The Geese Are Getting Fat

10

The Geese Are Getting Fat

    “He’s a got a male peer group in there,” Honey reported glumly to Ann.

    Yeah, some of them had thought that might be Honey’s reaction when she discovered Ted Prosser installed in the Jardine place. Not that there seemed to be anything wrong with Ted, as such: he was slim, quite nice-looking, had a pleasant, unassuming manner and actually, was about the right age for Honey. “At least Ted’s not another British Army bloke,” she replied kindly.

    “Small mercies,” said Honey glumly. “He is British.”

    So was Bernie, of course. Ann eyed her a trifle drily.

    “Help! Sorry, Ann!” she gasped, turning scarlet.

    “That’s okay. I know exactly whatcha mean, actually.”

    “Mm,” said Honey gratefully, swallowing.

    Ann handed her a mug of instant. “Get that down you. –At least Ted seems to have gingered Gil up a bit.”

    “Mm… Me and Phil were just going to let him do things in his own time,” she replied doubtfully.

    That would have been Ann’s choice, too. “Well, I think the fact he’s doing them must mean he feels ready to, Honey,” she said kindly.

    “Yes, that’s true,” she agreed, looking marginally brighter.

    “Um, actually we thought Ted was okay,” said Ann cautiously after the levels in the coffee mugs had sunk a bit and Honey had eaten a biscuit. –Arnott’s orange cream. Artificial-tasting but not nearly as sicky as the lemon ones.

    “Eh? Yeah, I suppose so,” said Honey without interest.

    Well, blow! Another candidate for Honey down the gurgler. Just showed neither Ann nor, as a matter of fact, Bernie, was any good at the matchmaking stuff, eh? “He’ll probably make a better partner for Gil and Phil in this horse-riding thing than that dim-sounding mate of Gil’s would,” she offered.

    “Maybe. I had the impression that Gil was quite looking forward to being able to boss Whatsisface around.”

    Ann swallowed. Honey of course was far from dumb, and Bernie had made almost exactly the same observation. “It seems to be okay at the moment.”

    “I don’t think Gil’s nearly himself again, Ann.”

    Ann ate an orange cream desperately. Whew, that was strong stuff! “Gee, these orange creams aren’t bad, eh?”

    “Is that what they are? They’re much nicer than the ones with the yellow filling.”

    “I’ll say! I’ll tell Bernie to lay off the yellow ones, even if they are on special,” she decided.

    “Yeah, I would, they’re nauseating,” agreed Honey seriously.

    “Mm. Uh—I can’t see Gil and Ted coming to blows even when he is fully recovered, Honey.”

    “Not blows, as such. I think,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “that Gil might get bored if he can’t be the boss.”

    She was bright, all right. Ann gulped. “Yeah,” she agreed weakly. “See whatcha mean. But—um, well, none of us knows the details, though I’ve got a fair idea he’s told Gil, and I think Jack knows more than he’s letting on, but we got the impression that Ted’s been through a fair bit. I think he might be quite happy to let Gil take the lead.”

    “Do you? That’s good. Well, it might work out, then.”

    She still didn’t sound too happy about it. Ann looked at her dubiously. “Don’t you fancy the idea after all, Honey?”

    “The horses sound lovely. And I like Gil, and I think it’d be really good for Phil.”

    “But?”

    “I hate cooking,” said Honey miserably. “And they all seem to be taking it for granted that it’ll be me that does it all.”

    Oh, shit! Stupid ruddy males! So much for the flaming twenty-first century! “In that case, Plan B,” said Ann grimly. “I’ll tell Gil, if you don’t feel up to it, Honey, don’t worry.”

    “Thanks, Ann,” she faltered. “But what is Plan B?”

    “Not having you do the ruddy cooking,” admitted Ann. “They can bend their great male minds to finding an alternative.”

    “But they think they have! Jack and Ted went on and on about barbecues and Ted’s even got a plan with a horrible concrete slab on it!”

    “Uh, well, that’s sensible, it’d discourage the nongs from starting a bushfire.”

    Honey groped in her pocket for a hanky. “No,” she said sadly, sniffing. “I mean they’re taking it for granted that it’s all settled. Barbecues with stupid salads and stuff that I’ll have to make!”

    “Potato salad,” said Ann in a dreamy voice.

    “Yes, Jack actually mentioned that!” Honey blew her nose hard. “And I can’t do it: the potatoes always go slimy for me or else they fall apart!”

    “Yep, I know the syndrome,” she agreed. “Don’t worry, Honey, I’ll sort it.” She got up. “In fact I’ll sort it right now. That is, if you can keep an ear out for any stray customers that might’ve ventured out this early by mistake?”

    It was only around ten of a lovely fine Saturday morning. Honey hadn’t come out to Potters Inlet on the bus: Gil had been in town this week and had driven her, Phil and Jen up in his new four-wheel-drive on the Friday evening. She got up, smiling. “Yeah, I’m used to shops, Ann. The antique shop doesn’t get all that many customers in the mornings, either.”

    Of course she was used to shops! Ann went out, meditating some sort of trade-off between the crafts shop and the riding venture. Um… Unfortunately she couldn’t cook, either. Okay, that horse wouldn’t run.

    “Hey, Gil—” she said, going into the kitchen where he was sitting at the table drinking instant and chewing on a ball-point pen.

    “Hullo, Ann! Fancy a cup of dust?”

    “No, just had one, thanks. Hey, have you male nongs considered the point, in all this high-level planning of yours,”—she eyed his writing-pad pointedly—“that Honey can’t cook and hates cooking and doesn’t actually want to cook gallons of potato salad and similar crap for your ruddy horse-trekking clients?”

    “But—” he bleated.

    “But me no buts, thanks, Uncle Gil,” replied Ann with immense satisfaction.

    Gil collapsed in splutters. “Been wanting to work that one off for ages, have you, Ann?” he said cordially, wiping his eyes.

    “Yeah.” Ann sat down and took one of his biscuits, since they were there. “Cripes! What are these?” she choked.

    “Interesting, aren’t they? Rice crackers with seaweed: it’s amazing the things your Australian supermarkets stock!” he beamed.

    Grimly Ann examined the packet. …Okay, not a Pommy leg-pull: rice crackers with seaweed. “They’re sweetish,” she  produced limply.

    “Yes; odd, aren’t they? I rather like them. And seaweed’s supposed to be really good for one!”

    One what? This here seaweed might have been healthful and full of whatever seaweed was full of besides iodine when it came out of the Sea of Japan, yeah! Since then it had been chopped into minute pieces, dehydrated to approx the thickness of a nano-milligram, baked into the rice dough until it reached the texture of your average sheet of bubble-wrap and then flattened with a giant roller and allowed to dry out in the Australian sun for a millen—

    “What?” said Gil.

