Right. Give ’em loads of carbs, that’ll fill ’em up. Pasta, that sort of stuff. Apparently that’s what they feed the Tour Down Under types on. Gives you long-term energy. –Carbs,” he repeated.

    “Yuh—uh, carbohydrates, right. We’ve got a set of those types,” he reported mournfully.

    “Eh?”

    “Come and see.” Gil led him over to the sheltered spot at the far end of the bunkhouse where, once they’d assured themselves there were no casual mountain-bike thieves hanging round Potters Inlet, the four hulks had condescended to store their four machines.

    “Cripes. See whatcha mean.—What the fuck have they padlocked them for?—Cripes. These aren’t racing bikes, though, mate: be mountain bikes.”

    “Yeah.”

    “Uh, prolly just as well if the Council don’t get to hear about this, mate,” Bob advised him kindly. “None of us are licensed for bike trails.”

    Gil cringed. “No. –I never said they could: they just brought them!” he burst out.

    Bob sniffed. “Punters. Ya can’t second-guess them. See, we had all these weird enquiries about the beds—the mattresses, to get technical—and we thought well, maybe offer them a choice. Only then it dawned, the buggers’ll compare notes. So they’re all the same. Nicely padded, plain posturepedic, the cheapest sort but believe you me, mate, none of them are cheap, and no fancy how’s-yer-fathers about one side being soft and one firm. Then we copped all the palaver about the pillows, so we gave in and bought a selection. –Oh, yeah, mate, believe you me, there’s pillows and pillows!” he said with feeling. “Firm ones and soft ones, but that’s only a start! Genuine down what half the world’s allergic to while the other half wants to know where the fuck it is if ya haven’t got it, super non-allergenic, solid foam, special shapes that support your neck better, and special magnetic ones!”

    “What?” said Gil faintly.

    “Don’t ask. But see, what I was gonna say, half of them bring their own anyway! Like, better special-shaped ones, better magnetic ones, and special herbal ones that give you a better night’s sleep—meanwhile your partner’s having a seizure from the hay fever. And real wool ones guaranteed to fill up with cooties before you’re half an hour older. We’ve had ’em bring pillows, dunas, and back-boards, mate! Plus and the special diet sheet and the special pot to do the muck in, oh, yeah. Without warning us beforehand.”

    “Oh! I see!”

    “Yeah. See, our website doesn’t say in words of one syllable ‘If ya wanna bring a special pot to do yer diet muck please warn us in advance.’ Same like yours doesn’t say ‘If ya wanna bring yer fucking mountain bike that’ll give the Council a conniption please—’” He stopped, smirking, as Gil had already collapsed in hysterics.

    “Fancy a coffee, Bob?” he said feebly, wiping his eyes.

    “Yeah, thanks, if you’ve quite finished hanging out yer undies.”

    “Yes, the heavy stuff’s still in the machine.”

    They went over to the house and had coffees—sitting on the verandah, why not, since it was there.

    “Right, well, tell Pete, pasta. Fill ’em up,” said Bob, getting up to go.

    Uh—oh! Silly him, it was an order, not a suggestion! “I will, thanks very much, Bob; and thank David for me!” agreed Gil with a laugh.

    29th December. Still Friday. Very, very fortunately Gil had remembered to ring Pete and tell him his much-appreciated services wouldn’t be needed at lunchtime. It was now around four. Pete scratched his lumpy nose dubiously.

    “Ri-ight. Pasta. I was planning to do lasagna on Wednesdays—couldn’t manage it last Wednesday, you didn’t have the ingredients, and there was that meat in the fridge that needed to be cooked.”

    “Lasagna on Wednesdays would be super-good, Pete!” replied Gil with a laugh.

    “He likes it. We sometimes buy it frozen,” put in Honey helpfully.

    “Full of salt and preservative, you don’t wanna do that,” returned Pete repressively. “Um, well, a bowl of hot spaghetti’s always nice: bit of olive oil and garlic, sprinkle of herbs. Could add a few shavings of Parmesan, that brightens it up.”

    “Yum, yum!” agreed Gil.

    “Yeah. And, um, well, I can’t say I’m that keen on pasta salads, but they’re full of carbs, all right, and after seeing the way those four huge kids got down on the potato salad the other night—!”

    “Yes, and potatoes are terribly dear, these days!” put in Honey eagerly.

    “You need to buy them in bulk,” said Pete firmly. “But you’re right.”

    “I’ve got a lovely recipe for yoghurt mayonnaise, Pete!” put in Felicity Halliday eagerly.

    Pete had accepted the appearance of Mrs Halliday in the kitchen with apparent equanimity—phew! Now he replied seriously: “That sounds really great, Felicity: bit different, eh?”

    “Yes. Would you like me to enter it into your laptop?”

    Gil cringed but Pete merely replied: “That’d be great, thanks. The recipes database, not the quantities one.”

    “Of course!”

    Gil just watched numbly as she got the laptop down from its very safe, dry, clean pozzie on top of the fridge, opened it, found the right whatsit and started entering the— “Felicity,” he croaked numbly: “if you don’t mind me asking, what do you do?”

    Felicity smiled brightly at him. “I’m a librarian—a cataloguer, Gil. All cataloguers are very computer-literate, you know: we have to be, these days! It was my new boss, Jan Martin, who put me onto you, as a matter of fact!”

    “Juh— Oh, yes: Jan Martin,” said Gil limply.

    “Yes. She’d been managing one of our branches—very competently, you see! And when Horrible Harry moved on—sorry, that’s what the staff all called him behind his back!” she said with a giggle.—“Well, we all knew he was gonna move on to higher things sooner or later, he’s that sort, y’know? Upwardly mobile. When he went—and Queensland’s welcome to him, I can tell you! Him and his weekly progress reports and horrible statistics! Original cataloguing’s not automatic, every item poses its own special problem, what does he imagine the rules are for? Anyway, when he went, they said of course they’d have to advertise it, it’s Council regulations, but it was highly unlikely they’d get a better candidate than Jan, and of course we all held our breaths, and she got it!” She beamed at them.

    “I see,” said Gil feebly, what time Honey clapped her hands and cried: “Hurrah!”—“Um, and does Jan still have the weekly progress reports and statistics?”

    “Well, yes, but it’s completely different, Gil! Everyone in a position of responsibility comes along to the meeting, the branch managers as well, and we have it over a lovely morning tea, she buys the muffins herself, she won’t let us contribute—mind you, every so often someone brings a cake!—and if anyone’s statistics are down she listens! And she said Barney was absolutely right, there is a seasonal demand for reference services, and if we compared all the stats from all the branches, we’d see! And so she got Barney to bring along all those stats for the next meeting, and it was clear as anything on the bar graph!”

    Oh, boy, was Jan Martin a manager or was she a manager? “That sounds really good, Felicity,” he said kindly.

    “Yes: I actually look forward to Tuesdays, now,” said Felicity with a deep sigh. “Shall I see if there’s any pasta for tonight, Pete?”

    Gil held his breath but Pete just said mildly: “Yeah, thanks, Felicity. Try the pantry.”

    … 29th December. Friday night. The hordes had returned from their all-day trek hungry as hunters, fallen on the food, and eaten up every last scrap of Felicity’s macaroni salad with yoghurt dressing and Pete’s hot, oily, garlicky spaghetti. So there you were! Gil made sure the bunkhousers were okay, said goodnight to Sandy, who was turning in, or possibly out, and wandered over to the paddock fence… Oops, Phil’s Goldie and Paint as well as Molly, had the word gone round? Well, they’d had a long day, too! He distributed horse nuts, and wandered back to the house.

    “Everybody’s in bed,” said Honey as he came into the kitchen.

    “Uh-huh. Had a big day.”

    “Mm. I think we’ll have to go down to the supermarket again tomorrow, they’ve eaten all the pasta. I mean, there wasn’t much, it was ours, not the guests’ supply.”

    “Mm.”

    “And they’ve eaten Jen’s yoghurt!” she added crossly.

    “Uh—oh, for the breakfasts? Well, tough tit, they can’t have their yoghurt and eat it too.”

    “It was that stupid dressing of Felicity’s,” she said, scowling.

    Uh-huh. Trying valiantly not to smile, Gil replied mildly: “Well, pop ‘gallons of plain yoghurt’ on the shopping list, Honey.”

    “I will, but what’s the betting she’ll think of something else to waste it on?”

    “Her or him, yes,” replied Gil mildly.

    Honey looked sour. “I suppose you’d say she’s his type.”

    “I don’t think I would, really. She strikes me as pleasant, quite intelligent, quite conventional, and would bore him out of his skull within a week.”

    She swallowed hard. “Oh.”

    “Though I’m not saying they don’t have cooking in common,” he added mildly. “Want me to use the leading-rein and take her on a very slow trek tomorrow afternoon?”

    Honey went very red, retorted crossly: “What’s it got to do with me? Take her if ya want to!” And hurried out.

    Smiling to himself, Gil went to lock the back door.

    30th December. Saturday morning. The leathery Sandy Parry, the young Grover kids, whose bums and backs seemed to be immune to the effect of long treks, and of course the indefatigable four hulks had gone off with Phil and Jen on a short trek. Ted had made sure he wouldn’t be needed and then gone over to help Jack with Nefertite’s house again. Finishing the pegging out, was it? Whatever, they were both happy. Honey was even happier, since Pete had rung early to ask if she’d like to come down to the supermarket with him, and, though Gil hadn’t sunk so low as to ask, Felicity Halliday’s name apparently hadn’t been mentioned. Dennis Braithwaite’s back had had the liniment treatment last night and he was feeling fit but not up to another ride, so he and Amanda had gone for a drive. Anita and Lance Grover had opted for taking a couple of chairs outside and were just sitting in the sun with their hats pulled well down over their eyes. She had her crochet in her lap but she wasn’t doing it. Gil had checked whether Felicity needed a lesson, found that she quite fancied going over to look at the lovely art and crafts centre this morning, and agreed they’d go on a very gentle trek this afternoon. With the leading-rein on—yes. He was aware that if he took Felicity and any adult Grover or Braithwaite who was up to it on an afternoon short trek the hulks would demand to come, too, but sufficient unto the day. He might take off early, before the others got back. Meantime—

    He went into the paddock, captured Molly with no effort whatsoever, not even needing the handful of horse nuts, and got on with grooming her, informing her that her coat was a disgrace and her mane looked as if a pair of mice had had a fight in it. Since Blackie and Dappo then came over to him curiously, or possibly greedily, he roped them to the railing for good measure. They both looked as if ten mice had had a fight in their manes, didn’t that boy ever brush them out? As for their hooves—never seen a lick of polish since their polo days.

    “Standards, that’s what we need to keep up, by Jove, standards!” he told Molly. Getting for reply a soft nibbling of his hair and ear. “Get out of it, you daft creature!”

    BLAA-AAAH!  BLAA-AAAH! Dappo shied, and who could blame him? Jesus, who the Hell was it? BLAA-AAAH! The front sweep was out of sight of the horse paddock, which was up well beyond the barbecues.

    “All right, I’m coming! Jesus!”

    A red four-wheel-drive. Strangely familiar-looking… A drooping male figure in very tired khaki shorts and a sagging tee that might once have been blue, a long time back in its history, was leaning on it. Uh— Oh! But it wasn’t the season of Christmas cakes, what on earth could he want? Or perhaps the Lions had a lot of leftover ones to sell?

    “Hullo, Steve,” said Gil resignedly.

    “Gidday, Gil, howsit?” replied Mr Macdonald—without, however his normal ebullience.

    “Pretty good, thanks. Got a full bunkhouse this week. They’re eating us out of house and home, as predicted! Haven’t got any spare Christmas cakes, I suppose?”

    “Eh? Aw—no. Sold out. Um, I was wondering— STOP THAT!” he suddenly bellowed at the rumpus that had arisen in the back seat of the vehicle. The rumpus died down and he said sourly to Gil: “That’s it, see. They’re driving us mad. Is said to get them out of the house if I wanna live to see the New Year.”

     Uh… Is said to… Oh! “Your wife?” said Gil, smiling at him.

    “Yeah. Isabelle. So, um, what I was wondering, um, ya do do lessons, don’tcha? Um, I mean, extra ones, as well as the guests?”

    Oh, good God! Good grief, in fact! “Well, in principle, Steve, but we’ve only got two ponies, and at the moment two of the guests’ kids are using them.”

    “Thought Phil said they were all ponies?” he groped.

    “No,” said Gil in surprise. “Oh! Well, ex-polo ponies, mostly, Steve, yes, but that’s just a façon de—um, just what they’re traditionally called, they are full-grown horses.”

    “Danno’s legs are pretty long,” he said hopefully.

    Yes, but the other one was pretty short—the Macdonald boys were, pace their fearsome reputation in the neighbourhood, only about twelve and ten. Gil scratched his chin. “We could try putting them up on a couple of the most placid mounts—shorten the stirrups. Look, Steve, I’ve got to say this. They do exactly what I say, in the saddle or out of it, and if there’s any question of anything that even looks like cruelty to poor dumb animals, they’re out on their ears.”

    The unfortunate Steve had gone very red, but he replied in a strangled voice: “Yeah, I already told them that. That possum they killed, it had been sliding up and down our roof all night for weeks, driving us all barmy. And, uh, well, probably the poor bloody thing did suffer—and I belted the pair of them for it, don’tchew worry—only they didn’t torture it on purpose, they’re not that bad. Actually Danno bawled his eyes out last month when his gran’s old cat died.”

    “Da-ad!” came a strangled roar of embarrassment from the back of the vehicle.

    Gil swallowed a smile. “I see.”

    “And I’ve told ’em,” said Steve, still very red, “that they gotta call you Colonel Sotherland, and if either of ’em asks to see yer wound, I’ll strangle ’em with me bare hands.”

    Oh, good grief! “If that’s the way you want it, Steve,” said Gil very weakly indeed.

    “Yeah, it is. –All right, GET OUT!” he bellowed.

    Two skinny, sheepish figures in giant baggy but strangely uncrumpled jeans—help, had Is ironed them for the occasion?—and giant baggy but suspiciously clean tees scrambled out of the four-wheel drive and looked up at Gil in a mixture of defiance and fear. Ouch.

    “Right, you heard that lot, did you?” he said mildly.

    “Yes,” muttered Danno.

    “Yes, what?” demanded his father grimly.

    “Yes, Colonel Sotherland,” he muttered. “And I wasn’t gonna ask!” he suddenly burst out.

    “Not much,” muttered his father.

    “It wasn’t me, it was Will!”