    “Nothing. Dry, aren’t they?”

    “Crisp,” he said, taking another.

    Crispish, yeah. “Just because they’re in the supermarket, doesn’t mean ya have to buy them, Gil,” she explained kindly.

    Gil collapsed in more splutters, shaking his head madly. “Of course I do, Ann!” he gasped, mopping his eyes.

    “Yeah,” said Ann with a silly grin. “No, see, they’re for the hostess set that imagine they’re into health food. Serve them up with a bit of that Goddawful cream cheese with chilli sauce—actually I think it might be chilli and mango, that or I’m extrapolating, there—and Bob’s yer uncle.”

    “That’s apocryphal,” said Gil weakly.

    “Nope. You wanna watch more TV, mate, it’s amazing how it wises you up about our Aussie cultural icons.”

    “Yes,” said Gil weakly. “I’ll bear it in mind. Er—did you come over a-purpose to warn me that Honey doesn’t want do the cooking for Jardine Horse Treks Incorporated, Ann?”

    “Yeah. –Is that what you’re gonna call it?”

    “Trying it on for size,” he said, smiling. “We thought she seemed quite keen.”

    “That’s because you’re a load of macho idiots with one-track minds,” replied Ann cordially.

    Gil gulped. “Oh.”

    “She is keen on the horses and the general idea, she just doesn’t wanna do the cooking, because she hates cooking and she’s no good at it, see?”

    “Yes. Um, but just breakfasts and salad—”

    “No!”

    Gil bit his lip. “Very well, no. And we’re a lot of purblind macho morons.”

    “Yeah. You’ll have to find someone else. Bite on the bullet and pay someone. Or do it yourselves.”

    “None of us can cook, either. Well, Jack’s apparently capable of digging a giant hole and lighting a fire therein with lots of hot rocks— Don’t let’s go into that,” he decided. “Ted does a mean fried sausage for one, but panics when it’s for two. I’m even worse, and so’s Phil. Burnt toast,” he said glumly.

    “Yeah. Well, that’s my level, too, so I won’t say you can learn. But I will say, don’t suggest Phil’s girlfriend just because she’s a female.”

    “No, I shan’t. Jen’s supposed to be finishing her diploma course,” he replied, smiling at her.

    “Yes. Um, I probably shouldn’t ask this, but what in?”

    “Her subject, Ann? Er, well, sports medicine. I hadn’t realised it was a subject—”

    “Yes,” said Ann kindly, putting him out of his misery. “It’s not as mad as some.”

    “Er—no. There seems to be a lot of Hatha Yoga on the side—I don’t think it’s part of the course—and a great deal of dietetics, but, um, well, they get a lot of choices, I think.”

    “Electives: yes,” said Ann kindly. “Don’t worry, it’s all mad these days, Gil.”

    “Yes,” said Gil gratefully. “Take Rosemary’s course—” He broke off, flushing.

    “Yeah?” said Ann kindly.

    “Um, well, sort of girlfriend, back in Blighty. Years too young for me,” he muttered, redder than ever.

    Ann just managed not to say “I see!” but it was a real effort. “Doing a course, is she?” she offered sympathetically.

    “Mm. Can’t really make out what the subject— Well, um, don’t think it’s hospitality management as such, though she has been doing a bit of reading on that… Small business management?” he said feebly.

    “Sounds likely, there’s loads of that sort of stuff these days.”

    “Mm. Well, may not work out,” he muttered, torturing his ballpoint pen. “Not much of a one for study, for one thing. And then— Well, these enthusiasms wear off when you’re only in your early twenties, don’t they?” he said bleakly.

    Ann did just manage not to gulp. “Depends on the personality. Now, Phil’s Jen strikes me as a really stable sort of girl, young as she is.”

    “Yes,” said Gil glumly. “I don’t think… Well, I don’t know Rosemary well enough to say, frankly, Ann. I suppose if she does eventually come out here and it doesn’t work out she can always go home again.”

    Cripes, what could ya say? Poor bugger! Never mind being shot up, no wonder he wasn’t all that merry and bright! “You have to give these things a chance, is what I always think. Heck, I never thought me and Bernie’d work it out, Gil! I mean, his film work took him all over the world but he was based in England, and I was stuck in Sydney with the Morning Star at the mercy of Jim Hopkins’s blue pencil. But once he’d decided to give the film crap away, we worked it out!”

    “Yes, you did,” said Gil, smiling at her. “You don’t miss your newspaper work, then, Ann?”

    “Heck, no!” said Ann in amazement.

    “No. Lucky you.”

    “Um, Gil, it’s none of my business—”

    “No, ask me anything, Ann.”

    “Well, um, okay. What does Rosemary seem to want?”

    “Uh—she’s got it all worked out!” he said with a crazy laugh. “Me, babies, give it eighteen to twenty years, kids are more or less off our hands, I retire and become a house hubby, she goes back to study, has a career!”

    “As a matter of fact that sounds as if it could work out really well. So many women,” said Ann thoughtfully, taking another seaweed rice cracker, “just plunge into marriage as if life was like a fairy tale—you know, ‘and they lived happily ever after,’ without pausing to think that there is life after a house and kids.” She chewed slowly, and swallowed. “Yeah, sweetish,” she decided. “Probably largely hormonal pre-programming: they can’t help it and Nature doesn’t let them think before they do it. I’d say Rosemary sounds as if she’s really got her head screwed on, Gil,” she concluded kindly.

    “Mm, perhaps you’re right… I think it’s me that can’t help it and can’t think, as a matter of fact,” he confessed ruefully.

    Yeah, well, there was no denying blokes got like that, ’cos if they didn’t, none of them would ever opt for the house and kids, would they? It was just a pity that a large proportion of the younger ones came to and realised it wasn’t what they wanted after all before the kids were big enough to be turfed out of the nest to fend for themselves.

    “Yeah, but if you want it, why not? Well, for most of us it’s a choice between take the risk or just vegetate, eh?” said Ann, taking another rice cracker. “Thought of putting Vegemite on these?”

    Gil blinked. “Er—no.”

    “Salty. Think it might improve them,” she explained. “Can Rosemary cook?”

    “Uh—I very much doubt it.” Suddenly Gil found he was telling Ann all about that ridiculous lunch the peach had provided.