    “Whoever it was, your Dad’s right: a chap doesn’t ask to see another chap’s wound,” said Gil mildly.

    “No, right,” growled Steve.

    “Though it’s quite different if a chap volunteers to show it to you. –I don’t mind showing them, Steve; particularly if it’s going to put them one up with the peer group next term.”

    “Well, it will, but stuff their flamin’ peer group! They’re a pack of pin-headed little cretins! Um, well, only if you wannoo, Gil.”

    “Sure. The only thing is, this bloody arm’s still stiff, so once the tee-shirt’s on it tends to remain on. Give us a hand to haul it over my head, would you, Steve?”

    “Okay. Uh—I get it, yeah, bend forward.” Gil bent forward and Steve hauled the tee-shirt off him.

    Then there was dead silence.

    “The elastic bandage is only for support. I can’t get it on by myself, so I won’t take it off. But the shoulder’s about as cut about as the chest.”

    Steve licked his lips. “Front and back, eh?”

    “Yes, bullets tend to go right through the human frame and out the other side, Steve.”

    “I tried to tell them that, the pair of tiny pin-heads, but they wouldn’t listen, they seen it all on CSI,” he said sourly.

    “Mm. Cop shows aren’t reality, boys. Imagine you were standing here with a high-powered rifle—”

    They brightened. “Yeah?” they breathed.

    With considerable difficulty Gil refrained from winking at their father. “See the front door of the house? If you fired at it the bullet’d go right through it, incidentally killing anyone that happened to be standing in the passage, right down the passage, through the kitchen door if it happened to be closed, incidentally killing anyone that happened to be standing between it and the back door, and through the back door, kill anyone in its way in the back yard, and cross the back yard and disappear up the hill for another several hundred metres. It’d take your CSI chaps hours with a metal detector to find it.”

    They eyed him dubiously. Finally Will ventured: “Not if it had gone through a person, though.”

    “At this range? If had gone through three people, Will, that’s what high-velocity ammo does.”

    “Far out,” the boy muttered dazedly.

    Danno brightened as it sank in. “Hey, right through the house and up the hill? Far out!”

    “So, like on CSI when it hits somebody—there was a scene on NCIS, too, come to think of it—and they dig it out of the wall behind them, that’s all wrong?” ventured Steve.

    Not questioning the U.S. naval reference, Gil replied smoothly: “I’d say it’d be all wrong nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a hundred, yeah. Unless it was a sniper’s bullet fired from a good fifteen hundred metres away. Was it?”

    “Um, yeah, I think the NCIS one might of been, actually, wasn’t it a nutter that was knocking off marine recruiters because they wouldn’t take him? –Fifteen hundred metres? Hang on, that’s one and a half K!”

    Gil eyed him drily. “Exactly.”

    “But shit, Gil, ya mean if you were standing down the bottom of Potters Road—well, no, in Barton Drive, it’d have to be—”

    Gil eyed him drily. “Exactly.”

    “What, Dad?” cried Danno.

    “You could hit the flamin’ house from there, that’s what, ya drongo!” he snarled.

    “Yes. If you had a clear line of sight—certainly,” Gil agreed.

    “So, uh—” Steve squinted up the hill. “Say you were right over there.” He pointed towards Andy’s place. “See them rocks by the dead eucalypt? Could ya pick us off from there?”

    With his eyes shut. “Yes. That’s no distance with a rifle.”

    “Telescopic sights?” breathed Danno.

    No, with his eyes shut! “No, just the rifle’s ordinary scope, really, Danno.”

    “Far out!”

    Gil eyed him drily. “If you were standing right there, the bullet’d go through you and through the four-wheel-drive, igniting the petrol tank as it went and blowing the lot of you to Kingdom Come, along with anyone else on the sweep—the bloody television’s got that all wrong, too, explosions kill people, you can’t outrun them. And as the car isn’t amour-plated the bullet’d emerge on the far side, cross the sweep and end up somewhere in the bushes over there. That’d be an ordinary hunting rifle. Anything more high-powered would do considerably more damage. Only you wouldn’t need to worry about that, Danno, you’d be dead whatever sort of rifle it was.”

    Gee, this time there were no “far outs”. After a moment Steve managed a very limp: “See?”

    “Yeah,” they muttered, shuffling the giant sneakers.

    “Yeah,” said Gil heavily. “War isn’t a game, and bullets do damage.”

    “Does it still hurt?” burst out Will.

    “WILL!” shouted his father terribly.

    “It’s okay, Steve. No, it doesn’t really hurt, Will, though it hurt like Hell at the time and hospital was pretty agonising. The scar tissue pulls like buggery, though.”

    “Don’t they have, um, massages and creams and stuff for that, though?” ventured Steve.

    Gil made a wry face. “Mm. Limited usefulness, Steve.”

    “Goddit. Well,” he said evilly to his offspring, “ now ya know, so don’t ask to see ’is chest again, and nobody need mention the words ‘rifle’, ‘CSI’ or, come to think of it, ‘fucking Iraqi War’ round our house again until KINGDOM COME!”

    Oh, dear, he meant well but poor little Will now looked as if he was going to cry and actually Danno didn’t look much better.

    “Hand me my tee-shirt and we’ll make a start on the lessons, shall we? –Thanks. I’m glad to see someone had the sense to put them in long trousers and shoes, rather than shorts and thongs,” said Gil as Steve came to and gave him a hand with the tee-shirt. “Thanks, Steve.”

    “No worries. –That was Is,” he admitted. “So the sneakers are right?”

    “Well, failing genuine elastic-sided boots, yes.”

    Luckily this struck a chord and Steve choked: “Yeah, we’ll be taking that lot round to the R.M. Williams shop!” And collapsed in sniggers at his own wit.

    “I was just grooming three of the horses, actually, so they can help me finish them off,” said Gil mildly, leading the way to the paddock. Steve seemed to be coming too, but as it was fairly clear Is had placed him firmly in the doghouse, he kindly didn’t remark on it.

    “You said we could ride!” Danno accused his father.

    “Shuddup. Ya do what Gil tells you, or else,” he reminded him. “Aw, Phil’s got the Palomino, eh?” he said in disappointment as they reached the paddock.

    “Yes, Goldie’s his own horse, he always rides him. This is Molly, and these are Blackie and Dappo. First we groom them, then we ride them. When we’ve finished we give them a good rub-down and make sure they’ve got water and shade, and then we clean the tack.”

    “That’s the bridle and everything,” said Steve helpfully to the fallen faces.

    “I bet Prince Charles doesn’t do all that!” burst out Danno.

    “His mother showed ’im a silly photo— Forget it.”

    “I’m quite sure that Prince Charles and both his boys do do that, because that’s how one’s taught to ride in England,” said Gil smoothly. “Horses aren’t cars or bikes that you can just dump until you feel like looking after them, they’re living creatures who need to be properly cared for.”

    “See?” said Steve evilly.

    There was a short silence.

    “Hasn’t Prince Charles got grooms and stuff, though?” ventured Danno.

    Steve opened his mouth in amazed wrath but Gil said quickly: “Yes, of course, and at his age he probably does usually leave the horse to the grooms, especially after a strenuous game of polo, but the boys won’t be allowed to get away with it, you can bet your boots. Now, come on, grab some straw—you, too, Will.”

    They looked very, very dubious and Will in particular looked up at the dappled bulk of Dappo in awe, but came on…

    Still Saturday. Quite some time later. Steve had stayed long enough to see the boys were doing as they were told and then regretfully gone off to do errands in Barrabarra. But he’d come back in time for the demonstrations and the cries of “Hey, Dad, look at me!”

    “Phew!” he said with a laugh as a grinning Will was finally lifted down off Molly.

    “Yeah,” agreed Gil. “That’s right, Will, don’t suddenly fling your hand out, just put it where she can see it: now you can stroke her nose and give her a nibble.”

    “Ooh!” gasped Will as Molly pre-empted them and nosed hopefully at Gil’s pocket.

    “Get off, Greedy Guts. –Just one, she’s getting fat as butter, needs more exercise,” he said incautiously.

    “Hey, I could come over an’ ride her every day!”

    “Yeah, me, too: I could ride Blackie, he looks fat!” gasped Danno.

    He wasn’t far wrong. “Well, if they’re not needed on the treks, so long as your parents say it’s okay.”

    “Um, well, they did behave, did they?” replied Steve cautiously.

    “YES!” they shouted angrily.

    “Yes, they were very good and took everything on board,” said Gil kindly.

    “Well, um, okay, then, but only if Gil’s free to give you a proper lesson.”

    Gil sagged. “Mm. –Yes,” he said firmly over the “Aw, hecks!” “No one rides without supervision. Um, and if you don’t mind, Steve, I’ll ask you to sign a personal injury indemnity form: our insurance company won’t cover us otherwise.”

    “Didja hear that?” he said evilly to his blank-faced offspring. “That means if some cretin tries riding the horses by himself and falls off and breaks a leg and ends up in hospital for the next six weeks, Colonel Sotherland’s up for megabucks to the flamin’ insurance company!”

    There was a short pause.

    “Like, he loses his no-claims bonus?” ventured Danno.

    Steve’s eyes met Gil’s and he coughed suddenly. “Uh, yeah, close enough, Danno. Would be as bad as the flamin’ car insurance—yeah. So, come on, Gil, where’s this form?”

    “No, we gotta rub them down first!” cried Will shrilly.

    Steve’s eyes met Gil’s again. “Right. ’Course ya do,” he agreed weakly.

    31st December. Sunday morning. Shortly after sparrow-fart. There was a brief rat-tat and the kitchen door opened.

    “Found these having a look at the mountain bikes,” said Sandy Parry very drily indeed.

    Gil looked limply at Danno and Will.

    “You said we could come over today! You said, Colonel Sotherland!”

    Taking the “Colonel Sotherland” without a blink, Sandy asked: “Did you?”

    “Well, yes, but I wasn’t expecting them for—” Gil peered at his watch. Jesus, five forty? “Another three and a half hours,” he admitted. “Uh—you can let go, I think, Sandy.”

    She released them but prudently remained between them and the door.

    Gil ran his good hand through his hair. “I don’t know whether I dare to ask this.”

    “The Braithwaites and their mates aren’t up yet,” said Sandy kindly.

    “Uh—that, too! Thank God for small mercies! You pair of benighted asses, those are valuable bikes that belong to four very hefty young adults who won’t hesitate to give you the scragging you deserve if you so much as lay a finger on them!”

    “We were only looking,” said Danno sulkily—as of one who had made the point many times before and been ignored; have a medal, Sandy.

    “The little one was definitely fingering,” Sandy said drily to Gil.

    “I wasn’t hurting them, though,” muttered Will.

    “I hope not. As I was about to ask, do your parents know where you two cretins are?”

    After the admission that they were asleep and the pointed ignoring of Danno’s “They’ll guess, though,” they were ordered to sit down and shut up. And Gil made coffee, bacon, tomatoes and toast for him and Sandy, since no-one else was up yet. After a while, since the boys were obediently just sitting and shutting up, they were allowed to join in and gee, then they were allowed to join in grooming all the horses. Oddly enough, once they grasped that good old Sandy was taking it as a matter of course that she’d help, and Phil surfaced and took it as a matter of course that it was the next job, they just shut up and joined in.

    … “Now what?” panted Danno hopefully.

    “Phil takes the guests on a long trek. They’re going to ford the creek about ten kilometres up, I think is the programme today. Don’t ask to go, thanks.”

    “As a matter of fact Anita wasn’t that keen on the idea, they were awfully stiff after the last one,” admitted Sandy.

    She was right: Anita Grover elected to have the day off, and little Sally decided she’d rather stay back, too, and go for a drive with Mum later. Well, that freed up one horse and a pony, so they could just manage the numbers for Gil to take the Macdonald boys and Felicity for a lesson-cum-short trek, if Ted didn’t want to ride. Ted was very happy not to ride, as Jack had got hold of Gazza, and he could go over to see him with him! Uh—who? Oh, the man with the kitset houses! Jesus, on New Year’s Eve? Well, possibly he needed the custom or even more possibly, time at home with loved ones had palled. But the Macdonald boys and Felicity would all need watching…

    “I’ll stay with you, Gil,” decided Jen. “Phil’ll be okay: Lance’ll help keep an eye on Harry on the trek. We can just go up to the point, Bob says it’s okay to use their bush ramble track, his punters hardly ever use it and if we do bump into them, it’ll only add local colour.”

    “Yuh— Uh, the actual point now belongs to Blue Gums,” Gil reminded her.

    “Yeah, but I rung Vince the other day and he said that’d be fine, come whenever you like, and actually, he’s got some punters for you, Gil!”

    What? But they wouldn’t have enough horses!

    “They’ll pay for the lessons and the treks,” she reminded him happily.

    “Yes, but Jen, how are we going to juggle the horses?”

    “I told Vince you’d let him know when there were a couple available,” said Jen firmly.

    Uh—okay, fine. That seemed to be that and after Will had been told firmly that Felicity was riding Molly this morning and he could have the pony or not come on Gil’s “short trek”, they set off, Jen very firmly bringing up the rear, even though Danno had declared loudly that he wasn’t GONNA lag behind …

    31st December. Sunday lunchtime. Oh, thank God, Pete was on deck!

    “I told Pete that you didn’t take a picnic so you’d be wanting lunch,” said Honey placidly.

    Yeah. Phew. Medals all round. Yes, and it would be lovely to have it outside, up by the barb—beg your pardon, on the patio. The shade under that awning was lovely, yes, Felicity. Er, no need for guests to set the— Very well, guests would set the picnic table.

    Very shortly after Sunday lunchtime, in fact Danno and Will were still scraping out the pudding bowl—something miraculous with passionfruit, pineapple, and strawberries, and possibly custard mixed with yoghurt, in short, something miraculous—their ears were shattered.

    RING! RING! RING! RI—

    “Jesus, that thing’s loud,” muttered Pete dazedly as Gil unhooked it from his person and answered it. “Doesn’t it startle the horses?”

    “At least it doesn’t play a horrid tune!” returned Honey smartly.

    “That was Vince,” Gil reported feebly.

    “Oh, yes, I forgot to say he rung this morning,” said Honey calmly. “What does he want?”

    “Two eco-punters requiring just a gentle ride, they saw us out this morning,” said Gil feebly.

    Immediately Jen decided she’d take them: Gil could have a rest. Immediately Danno and Will offered to help…

    31st December, still. Sunday arvo, when all good Aussies did ought to be, if not on yer actual beach with the sunnies on the nose relaxing under the beach umbrella with a cold one in the fist, at the very least on the couch in front of the cricket with a cold one in the fist.