    Mercifully, she didn’t laugh, she just smiled and said: “It sounds yummy, actually, though I dunno about the stinky cheese! Anyway, if she wants to have a family it wouldn’t be fair to expect her to bear the brunt of the cooking for the horse trekkers. Little kids aren’t just time-consuming, they’re very tiring. I know it’s not fashionable to take that attitude these days, but it’s true. Heck, Mum and Aunty Rae both threw ten fits when I told them Dot was expecting, only then I explained she was gonna give up the job and they calmed down. See, she was working fulltime in IT support while Bob and Deanna did up the B&B, and only coming up for weekends.”

    Gil nodded a trifle groggily. “So, your parents live locally, do they, Ann?”

    “There’s only Mum these days: Dad was a lot older, he popped off ages ago. Um, well, locally in our terms, maybe, Gil! Coffs Harbour: northern New South Wales, out on the coast. It’s quite a popular place to retire to: she’s been there for about ten years, now. But Aunty Rae does live near us: you go through Potters Inlet and head inland, it’s about a two-hour drive.”

    “Oh, yes: I think you’ve mentioned her before.”

    “Yeah. I could ask her if she knows anyone that fancies cooking for you: you never know!” decided Ann happily. “And Jen or her mother might know of someone. Anyway, we’ll ask around!”

    “Thanks. Er—they’ll have to be compatible and not want, er, a fancy lifestyle,” he warned limply. “Well, not a lifestyle, really!” he admitted with a feeble laugh.

    “No, ’course not! But there’s plenty of time, yet. I’ll go and give Honey the good news,” she said, getting up.

    Gil just sat there limply as she went out. Oh, Hell. What a tit he was, not to have seen that poor Honey wasn’t keen! No, well, all four male morons had got pretty much carried away, but— No. Chief tit.

    A trifle unfortunately Ted, Jack and he were inspecting the spot for the barbecues’ concrete slab when Honey came back: in fact Jack was estimating the probable amount of concrete it’d take and Ted was checking him, or possibly correcting him, on a pocket calculator.

    Gil took the bull by the horns. “There you are, Honey! Why on earth didn’t you tell me where I got off about the cooking nonsense? We’ll find someone else to do it, don’t worry.”

    “Yes,” said Honey, swallowing hard. “Thanks, Gil. I could help. I mean, I could chop stuff.”

    “Only if you want to. There’ll be the laundry and all sorts of stuff, if you want to contribute.”

    “Of course I want to, only I really hate cooking,” she said, going very red.

    “It’ll really only be salads and breakfasts,” put in Jack.

    “Shut up, Jack. She is not going to do the bloody salads and breakfasts, and that’s that!”

    “I thought you wanted to, Honey,” put in Ted.

    “Shut up, Ted. She doesn’t want to. Being female does not ipso facto make one a cook. If necessary I’ll send bloody Phil on an elementary catering course!”

    “He can do sandwiches,” put in Honey on a helpful note.

    Gil had to swallow. “Well, yes,” he agreed, rallying, “so he bloody can, after all that training of Sal’s! In that case he can damn’ well put his skills to work for us and do the packed lunches!”

    “Good idea,” grunted Jack. “Should of thought of that ages ago.”

    “That’s what he does, you see, Ted,” said Honey shyly.

    “Makes sandwiches?” said Ted very faintly indeed.

    “Yes, thought you’d realised,” replied Gil cheerfully. “Jen’s mother is Sal’s Sandwiches, just along from the antiques place where Honey works. Phil’s been there two years, now. Preparation, sandwich making, delivering and cleaning up.”

    “Yeah. Never done the buying in, mind,” added Jack. “–Need to borrow a grader, Ted,” he noted by the by.

    “Yeah. I’ll speak to George. Or maybe Andy Mallory knows a Greek chap that can let us have one! Well, if this Sal is Jen’s mum she can probably tell us what ingredients to buy.”

    “He knows the ingredients, it’s the quantities, Ted,” explained Honey.

    “Mm, think I meant that, really, Honey. But it’ll all be trial and error to start with, anyway, won’t it?”

    “Yes. And a lot of stuff can go in the big freezer. Not the sliced tomatoes, of course,” she said seriously, “but other stuff.”

    “Uh—yeah,” said Ted on a weak note, avoiding Gil’s eye.

    Gil put an arm round Honey’s shoulders. “I’ll repeat it, just so that it really sinks in with the rest of the male morons. Being female does not make one an expert on any aspect of cuisine.”

    “It’s sunk in,” said Ted limply.

    “Yeah, about ten hours back. Sorry, Honey, didn’t mean to take you for granted,” said Jack.

    “That’s all right. Capable people like you always assume that all women are capable in a kitchen, don’t they?” replied Honey calmly.

    “Apparently, yes,” said Gil quickly, as the other male morons were just standing there with their mouths open. “While the peer group’s assembled, and since we’re on the subject of food, bend the great male minds to Christmas, would you? Not assuming that Honey’s going to cook a giant roast turkey for us, or even that we’ve got a giant roasting oven wherein to cook such!”

    Oddly, Honey collapsed in sniggers at this last crack, while the other two members of Gil’s peer group merely grinned sheepishly.

    “The oven does work,” offered Jack.

    “Shut up,” warned Gil unsteadily.

    “The hot-plate Gil bought in Sydney works, certainly,” noted Ted drily. “And that old microwave’s okay if you watch it like a hawk.”

    “He means the actual oven, Ted,” explained Honey.

    As Ann had recently given Honey some geranium cuttings in pots which she had set carefully on the top of the old iron stove there was possibly some excuse for Ted’s goggling at her. Nevertheless Gil ordered brutally: “Stop that goggling this instant, Prosser! There is an actual oven and thanks to Jack it’s spanking clean, but it’s as old as the house and no-one is going to cook anything in it! Clear?”

    “Yessir, Colonel, sir!” replied Ted smartly, saluting.

    “It’d make the house too hot, anyway,” conceded Jack.

    “That or burn—it—down!” squeaked Honey helplessly. She laughed so much that she staggered out of Gil’s grasp, staggered round in an unsteady circle on the bumpy grass, and collapsed onto it.

    “My point exactly,” noted Gil as the other male morons grinned feebly. “—Well? Christmas!” he shouted as they just looked blank.

    “I can do jelly,” said Honey helpfully. “So long as the fridge is behaving itself.”

    “Good. That’s one. Jack?”

    “Uh—dunno. I mean, am I coming over here for it?”

    “Only if you can con-trib-ute,” said Gil evilly.

    “Uh—right. Okay, well, ta!” he said, brightening. “George’ll be home, only Susan’s coming up, forget what he said her kids are doing this year but anyway they won’t be home, so she’s decided to come up and spruce up old Andy’s idea of Christmas dinner.”