    “I knew you were overdoing it!”

    Gil roused on the couch with a start. “Uh—wasn’,” he muttered.

    “Rubbish,” said Honey firmly. “You can have a proper sleep, I’ll just turn the TV—”

    “That’s the cricket!” he gasped in horror.

    “All right, go back to sleep in front of the cricket. I’ve sent those blimmin’ Macdonald boys home, by the way.”

    Gil sagged. “Have you? Blessings on you, Honey.”

    “Um, there is just one thing.”

    “Mm?” Gil inspected his cold one but it was empty. “’Nother beer, that sort of one thing?”

    Honey sighed. “Yeah, all right. Not that. That silly Felicity’s been asking about a bath.”

    Ouch!

    “Serve her right for thinking she could spend all morning on a horse at her age. –I did warn you.”

    “You did, indeed,” Gill agreed. “Uh, well, we had to fit the washing-machines in at the end of the ablutions block… Eventually we’ll get a real ensuite with a bath put in for you, Honey. Um, I’m sure Ann wouldn’t mind if she used hers, but it’s a bit of a hike over there and back.”

    “No, she’ll take her car. Good one! I’ll ring Ann. She’ll probably buy some more crap off them, too, she’s already bought two of Bernie’s pot-boilers.”

    “Oh, good show. Uh, we’d better not make a habit of this, though, Honey,” he said feebly.

    “No, but how many silly middle-aged woman that’ve never been on a horse before are we gonna get?” She went out on this pleased note.

    Er, yes, how many? Gee, just when you imagined you’d thought of everything— He told over the next few names they were expecting but the answer was a lemon so he just concentrated on—Mm? Thanks, Honey! Cheers!—the cricket…

    Still 31st December. New Year’s Eve. A yawning Phil returned from inspecting the bunkhousers, to report they were sort of seeing the New Year in—well, the TV was on but nobody seemed too awake and Sandy was already in her tent. And the two Grover kids had passed out hours ago like their mother had said they would.

    “Uh-huh.” Gil looked at his watch. “Well, shall we?”

    “Mummy’s asleep,” he reminded him.

    “We’ll tiptoe.” They tiptoed up the passage and opened the sitting-room door— Oops! Jen was fast asleep in her stretcher-bed, though the telly was on: huge fireworks going off all over the screen.

    “I think that’s last year’s,” whispered Phil, looking at his watch.

    Given that they were in Australia’s earliest time zone, it’d have to be—yes. Unless it was the New Zealand New Year celebrations beamed live? Gil patted his shoulder. “Happy New Year. I’ll leave you to it.”

    “Yes, um, thanks for everything, Uncle Gil!” he hissed, going very red.

    “Chump,” murmured Gil, tiptoeing out grinning.

    1st January. Monday. Bright and early on New Year’s Day. “No, Danno. No, Will. Go home.”

    “But—”

    “We’ve got a short trek this morning for five of our own people and six from Blue Gums Ecolodge, and with Jen on Paint that makes twelve horses in use— No, you cannot use the ponies! They’re being rested! Go home before I really lose my rag with you.”

    Whether or not this last phrase was familiar they got the point, and scarpered.

    … Later. Still New Year’s morning.

    “Uh—swim in the creek? Well, it’s shallow enough to be reasonably safe for the children, Lance, but Jen says you have to look out for snags. –Right, you know that, of course. –Uh, yes, you can get down just by the big rock. It, um, it isn’t exactly enticing, though. –Any water’s enticing at that age? Right! Well, when you’ve had enough, if they fancy a snack, just come on over to the house, Honey’ll be here. Um, what’s Anita doing this morning?”

     Ulp. She and Felicity had got wind of a lady who farmed goats and made lovely goats’ milk soap and were planning on driving— Right. Lovely goats’ milk soap. So be it. And yes, Lance, there would be a beer or two going at lunchtime. Definitely!

    1st January. New Year’s Day afternoon. RING! RING! RING! RI— Vince. More? Uh, got it: Blue Gums Ecolodge was full and there was nothing much to do round these parts.

    The morning’s lot had reported it had been extra. Er, possibly Vince’s vernacular, the morning’s lot had included a pair of very up-market Americans used to genteel hacking in Central Park. Another six? Good grief! Okay, let them come, the horses were available. The young hulks had already hived off on their bikes, and Dennis Braithwaite and Lance Grover had retired to the awninged patio, where they might have been watching the cricket on that small portable set of Dennis’s but were more probably just knocking back the cold ones and dozing. Amanda Braithwaite had discovered that Springer House Restaurant offered lovely afternoon teas, unquote, over the long weekends, so she’d had a nice long shower and was lying down in preparation for that. Sandy had of course been on this morning’s trek, but she was looking at him hopefully. So were the two little Grover kids, oh, dear. Their mother was still out, in fact Lance Grover had noted that if this was anything like that last one, she wouldn’t be back until teatime. He had recalled he’d had them, yes: he’d ordered them not to go down the creek by themselves before retiring to the patio. Gil gave in. And no, he’d said Phil and Jen were to have the afternoon off and he’d meant it!

    So that was Gil on Dappo, Harry and Sally on the ponies, Sandy on Gilbert, the least placid of the ex-polo nags, though by a very short whisker, and, er…

    No, Mme Montalbert (very up-market French dame in proper riding breeches and boots plus a silk shirt), the Palomino is not available, he’s my nephew’s horse. I’m afraid the little black with the four white socks is being rested today, he’s developed a slight limp. I think (judging by the riding gear, I think) you may find the mare too placid—just as you wish. Her name is Molly—uh, yes, very pretty name (feebly). Yes, M. Montalbert (matching French chap, his riding breeches almost worn in and the boots, though lovingly polished, not new), by all means take the pie. Er, yes, Sally (cough), the gentleman does mean the pinto.

    Yes, Herr von Stolzenberg (burly middle-aged German Greenie, Gil hadn’t realised they came in that age and shape and with that sort of gents’ jewellery but clearly all things were possible in the 21st century), Blackie is a sturdy horse, certainly take him if you'd like to (and if he falls asleep under you it ain’t Jardine Holiday Horse Treks’ responsibility). The pretty little brown horse (sic) with the white blaze is Marron, Frau von Stolzenberg—yes, a French name, Mme Montalbert—and you’ll find him very obedient (possibly not to commands in German, but however).

    You will definitely need your hat, Frau Weil (even skinner, keener, more tanned friend of the above), and I think you’ll find Speckles a suitable mount—we call that shade roan in English, actually (and I won’t mention that Speckles was his stable name and his former owner, who has a very large string of polo ponies and owns very large portions of New South Wales, laboured under the delusion that he answered to Chiaroscuro, ye gods). That’s Cuthbert, Herr Weil, he does look very like Gilbert, yes: he’s his brother. (And you look bloody like someone, but I can't put me finger on who. Thin-faced, tanned, skinny… Well, no: besides the wife and the wife’s friend.) Er, Sandy wasn’t making a joke, Frau Weil, we do call that white leg a white sock in English. Yes, Harry, Albert’s their brother, too, but he’s got a white blaze as well, hasn’t he? Chanfrein? Really, Mme Montalbert? How interesting.—Shut up, Harry!—Yes, Sally, Herbert is another brother. No markings, no. The one under that tree, Frau von Stolzenberg. Sally’s right, he won’t come when called. (Also right in saying that the little black with the four white socks is Kenneth and he likes peanut butter on toast but I sincerely doubt that youse up-market types know what peanut butter is.)

    Uh, they look rather like polo ponies because they are, Herr Weil. Oh—gulp—your brother plays? That’d be Gerhard Weil, then, would it? Mm. (Talking of brothers.) Uh, yeah, seen him play: very fine player indeed. Uh—well, used to, some time back. (And thanks for that, Harry and Sally, they really needed to know about the wound and the fucking shoulder! And who the Hell told y— Well, several candidates, come to think of it, with the bloody Macdonald boys at the top of the list.) –Yes: thanks, Sandy, do let’s be off, and Harry can certainly ride beside you, thanks. (And bless you, you uncritical, sensible, helpful treasure of a guest!)

    … “I’m drawing a veil,” he warned Honey at the end of the very long afternoon.

    “I would, yeah. Those were genuine Armani fawn safari suits on four of them, were they?”

    “Something very like that. And the hats to match,” he groaned.

    “Yeah, I noticed that. They’d can’t of been in the country long enough to find a very expensive Akubra shop.”

    “R.M. Williams shop, as Steve Macdonald would say—no. Well, no: think they all came straight from the airport in Vince’s camouflage four-wheel-drive and can I please, please, have a very large, very cold— Bless you,” he groaned as she handed him one.

    “I don’t know how Vince stands it!” he concluded, having sunk it.

    “Me, neither,” said Honey thoughtfully. “It’s just as well you told that English mate of yours you didn’t want to manage the ecolodge, eh?”

    “My God, yes!” Gil agreed fervently.

    2nd January. Tuesday. –Was it? Gosh, already? Grubby socks and undies in his ’ot little ’and, Gil wandered through to the laundry and looked numbly at the huge wad of jeans, undies, shirts, aprons, tea-towels and bath towels stuffed into their washing-machine.

    “We had better do those—”

    “Jesus! Will you not do that at this hour?”

    “Sorry!” replied his sister-in-law with a wide grin. “I was just gonna say, we had better do those, ’cos half of them are leaving tomorrow and there’ll be all their sheets and towels to do.”

    “Exactly.” Gil got on with it…

    … Still 2nd January. Still Tuesday. Still not all that long after crack of dawn. Uh—no, Scott—Lissa—Toby—Diana—very sorry, but no can do long trek. Yesterday was a short trek day, yes. Nevertheless, no can do long trek today. Monday is scheduled as an extra short trek day, because that’s the day we expect a lot of our clients to turn up mid-morning, see? They didn’t see but something in his voice must have said something because they shut up, didn’t even need Dennis to roar at them. Well, in that case, Gil, could they—golly, they were asking, not telling?—could they take their bikes out this morning and have a short trek this arvo? Most certainly. Uh, down to the point? But that only took— No, on second thoughts he’d jes’ lay low and say nuffin’, like Brer Rabbit. Very doable, mm. See you later, then! RING, RING, R— Hullo, Vince. Eight? How many guests did they have in, for Christ’s— Oh. Eight of the ones that had already had a ride. It wasn’t that they didn’t need the extra money, but…

    Okay, Sandy, you’ll come this afternoon, fine. That means Phil and Jen can take Amanda, Dennis, Anita, Lance and the two little Grovers this morning—very well, Felicity, too, if you’re sure you can manage it—and— Oh, hullo, Danno—Will. Okay, Ted, thanks: you, Phil and Jen can take Danno and Will, Felicity, Amanda, Dennis, Anita, Lance and the two little Grovers this morning—that makes nine horses in use plus Goldie and the ponies, leaving three horses—no, Kenneth’s leg had better be rested this morning—leaving two horses.

    Vince? We can take two this morning and six this afternoon so long as they’re six reasonably experienced ones. Right—sorted.

    Off they went and Gil went out onto the verandah and stared fixedly at the drive…

    “What are you looking for?”

    “Jesus! Will you stop doing that!” he gasped. “Well, a horse float, Honey.”

    “Those two extra horses? The day after New Year’s Day? Get real,” she replied tolerantly.

    Okay, he’d get real. In fact he’d get very real and go and take a long, hard look at Kenneth’s leg. …No heat at all, fit as a flea. Thank God! Was there any hope at all that a cheery Aussie who’d promised two horses for “First week of January, mate!” would actually get them here by—well, given that they had new punters arriving on Thursday and Friday, the end of the week? …Don’t answer that.

    3rd January. Wednesday. Crack of dawn. Giant cooked breakfast, no holds barred, sausages, bacon, eggs, tomatoes, and Pete’s special hash browns (prepared the night before and reheated by Jen to his exact specifications), after which the Grovers—You’ve said goodbye to the ponies, Sally, GET INTO THE CAR!—the Grovers and the Braithwaites—Will you four clots pull your fingers out and GET THOSE BIKES LOADED—the Grovers and the Braithwaites departed. Phew!

    Sudden silence.

    “Quiet, isn't it?” noted Sandy Parry with a laugh in her voice.

    “I’ll say!” Gil agreed. “Come for a lovely long ride, Sandy?”

    “I’ll be up for that!”

    And since Ted was already doing the giant load of guests’ sheets and towels and had told Gil to sling ’is ’ook, and Jack was cleaning the guests’ sitting-dining room and had told Gil to push off, they went. Not even waiting to see if Danno and Will might turn up, today.

    4th January. Thursday. Crack of dawn. Having downed a giant breakfast which this morning included stewed nectarines with the muesli—stewed by Pete the night before but presented by a beaming Honey in person—good grief, she liked the woman!—Sandy Parry shook Gil’s hand excruciatingly hard, thanked him and Honey for a great holiday, and took off.

    “That only leaves Felicity: I bet she’s still asleep.”

    “Uh-huh.” Gil stared fixedly at the drive…

    “Those two extra horses won’t be here yet,” said Honey mildly.

    How very true.

    … Still 4th January. Still Thursday. Gone nine. Having finished her modest breakfast of toast, coffee and cornflakes—without benefit of stewed nectarines, though there was still a great bowlful of them in the fridge—Felicity Halliday shook Gil’s hand in an ’orrid, warm, clinging one, thanked him and Honey for a lovely time, asked Gil to say goodbye for her to Pete—even though she’d thanked him in person and said goodbye warmly to him yesterday—pressed “just little somethings to say thank you” into their palsied mitts, and took off.

    “Pocket-size picture of a gum tree by B. Anderson,” discovered Gil limply.

    “Mine’s some little pressed flowers in a pocket-size frame: one of Deanna’s. –I tell ya what, I don’t know how that nice Jan Martin puts up with her!”

    “Uh-huh.” Gil stared fixedly at the drive…

    “It’s only Thursday, I’ll bet you anything ya like they won’t get here today.”

    “You’re undoubtedly right,” he sighed.

    “Heck, they’ve all gone,” she then discovered.

    “Uh-huh. Um, well, last lot of washing and make up bunks for the ones that are due today?”

    “Jack’s already done that.”

    “Othello’s occupation’s gone, then, Honey!” admitted Gil. “Um, well, rest the horses, eh?’

    “Mm.”

    “Well, um—s’pose we’d better not take off for the supermarket with six new punters due today… Coffee and a nice sit-down on the verandah?”

    “Yeah, why not?” she agreed comfortably.

     They did that…

    Still 4th January. Still Thursday. BLAA-AAAH! Gil came to with a gasp.