    “Which is?” asked Gil with interest.

    Jack scratched his short silvered curls. “Don’t think you wanna know. Well, ice cream and fruit salad for pudding—don’t think ’e runs to jelly, Honey.”

    “We can have ice cream, now that Gil’s got the big freezer!” she replied happily. “And fruit salad’s easy, I can do that! What else was he going to have?”

    “Not what ya might think,” he warned.

    “Come on, Jack, the suspense is killing us!” said Ted with a laugh.

    “What my respected colleague just said, Mr Speaker,” agreed Gil.

    “Well, tinned—”

    “Baked beans,” said Gil.

    At the same time Honey was saying: “Spaghetti,” and Ted was saying: “Baked beans.”

    “Know you’d think that!” replied Jack pleasedly. “No. Tinned frankfurters. Think they might be American. Bit squashy. Anyway, them. With frankfurter buns and piccalilli and tomato sauce.”

    There was a short silence.

    “That’s revolting, all right,” conceded Ted.

    “I don’t think I’d like them with piccalilli,” said Honey dubiously.

    “Andy’s mad on it,” replied Jack calmly. “Anyway, Susan’ll put the kybosh on it, poor ole joker.”

    Gil sat down beside Honey and hugged his knees. “Mm… Frankfurters as such aren’t a bad idea. Not squashy tinned ones, though.”

    “Ye-es, only sometimes the fresh ones have horrid little chips of bone in them,” said Honey.

    “Ugh! I don’t think we want to risk anyone’s choking to death on Christmas Day, up here miles from the nearest hospital. Okay, scrub frankfurters. Next suggestion, Jack.”

    “That wasn’t a suggestion,” the unfortunate man replied weakly. “Um, well, dunno. Bit of a barbie? Um, well, ordinary Aussie sausages are okay, aren’t they?”

    “Who knows? Possibly they also may contain nasty little chips of bone,” replied Gil grimly. “I think we’ll be on the safe side and say no sausages of any kind. Steak?”

    “Well, yeah, only you haven’t got a barbie, yet,” returned Jack simply.

    “Uh—no. That is not funny!” he noted sternly as Honey gave way to muffled sniggers. “I’ll buy one. On Monday. Do people agree to steak?”

    “Well, yeah, in principle, only can ya cook it, Gil?” replied Jack.

    “Of course not,” said Honey unsteadily. “He’s an officer.”

    There was a short silence. Gil cleared his throat.

    “Jesus, you’ve never cooked it in your life, have you?” said Ted in awe.

    “Shut up, Prosser, you’re the one that panicked when he was asked to fry up two breakfast sausages instead of one! I can singe a steak in a pan, on a stove, in a house. The fact that I’ve never cooked one on an actual barb—” He didn’t go on: they were all yelping with laughter.

    Eventually Ted offered, wiping his hand across his eyes: “Those breakfast bangers didn’t have any chips of bone in them.”

    “That was possibly just good luck. We’re not taking the risk on Christmas Day,” said Gil grimly. “This is the British Empah, in case you’ve forgotten it: the whole country will be closed!”

    “Yes, um, the Royal Flying Doctor Service might— Only I don’t think they do this area,” said Honey on a humble note.

    There was a short silence. Gil, he was relieved to note, was not the only one who was looking gob-smacked. British Empah or not, they’d all forgotten what country they were in. “Um, well, something Australian?” he suggested feebly.

    “Barbecues are, aren’t they?” returned Jack.

    “Spanish, I think, but that’s long since lost in the mists of time,” murmured Ted. “Let’s call for volunteers, since this whole thing seems to be organised on a proper military footing.”—Here Honey collapsed in sniggers again but Gil almost managed to pretend he hadn’t noticed. Really! Weren’t people rude?—“Hands up those who claim to be capable of cooking a decent steak on a barbecue.”

    Everybody looked at everybody else. No-one’s hand went up.

    “That’s steak out, then,” Ted concluded drily.

    “No, it isn’t: I’ll do it in the pan, on my hot-plate,” said Gil heavily.

    “We haven’t even voted for it, yet,” replied Ted.

    “If this thing’s on a proper military footing, other ranks don’t get a vote, Prosser.”

    “Go and stand in the corner, Ted! I mean the military thingo!” squeaked Honey, collapsing again.

    “Fifty times round the parade ground in full kit, at the double!” agreed Ted, with a snigger.

    “Really! Aren’t they rude?” said Gil crossly to Jack.

    “Yeah, something like that. –Oy, Honey! Do you like steak?”

    Honey produced a handkerchief. She blew her nose hard, and beamed at them. “Not awfully much, not when it’s all red inside, to tell you the truth.”

    “On yer feet, Sotherland, it’s all yer buttons ripped off, yer sword broken over me knee and the firing squad for you,” noted Jack with a certain relish.

    “What has the man been watching?” wondered Gil to the cerulean Australian sky.

    “Uh—Saskatchewan?” suggested Ted, clearing his throat.

    “I’ll let that pass,” decided Gil. “But I should just warn you there’s a lady present. –Okay, Honey, my dear: you tell us what you’d fancy for Christmas dinner. Given the premise that none of us can cook,” he added hurriedly.

    “Um… You know what I’d really like? One of those lovely quiches, ready-made! With a choice of ham or asparagus or sun-dried tomato!” she beamed. “They are expensive, but just for a treat?”

    There was a short silence, during which all three males sedulously avoided one another’s eyes.

    “Fine. That nice delicatessen that Sal recommended does them, doesn’t it?” said Gil on a firm note.

    “Fenella’s Fine Foods—yes; and sometimes they put pine nuts in them!”

    This time the silence could only have been characterised as a pregnant one, never mind the ones it was emanating from were biologically the wrong sex.

    “Yes,” said Gil very, very firmly. “Lovely. At least one with ham, I think, that’ll strike a Christmassy note.”

    “Uh, we could buy a Christmas ham, I suppose,” said Ted feebly.

    “But you have to bake them!” gasped Honey in horror.

    Ted opened his mouth, caught Gil’s eye and shut it again.

    “Quiche,” said Gil firmly. “And possibly a few other goodies from Fenella’s Fine Foods. I’ll buy the fruit for the fruit salad, Honey, don’t worry about that.”

    “Good!” she beamed, scrambling up. “I’m really looking forward to it!”

    They just watched numbly as she hurried indoors.

    Quite some time had elapsed before Gil warned: “Just nobody point out that we could have steak.”

    Jack cleared his throat noisily.

    “Yes?” said Gil sweetly.

    “No! Don’t be a tit! It’ll be a treat for her, ya don’t need to ram it down our throats with a bargepole, Gil!”

    “Good. Um, well, put your drinks orders in now, chaps, don’t think she’ll mind what we drink.”

    “Rum and pineapple,” said Ted heavily.

    “Eh?” croaked Gil.

    “Rum and pineapple, are you DEAF?” he shouted. “She told me she loves the muck!”

    “Well, uh, pineapple juice is easy, the supermarket’s crammed with tins of it,” he admitted.

    “Good. I’ll buy the rum,” said Ted grimly.

    “Uh, but we’ve got— No, very well. Thanks, Ted.”

    “Ice,” said Jack unexpectedly.

    Gil just looked at him limply.

    “Yes,” said Ted definitely. “This is Australia, for those Pommies that have overlooked the point, and one doesn’t drink rum and pineapple without ICE!”

    “Stop yelling,” said Gil feebly. “But, um… Well, help,” he finished.

    “Either the wholesaler’s or down the service station,” said Jack heavily. “—Servo, they say here, have ya noticed?—Yeah. Ice. Party ice. ICE!” he shouted.

    “All right: I know from nothing,” groaned Gil, holding his head.

    “Ya don’t flaming live in the real world, matey, that’s for sure!” replied Jack heatedly.

    “Ice or, indeed, party ice,” explained Ted, “is not a prerequisite of the Pommy lifestyle in the frozen wilderness of the North.”

    “And Saskatchewan to you, too!” retorted Jack with immense satisfaction. “Out here it isn’t a party without ice, geddit? And ya needn’t worry, I’ll get it.” Under their starting eyes he produced a biro from his shirt pocket and a notebook from the back pocket of his jeans and made a note. “Balloons?” he suggested.

    Ted’s mouth was observed to open and shut. Then he said weakly: “I think she’d like them, Gil, don’t you?”

    “Yes. Um, a bicycle pump, Jack?” he groped.

    “Nah, these days ya get them ready filled with helium. Well, think it is. Never tested it empirically. Um, depends what they got left. People put their orders in early for Christmas. Might have to put up with hearts or something silly.”

    “Uh, yes?” groped Gil.

    Jack eyed him tolerantly. “Never mind, you’ll see. –Streamers,” he said to himself, writing. “Want a tree?”

    “Uh—well, yes, Jack, a tree’d be wonderful, only—only where?” said Gil on a wild note, looking around at the wispy native foliage surrounding them.

    “Leave it to me, I seen a place.” Jack made a note.

    “Tree ornaments!” said Ted on an eager note,.

    “Yeah—uh, not naked flames, please,” warned Gil.

    “Nope. Tree lights,” said Jack, writing. “Okay, how’s this?” He read out his list.

    “Yes,” they both said weakly.

    After a moment, since this seemed insufficient, Gil added weakly: “Good show,” and Ted added even more weakly: “I will get the rum. And anything else you think she might like to drink, Gil.”

    “Mm. Well, white, fizzy, sweetish, I’m afraid.”

    “There’ll be plenny of that about,” noted Jack. “That it? You types wanna survey the site for the bunkhouse?”

    Limply the two Pommy types staggered in his wake. Eventually Ted said to Gil in an undertone: “Will Phil be up here for Christmas?” and Phil’s uncle replied grimly: “He will if he knows what’s good for him,” but apart from that, nothing was said.

    “Good,” said Jen on a firm note as Phil’s uncle completed his report. “In that case we’ll bring the Christmas cake. It’ll be a Lions one but I’ll put some marzipan on it and then Royal icing, Mum’s taught me how to do that.”

    Gil sagged. “Lovely. Um, quiche isn’t very exciting, I’m afraid, but—”

    “Shit, if it’s what she likes, Gil! No-one’s ever done anything for her at Christmas, ya know. Well, last year Mum and me made her come to us, but it wasn’t that shit-hot, ’cos it was our year to have old Aunty Kath. I mean, she’s all right, really, only she forgets who you are, half the time. And she’s got a mania for turning the air-con off. I mean, just when you’ve got the house really comfortable the old bat goes round turning all the switches off. Well, not just the air-con: she turned the oven off as well, only Mum was on guard in the kitchen and spotted her, so the turkey wasn’t ruined.”

    “You—you do have turkey, then, Jen?” he croaked.

    “Yeah, ’course, don’t you?” she said in amazement.

    “Uh—some sort of roast bird, yes, but it is our winter,” he croaked.

    “Heck, that doesn’t make any diff’!”

    Apparently not. Gil smiled weakly at her. “No, I see. So what’s Sal doing this year, Jen?”

    Jen grinned. “Going up to Townsville with an old school friend for a week: getting right away from the family! See, Aunty Barb asked her to come to them, but no way! It’d be their front room with Aunty Kath and Uncle Paul’s old Mum fighting it out over the air-con! Mind you, Townsville’ll be stinking humid, but the hotel’ll have air-con, and their rooms’ll be sure to have ceiling fans as well, and they probably won’t do anything more exciting except lie by the pool and drink margaritas, but whatever turns you on!”

    “Right! Er, any idea what I could give Honey, Jen? I mean, she needs so much…”

    “I don’t think she’d say she needs stuff, Gil,” replied Phil’s girlfriend kindly. “There’s a lot of stuff she hasn’t got, yeah, but that’s not the same thing. Well, um, there is something she’d like, only Phil’ll kill me if I let on.”

    “He’ll have to get past me, first!” said Gil with a laugh. “Go on. What is it?”

    It was too expensive, apparently, but she finally admitted that it was an antique brooch. Sort of like a cameo only stone, she thought. Quite pretty, yes. Not in Barry and Kyle’s dump, no, in another dump. Um, well, she could show him if he was gonna be in town next week only it really was too expensive and she was sure Honey would say he should be putting his money into Jardine Holiday Horse Treks.

    “Jardine Horse Treks Incorporated?” he ventured meekly.

    “Mum says there’s laws about whether you can call yourself Incorporated. But we thought it sounded good with Holiday.”

    “Jardine Holiday Horse Treks. Yes, I really like it!” he smiled.

    “Good!” Forthwith Jen poured forth a tremendous amount of information about registering a company name and a trading name and— God!

    “Yes, um, after Christmas?” he ventured.

    “Yeah, they’ll probably lose your application if you send it in now, anyway,” she replied cheerfully.

    Trying not to cringe at this unwelcome indication of Antipodean efficiency, Gil nodded obediently.