    “That’ll be them,” noted Honey, blinking and yawning.

    Uh—Damn. Large silver-grey four-wheel-drive. “Right: punters,” he said feebly.

    “Not horses!” she squeaked, collapsing in giggles.

    “Yeah, hah, hah. –Yes! Hullo! Park over there! Over THERE!”

    Okay, it was the Corbetts. Mr and Mrs—Greg and Caitlin—and the two kids. Chelsea, possibly not how it was spelled, aged about thirteen and well into the Punk look—no, hang on, what did they call it these days? Black lipstick, black muck round the eyes, horrid spiky dog collar, horrid spiky hair, black-painted fingernails, black leather miniskirt, black tee, the kid was Death only slightly warmed—Goth! That was it! The Bride of Frankenstein in person. She looked very, very sulky. Chandler, aged about nine, looked, though loftily bored, just the type to join in anything the Macdonald boys might suggest. –Gil had rung Steve yesterday evening and begged him to keep them at home today, as the horses were going to be rested.

    “She’s going to be buried in that stupid Walkman thing the whole week!” Chelsea’s mother informed Gil bitterly.

    Buried in— Oh! Listening device with ear pieces, yes.

    “He’s just as bad, with that bloody video game,” noted Chandler’s father sourly.

    Uh—hand-held electronic device, right.

    “Never mind, if they just want to stay home I’ll keep an eye on them, but it’ll be very boring for them, with everyone else out with the horses,” said Honey with a lovely smile. This went over really well and the adult Corbetts followed her eagerly to the bunkhouse, Chelsea and Chandler shuffling and shambling along behind…

    4th January. Still Thursday. On the verandah again. BLAA-AAAH! Gil came to with a gasp.

    “There’s some more people,” said a small voice.

    Uh—Damn. Silver-grey family sedan. “Right, uh, Chelsea: punters. Uh—guests.—YES! HULLO! Park over THERE!—Where’s your family?”

    “Gone for a stupid walk before lunch,” she said sourly.

    Uh-huh. Right. What was the ti— Oh. Eleven-thirtyish. The silver-grey family sedan was now disgorging a silver-grey couple who looked more like Bob’s punters than theirs, ooh, ’eck. Mr and Mrs Donovan. Peter and Judy. They were thrilled to be here and of course they weren’t really riders—ya don’t say—but they thought just a little bit of gentle sitting-on, and they loved horses! They always put twenty dollars on the Melbourne Cup! And they’d heard there was a lovely restaurant and an art and crafts centre— Right. Okay. So be it. There were going to be plenty of mounts available for Danno and Will, that was for sure.

    … Still Thursday. Back on the verandah again. Chelsea came and sat by him silently. Well, good, at least the kid wasn’t chattering.

    After quite some time she offered abruptly: “That ole lady’s mad.”

    “I’d say she was very typical of her age and sex, Chelsea,” Gil replied mildly.

    “Yeah, but heck! Can she even get on a horse?”

    “I don’t really think she wants to.”

    More silence and just sitting…

    “My friend Melissa, she’s not really a friend, they live down the road from us, she belongs to a stupid pony club,” she offered.

    “That’s fairly typical of her age and sex,” Gil replied drily.

    Chelsea gave a startled guffaw. “Um, yeah,” she admitted, eyeing him sideways.

    “You don’t have to ride if you don’t want to—in fact if you don’t want to I’d rather you didn’t, the horses won’t like it.”

    “Um, no,” she replied uncertainly.

    More silence and just sitting…

    “Hey, look!”

    Gil came to with a start. “Oh, thank God, the other horses! –HONEY! They’ve COME! –Over THERE!” He waved the horse box over to the side of the sweep furthest from the guests’ cars and hurried over, as a thin girl in jeans jumped down and competently unloaded an undistinguished brown thing with blackish mane, tail and legs, a fat-as-butter chestnut mare with a white nose, and a little, meek, grey—

    “A donkey!” gasped Chelsea at his elbow.

    “Help, it’s a donkey!” gasped Honey, stock-still on the sweep three yards away. “We didn’t order one of those!”

    Er—quite. “I say, what’s the donkey all about?” he said to the thin girl.

    “He’s for you. You are a horse refuge, aren’t you?”

    “Ooh, isn’t he cute?” cried Honey.

    “Ooh, ye-ah!” breathed Chelsea.

    Ulp! Well, the thing wouldn’t eat much—actually it didn’t look as if it had eaten much recently— “Look, we’re not a horse refuge and I’ve no intention of paying for him, but I’ll take him on that basis,” said Gil resignedly.

    “Righto. Sign here.”

    Feebly he signed for all three of them. Er, “Raven” was presumably the black-maned brown, and “Margery Daw” must be the mare, but “1 donkey”?

    “What’s his name?” he said feebly. “Not One Donkey, presumably?”

    “Dunno, mate, I’m just the driver. Neddy? Think ’e might of been dumped on them, actually. See ya!” And with that she hopped into the horse box and away.

    That left Gil clutching the head ropes of two placid quarter horses and a very stubborn-looking donkey.

    “Come on: hup, Raven! Hup, Margery Daw!” Oh, God: Raven and the mare hupped obediently but the little donkey didn’t move. Gil hauled at his rope. No go.

    “I’ll get a carrot!” Honey rushed inside.

    “That’ll make him move!” Chelsea informed Gil helpfully.

    Honey rushed back with a carrot. “Here we go, little Neddy!” she cooed.

    Surprisingly enough the creature snuffed up the carrot and ate it.

    “What was that supposed to do?” croaked Gil.

    “Yeah, what?” agreed Chelsea sourly.

    “Um—oh.”

    “Yes, ‘oh.’ Now, I don’t care whether that thing stands there all day, but kindly take his rope, Honey, and don’t let go. Actually, you’d better hold it as well, Chelsea. I’ll be back,” he threatened. With that he led the well-behaved Raven and Margery Daw off to the paddock.

    Gee, when he came back Honey and Chelsea were still both hanging onto the donkey’s rope and the bloody thing was still just standing there.

    “He won’t budge!” gasped Honey, very flushed.

    “Donkeys are like that. Get some more carrots.”

    “Hey, she’s dumb, eh?” noted Chelsea as Honey hurried inside again.

    “Not really, just very soft-hearted and not used to donkeys.”

    Honey returned with the carrots and by dint of not letting the creature have one until it was round the back of the house, or another one until it was—“Stand by to open the gate, Chelsea! Now!” BIFF!—in the bloody horse paddock, it was finally corralled.

    “Aren’t you going to give him the rest of the carrots?” said Honey sadly.

    “No, I’m going to give them to those who’ve been a good boy and a good girl! Come on, Raven! Come on, Margery Daw!”

    Chelsea then watched avidly as Gil fetched some fodder and filled a bucket of water for the newcomers, making sure they all three drank. Then Molly, Blackie, and Kenneth, who seemed to have decided after Gil had inspected his leg several times that he was his best friend, were fended off while all three ate.

    “Almost lunchtime,” realised Gil feebly, looking at his watch.

    “Help, I’m supposed to be helping Pete!” Honey rushed off.

    “Come on, Chelsea; One Donkey will still be there after lunch,” said Gil kindly.

    “Um, could I ride him?” she asked in a very small voice.

    “Uh—dunno if he’s used to being ridden, and we haven’t got a saddle for him, but if he’ll let you, you can try, sure.”

    “Would he be strong enough, though?”