    Jen then carefully wrote down the place to meet her in town next week—presumably well out of sight of her mum and Gil’s nephew as well as his sister-in-law—so she couldn’t really be opposed to the brooch on financial grounds after all! Well, good show! ’Cos it was awfully hard to think of something suitable for a person who wasn’t really interested in consumer goods but who manifestly had almost nothing.

    … Right, that was a very nice intaglio brooch. Agate, the shades of white, pale grey and a little tan used quite charmingly. Head of Apollo, possibly. Not very old, no, whatever the shopkeeper might be trying to claim. Gil took it over to the doorway and looked at it in the harsh Australian sunlight. Okay, the pin was a replacement, but the setting was gold.

    “Italian, yes,” he said as the shopkeeper urged that it came from near Rome. “They churned this sort of thing out by the ton for the tourist trade in the later nineteenth century. All those Americans who’d started reading Henry James, and the English Florence crowd… Quite nice, however. Pity about the brass pin.”

    The shopkeeper went very red and stuttered.

    Jen had a look at it. “It needs a keeper, doesn’t it?” she said detachedly.

    Gil took it back. “Mm. I’d say it needs a keeper and a new pin, Jen. However. What was the price, again?” –There was a tag on it but it bore only an arcane pencilled note. Fair warning, yes.

    Looking down his nose, the shopkeeper told him the price.

    “That is dollars, Gil,” Jen reminded him.

    “So it is. It’s still a joke, however. Sorry,” he said, handing it back.

    “Yeah, that’s what I thought!” said Jen in undisguised relief. “Come on, Gil, there’s a miles nicer shop just down a little arcade—”

    Looking uninterested, the shopkeeper named a sum for which he could let it go.

    Gil took a deep breath. Fond as he was of Honey, he had a rooted objection to being suckered. “I’ll give you two options. One, I’ll pay you five hundred less than that, and two, I’ll phone my aunt in London and get her to find me something similar. I’m in no hurry: I can afford to wait.”

    “I’m very sorry, sir,” he said politely.

    So be it. Gil shrugged and outed with his new mobile phone. He had no idea if the thing could even call England, let alone what time it was over there, but—

    “Oh, hullo, Aunt Vera, it’s Gil. –Oh, Lor’, is it? Terribly sorry! No, nothing wrong, except that I’m looking for something nice for Honey, and stuff’s shockingly overpriced here.”—He paused for the diatribe.—“I know, but I want to make a go of it, Aunt Vera. What Honey’d really like is a pretty carved agate brooch, but the locals charge about sixteen times what you’d pay at Sotheby’s. –Mm, something like that lovely Venus of yours, exactly! –Would you? Ta awfully, Aunt Vera, you’re a total brick! Sorry to ring you at such a tarsome hour! –Oh, were you? Good show!—Just driven back from some daft yuletide dance!” he said to Jen with a grin.—“No, no, wouldn’t dream of asking Aunt Bea, she’s got no taste whatsoever! –Yes, merry Christmas to you too, Aunt Vera! –Mm? Oh!” He gave her the phone’s number and rang off.

    “Good, let’s go!” said Jen with a glare at the shopkeeper. Forthwith she grabbed Gil’s arm and marched him out.

    On the pavement he said ruefully: “Principles are all well and good, but after sticking to ’em one tends to end up with nothing, I’ve found. Tarsome, isn’t it?”

    “Never mind,” she replied, scowling terrifically. “That price was blackmail!”

    Yes. Well, that or extortion. “Mm. Well, uh, fancy a coffee?”

    Jen’s clear grey eyes narrowed. “Yeah, that’d be good, and then we’ll check out the good junk shops!” she decided on a fierce note. “We’ll find something much nicer for her at a fraction of the price!”

    Gil shook in his little cotton socks. “Lovely,” he managed to croak.

    So they did it. The coffees were decent espressos—short blacks, in Jen’s vernacular. She was surprised that he wanted a mineral water as well but, only pointing out in passing that that fancy stuff with the bubbles in it was miles too expensive, especially in those little bottles, you could get an Australian spring water for a fraction of the price, let him have it. It was an Italian water with which he wasn’t familiar, but perfectly acceptable. Jen actually let him force a cake on her—well, cake, it was a piece of baklava, so perhaps the place was run by Greeks? Seemed odd in combination with the fridge full of Italian water. The man at the espresso machine was dark-visaged enough and certainly unshaven enough—though the girl taking the money and telling you you had to get the cold drinks from the fridge yourself had bright ginger hair and freckles.

    And then they went to the good junk shops. Where, surprisingly enough in the very last shop they tried, they found it. It was a brooch, yes, Gil having vetoed Jen’s choice, a paperweight, with the remark that although paperweights were collectible this one dated from about 1999 and not everybody fancied paperweights with plastic goldfish in ’em, and Jen having vetoed his alternative: another dome, not with a fish in it but a depressed-looking plastic kangaroo on an unlikely green hill, with, once you’d shaken it up, a snowstorm! A kangaroo in a snowstorm! How could anyone resist— Okay, Honey wouldn’t think it was funny. So he bought it for himself. It could stand on his desk, once he’d bought himself a desk—not that one, thanks, Jen, this might be the twenty-first century but he drew the line at grey plastic—very well, Melamine—even if it was rather scuffed. Honey’s brooch was not plastic, although he didn’t immediately point that out to Jen, as he had an idea that this shopkeeper, a young man with a five o’clock shadow, three earrings and a black tee-shirt that bore the legend “Drednought” in white Gothic lettering, didn’t know what it was.

    In the street she said dubiously: “It is pretty, Gil, but, um, is it enough?”

    Smiling, Gil unwrapped it for her and showed it to her in daylight. “Not plastic. Glass over cut paper. Each of these tiny petals would be cut separately. There was a fashion for them towards the end of the nineteenth century. Largely made in Italy, I think. They weren’t expensive at the time, but it’s charming. I don’t think he knew what it was.”

    Jen looked at it closely and smiled. “I see! Yeah, it’s really pretty!”

    “Mm, ’tis! Uh—is that a public library down the road. Jen?”

    “Um, yeah, it’s a local one. Why?”

    “Humour me,” replied Gil, heading determinedly for it.

    There was a slight hiatus when he got there, as apparently Australian local libraries didn’t have large encyclopaedia volumes, but Jen got him seated in front of a computer and, leaning over him and breathing heavily in his ear, showed him how to use the computerised versions. And eventually, Jen explaining how to use the word processing program and copy stuff—yes, ignore that!—he cobbled together a sheet of paper which contained a smudged picture of a battleship and the following text:

    “Dreadnought. 1. In the early 20th century in the lead-up to World War I, in response to the Germans’ building ever bigger and more heavily armed battleships, the British developed the Dreadnought class, a warship which revolutionized naval warfare.

    “Dreadnought. 2. Admiral Edward Boscawen (1711-1761), a British admiral known for his successes during the naval battles of the first half of the 18th century. Captain of the Dreadnought: ‘Old Dreadnought’ became his nickname.”

    “He won’t take it in!” she predicted, grinning.

    “Nevertheless I shall have done my poor best.”

    “Yeah. Um, actually I thought you were gonna look up the brooch,” she admitted.

    But he knew about— Oh. “Well, then, let’s!” said Gil with a smile. They returned to the computer. Oops, the answer was a lemon.

    “Um, we could ask,” offered Jen without hope.

    There were several persons at the counter, yes. One was a ditsy-looking dame of forty or so with dangling earrings in amongst tangled hennaed curls: she didn’t look as if she knew the time of day. One was a tall, thin boy of about the age of the “Drednought” boy with just as many earrings and, though he was fair, and the effect was thus distinctly odd, a similarly unshaven chin. His tee-shirt was white with the uninspiring message “I (heart) Libraries” in very faded red, but he’d done his best to brighten it up with a large yellow Smiley brooch. Gil had been under the impression those things had died the death in the Seventies. Not in Australian local libraries, clearly. Or possibly the boy was a fan of the local junk shops. In any case, he didn’t look as if he knew anything, especially not how to spell. The third counter person was a girl who looked about fourteen, with a dead-white face, black lipstick and fingernails, and short black spikes all over the head. Strangely, this effect surmounted a very ordinary blue smock. She didn’t strike the unprejudiced eye as being able to do much more than breathe.

    “Try anything once,” he conceded.

     They went up to the counter without hope.

    “Jan’ll know!” said the boy confidently.

    The ditsy dame came up to his elbow and peered at the brooch. “Pretty. Plastic, is it? We’ll ask Jan!”

    Okay, they’d ask Jan. The boy dashed off and they waited, whiling away the time by watching the girl in the smock direct two male OAPs to the toilets (separately), one female OAP to the large-print books and a second female OAP to the magazines. This regardless of the fact that just over there was a very large sign that said “TOILETS” with the appropriate male and female figures on almost equally large signs, just over there was a very large sign that said “LARGE PRINT” and right here were two giant tables covered in magazines and surmounted by a giant hanging sign that said “MAGAZINES & NEWSPAPERS”! The girl appeared completely unmoved by it all and there was very little doubt that she was.

    The boy came back accompanied by a smiling, brown-haired, yellow-suited woman in perhaps her mid-thirties. “This is Jan,” he announced proudly. “She’ll help you!”

    “Jan Martin: I’m the Librarian,” she explained nicely. “Patrick says you’re trying to identify a brooch.”

    “Er, not exactly. We just wondered if you had a book on the subject,” said Gil feebly, showing it to her.

    “Lovely!” said Jan Martin with a smile. “Amazing to think they must have cut each petal out by hand, isn’t it?”

    “Yes,” said Gil, sagging slightly. “It is. I’ve seen paperweights in this sort of cut-paper work, too.”

    “Of course, yes. They’re quite rare, these days. We have got a book on the craft.”

    “I’ll look it up!” offered the boy Patrick eagerly, turning to his computer.

    “No, that’s all right, Patrick, I know where it is. Just over here—if you’d like to follow me?” The smiling Jan came out from behind her counter and led them straight to it.

    “Thanks,” croaked Gil. “Do you know every book in your library, then?”

    “Just about!” said Jan Martin with a laugh. “It’s not a very big collection! But I am interested in this sort of craft. You were very lucky to find the brooch.”

    Gil cleared his throat. “Yes. Paid a fraction of what it’s worth, I’m afraid.”

    “Gil, they’d of ripped us off if they could!” said Jen grimly.

    “Mm. Well, probably. That little escritoire you liked was horribly overpriced, wasn’t it?”

    “Yes. Just pine. –Faked,” she explained to the friendly Jan Martin.

    “Was this at Hollister’s? Mm, I know the desk you mean. He won’t sell it for less,” she said drily.

    “No, we discovered that,” admitted Gil. “Ah—yes,” he said as Jen turned over a page and discovered, with a squeak, a brooch that was very like the one he’d bought.

    “Hey, I tell ya what, Honey’d love this book!” she breathed.

    “I can check whether it’s in print for you,” said Jan Martin kindly, “but I rather think it’s been out of print for some time. You might pick up a second-hand copy on Amazon dot com, or even eBay, though looking for books on that’s a bit like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

    “He’s not very computer-literate,” explained Jen kindly, as Gil just gaped. “Yeah, can ya look it up for us, please, Jan? –Thanks.”

    Numbly Gil followed the two of them. Ooh, not to one of the public computers at all, but into Jan Martin’s actual office! Er, cubbyhole. Well, he’d had small offices in his time, too. Okay, it wasn’t in print. Then she found it on something else. Hooray! Eagerly Jen decided to buy it, even though it was second-hand and not in perfect condition.

    “Isn’t this the wrong computer, though, Jen?” said Gil dazedly.

    “No! We’ll use my email address! You just have to put in your credit card number and your address!” she beamed. “You wannoo?”

    “Pardon? Oh! Yes, please. Well, uh—Potters Inlet?” he said dazedly, getting out his credit cards.

    “Nah! See, we’ll use your card and Mum’s postal address!”

    As well as Jen’s email address? Gil gulped, but as nice Jan Martin didn’t seem to be having the horrors or protesting that this would nullify the transaction or anything of the sort, let Jen do as she listed. Probably it would only result in bankrupting him. Though he did prudently give her the credit card with the lowest limit on it.

    “I can’t thank you enough, Jan,” he said feebly, holding out his hand to the librarian as Jen leapt up and grasped the screeds of printout.

    “No worries!” she replied with a laugh. “I hope your sister-in-law enjoys them both!”

    Yes. Quite. Gil felt so shattered that he let Jen drag him out onto the pavement and start jabbering about ice creams before he was capable of uttering another syllable.

    “Uh—what? Ye—No, hang on. We’ll go back to the junk shop and give that boy his printout—boy, was that only today? Seems like three weeks back.—And then get some solid sustenance into us.”

    They went back to Hollister’s. A stout, hirsute man in a pink tee-shirt which did nothing for him, presumably Hollister himself, was now on duty beside the boy.

    “That’s them!” the lad gasped, turning an ’orrid shade of puce.

    “So it is,” agreed Gil cordially.

    “He sold you that brooch by mistake!” said the putative Hollister loudly and aggressively.