    “Oh, Hell, yes! They can carry huge loads, you know. You see them all over the Middle East, laden with mountains of stuff.”

    “Have you seen them?”

    “Er—yes, I have.”

    “Oh, good! Hey, One Donkey’s quite a good name, eh? Better than Neddy!” she said on a note of scorn.

    “Mm, I think so.”

    “Good, we’ll call him that!” decided Chelsea. “Can I give him something?”

    “Well, you can try.” He gave her a few horse nuts. Either because Providence was merciful or because the thing really was starving, it came and ate them. Phew! Gil looked at the kid’s shining eyes and didn’t say a single, solitary thing.

    5th January. Friday. Mid-morning. A young, slim, tanned, fit-looking Russ Winters and a young, slim, tanned, fit-looking Dee Czerny had arrived around eightish, dumped their stuff, downed coffees and eagerly joined Mr and Mrs Corbett, Susan Pendleton, M. and Mme Montalbert and Herr and Frau Weil on Phil’s long trek. Whether Susan had been expecting Ted to go, not clear.

    Gil was in the paddock, supervising Chandler on one of the ponies, Danno on Blackie, Will on the other pony, Mrs Donovan on Molly, Mr Donovan on Connie (a gelding: short for Constellation), who was one of the sturdiest of the polo ponies, and Chelsea on One Donkey. They were all riding very slowly round, and round, and round…

    Over by the fence David Walsingham collapsed in sniggers. Loftily Gil ignored him.

    “Eyes front! Back straight, Danno! Hands well down, Peter, this isn’t a Western.”

    “No, it’s a one-ring circus!” choked David.

    Loftily Gil ignored him, and the riders went slowly round, and round, and round…

    6th January. Saturday. Mid-morning. Four young, slim, tanned, fit-looking people—Hayley Thorpe, Ross Gordon, Jay Chang and Sean Tarasenko: no-one need try to tell Gil Australia wasn’t the melting pot!—had arrived together yesterday evening. And that made a full house.

    Gil looked feebly at Honey’s shopping list. “Yikes.”

    “Mm. Um, well, Pete says if we leave it any longer we’ll run out of all the basics.”

    “Okay, supermarket, ho?”

    They did that.

    7th January. Sunday. Evening. Very quiet and peaceful: the punters were tuckered out from Phil’s long trek or more schooling in the paddock—not Peter and Judy Donovan, they’d been for a lovely drive and found a place that sold lovely goat’s milk soap. Nothing to do but watch telly—er, in view of the ABC’s Sunday night holiday fare, possibly not. It wasn’t repeats of Parkinson—no, that was Saturday. Repeats of indifferent murder mysteries and of their one religious documentary series—well, English, but it had an Australian announcer introducing it—followed by very, very old, very bad Forties movies. Okay, Bedfordshire: tomorrow was, after all, another working day.

    8th January. Monday morning. The punters had gone on Phil’s short trek—except for the Donovans, who thought they’d just take it easy. Even Chelsea and Chandler had gone, on the ponies.

    Gil did all the chores he could think of, then wandered aimlessly round to the front sweep. He wandered round to the back… Um, coffee? According to Pete he was welcome to a coffee but according to Honey he was in the way. He wandered out again…

    He was communing with One Donkey, who’d become extremely amenable, what with all the food, not to say all the treats he was getting, when BLAA-AAAH! BLAA-AAAH!

    He hurried down to the front sweep. Ann’s station-waggon, with Ann leaning against it.

    “Gidday, Gil, I found this down the bus stop at Barrabarra: think it’s yours!” she beamed as her passenger got out slowly.

    It was a short girl with untidy dark curls, wearing a crushed pink tee and blue je— Christ!

    “Rosemary!”

    “Hullo, Gil,” she said in a small voice. “I know it’s no warning but I got a cancellation and—and Mum and Dad wouldn’t listen to a thing I said, but it’s my life! So I—I just came.”

    “Of course,” he croaked dazedly, not knowing what he was saying. “—Oh, Lor’, have you been having endless rows with them?”

    “Mm,” she agreed.

    Ann was watching the scene avidly. Now she said with a twinkle in her eye: “Well, if you think it’s gonna be okay, Rosemary, I’ll shove off. But in case you need me, we’re just up the road.”

    Gil took a deep breath. “It’s gonna be okay. Thanks very much, Ann.”

    “Yes. Thank you, Ann. For everything,” said Rosemary in a tiny voice.

    “Righto! See ya!” replied Ann with a laugh, slinging her hook.

    “I tried to ring you from the airport,” said Rosemary in a tiny voice, “but my horrid phone wouldn’t work.”

    “Uh—think it might have to be an Australian phone,” he said dazedly. “Never mind, you got here!”

    “Mm. I couldn’t bring all the books, they were too heavy.”

    “The books?” he said feebly.

    “My textbooks on small business management and practical cuisine for the small-scale hospitality business. I brought the best small business one for you, and the recipe book.”

    “Good. I—I’m terrifically glad you’re here, Rosemary, darling,” said Gil in a shaking voice.

    At this she looked up at him, the huge blue eyes full of tears, wailed: “Oh, Gil!” and threw herself at him.

    Somehow Gil managed to catch her and somehow he managed to kiss her fiercely, whereupon Rosemary kissed him back fiercely. Confessing at last: “I was afraid it might’ve worn off.”

    “Christ, no!” he said fervently.

    “Mm,” she agreed with a shaky smile.

    “Uh—darling, much though I’d like to fall into bed, um, it’s the beginning of a long working day and, uh, there are other people in the house.”

    “That’s okay,” replied Rosemary bravely, holding up her chin. “I don’t want to be a nuisance. I’ll just pitch in, if—if you need me, Gil.”

    “Need you!” He caught her to him and kissed her fiercely again.

    Rosemary emerged from this embrace very flushed and smiling. “So I won’t be a burden to you?”

    “No! Uh—” Turbulent though his emotions were, Gil’s mouth twitched. “Most certainly not if you passed this practical cuisine course of yours. Did you?”

    “Yes. It was only a Pass grade and I still can’t crack eggs professionally, and my soufflés never rose, but soufflés are too fancy, even the tutor admitted that one would only do them for a special occasion.”

    Gil gave a crazy laugh: lately he’d had a strong feeling that he’d never hear darling Rosemary say “one” ever again. “One would, indeed! In that case you most certainly won’t be a burden, in fact you’ll be a tremendous help, and you can start—er—perhaps as assistant cook, let’s say—right now!”

    “Really? Extra-fabuloso, darling Gil!” she beamed.

    It was that, all right. Grinning, Gil put his arm round her waist and led her into the house.

    And ten minutes later Rosemary was settled at the kitchen table drinking coffee and listening in silent awe to Pete’s culinary advice and Honey was beaming at the pair of them! Thank You, Merciful Providence, I owe You one and kindly forget about all that what I thunk when me lung got shot up. And I promise I’ll be a very, very good boy for the rest of my life and there’ll be no more backsliding, for ever and ever, amen.

    “What?” said Honey with a smile, looking round at him.

    “Uh—nothing,” said Gil feebly. “Well, only that this is something like, isn’t it?”

    “It sure is!” she said kindly.

    “Not bad at all,” agreed Pete, grinning at him.

    “Extra-fabuloso, darling Gil!” approved Rosemary.

Next chapter:

https://theroadtobluegums.blogspot.com/2022/11/mixed-doubles.html