    “Indeed? Non caveat emptor, in that case,” replied Gil smoothly. “A sale’s a sale, I’m afraid, but I do have a proposition for you. –Oh, and a present for you, laddie.” He handed him the Dreadnought printout.

    The boy looked at it blankly. The man peered over his shoulder and gave a loud and scornful laugh. “It’s a ruddy pop group—so-called! Him and a few mates. One gig at the local pub and they were at each others’ throats over who was gonna do lead guitar, and broke up. None of them can spell these days, mate, you’re wasting your time!”

    “Casting my bread upon the waters,” explained Gil smoothly. “Go on, tell me what the real price for that brooch was going to be.”

    Turning an unlovely violet shade, the man shouted: “He left a NOUGHT off the end, the bloody nong!”

    Jen gave a gasp and clapped a hand to her mouth.

    “In that case I’m afraid I have to say hah, bloody hah,” replied Gil smoothly. “But as my nephew’s girlfriend, here, very much admires that faked-up little pine escritoire over there, I’ll take it off your hands for the ticket price and we’ll call it quits, shall we?”

    “It isn’t faked-up, it’s a genuine Fifties reproduction piece!” he said angrily.

    “Sixties, I’d say. Excruciatingly turned legs an’ all. Well?”

    Not to his surprise Hollister caved in and sold him the genuine Sixties fake Queen Anne escritoire for the ticket price without saying any more about the brooch.

    Jen then hefted the thing, looking grim.

    “Jen, my dear, we’ll have it delivered to your mother’s house,” said Gil weakly.

    “Nah, what if they break it or never send it?” she replied loudly, glaring at Hollister. “And they’d charge an arm and a leg for delivery, they always do! Heck, Mum sent a bookcase and a sofa to the auction once, and they whacked off thirty dollars for cartage because we couldn't manage to get them there ourselves, and then the buggers took a huge great commission and she ended up with twenny dollars for the two! And the sofa was hardly used and real leather!”

    “I see. Well, uh, I think you’d better wait here with it and I’ll fetch the four-wheel-drive.”

    “You won’t get it into one of those, mate,” noted Hollister nastily.

    “It’s a big Volvo,” said Jen, glaring at him.

    “Er—yes. Well, hauling a lot of stuff around, you see,” murmured Gil. “Stay here, Jen.”

    “Um, no, I’ll go, Gil!” she gasped, suddenly turning a vivid scarlet, and setting the desk down abruptly.

    “Are you all right?” he asked anxiously.

    “Me? Yeah, ’course! But you shouldn’t be dashing round the streets. And don’t try to lift it. If ya wanna know,” she said, glaring at Hollister and the boy, “he’s only got one lung, ’cos he was shot up in Iraq, see, and he’s not supposed to lift stuff or run or that. And if you let him lift it, you’re gonna be liable, see?”

    Scowling, the boy began: “It’s his desk, he’s bought it now, and he’s an adult—”

    “Shut up, Derek,” said Hollister heavily. “No-one’s gonna let him lift anything. And get him a chair, ya nit!”

    Reddening, the boy hastened to fetch the frail, elderly Gil a chair.

    “Thank you. But I’m perfectly fit, really,” he said weakly, giving Jen the car keys.

    Nobody listened to him, of course, and the boy was dispatched to make his frail, elderly person a cup of coffee.

    Hollister then put him through the usual interrogation, starting off with the conventional “English, are ya, mate?” and diverging onto Iraq and etcetera. Before Jen and the Volvo appeared Gil only managed to learn that Derek was his nephew and the business had been his dad’s and it wasn’t like it was in the old days, you couldn’t get the real Huon pine stuff for love or money, mate, whereas Hollister learned an awful lot about Gil, Phil, Honey, Jen, Sal, and Potters Inlet. And as the librarian, Jan Martin, appeared when the saga was under way she came in for it, too.

    “On her lunch break,” Hollister explained redundantly as, having shaken her head over Gil’s purchase of the escritoire, refused Derek’s offer of a wardrobe that was “almost Huon pine” and that’d go good with her dressing-table, refused Hollister’s counteroffer of a “very nice” piece of painted pokerwork with the remark that as it didn’t have the tell-tale marks of the Huon pine showing through it was probably not as old as she was, and agreed smilingly to Derek’s suggestion that she oughta go up to Potters Inlet for Antigone Walsingham Corrant’s concert, Ms Martin went on her way.

    “Mm,” agreed Gil. “Er, I’m terribly ignorant about Australian antiques, I’m afraid.”

    “Are you?” the man replied with a glint in his eye.

    “Mm. Know a fair bit about British and European ones, though. Er, what is Huon pine?”

    “Oh! No, well, ya wouldn’t know that! Derek, get the book!”

    Derek shot out the back and, Mr Hollister pulling up a chair cosily next to Gil’s and breathing heavily in his ear, they had a lovely look at some pictures of real Huon pine antiques. There was certainly nothing in his shop that remotely resembled any of these, no.

    “Mr Hollister’s been showing me some photos of your lovely Australian Huon pine antiques,” Gil greeted Jen.

    Her little heart-shaped face took on an expression of pure horror.

    “No, no! Only looking at pictures!” he said with a laugh.

    “They go for thousands and thousands,” she said faintly.

    “Mm, got that.” They were largely Victorian, of course, with a scattering of museum pieces dating back to William IV, and the prices reflected the local market and bore no relation to anything the stuff would fetch overseas. Well, some of it was nice, some of it was little more than farmhouse ware, and a few of the museum pieces were superb examples of the cabinetmaker’s craft. “Don’t worry, I know my limitations!”

    “You better,” she said limply. “Come on! Ya didn’t let them sell you anything else, didja?”

    “No, no: I was a very good boy, and Derek made me a lovely cup of coffee!” said Gil cheerfully, getting up. “If anything genuine does turn up you’ve got my number,” he said to Hollister.

    “Well, yeah,” the man replied, scratching the bald spot in the middle of his untidy dark curls, “but next to that little desk?”

    “Mm? Oh! It’s not for me, it’s for Jen!” said Gil with a laugh.

    “Eh? No!” gasped Jen, turning puce.

    “Yes, yes, and yes! –I’m in an ancient bungalow dating back to the turn of the nineteenth century with absolutely nothing in it, so anything you can find!” he said to Hollister with a grin. “Come on, Jen, load it up.”

    “You can’t give it to me!”

    “I bought it for you, you daft ’aporth, so don’t be tarsome. It can be your Christmas present!”

    Limply Jen thanked him, picked it up and loaded it into the Volvo. And that was that.

Next chapter:

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