Matters Domestic

30

Matters Domestic

    It was the first time Georgy had had to get herself home to Willow Plains. After her morning in at the city campus she had blithely taken the bus all the way to Puriri, intending to do some grocery shopping, at that stage not giving a thought to what might come next. Well, she had given several thoughts to what might come next with Adam, and had recognized with a certain foolish feeling that what she was hoping for was, if she made him a nice dinner to show him she was sorry for being beastly to him, a blissful reconciliation. Only she hadn’t really thought about the period that would intervene between spending far too much money at the supermarkets in Puriri and Adam’s rapturous reception of her and her dinner.

    Now, here she was outside the supermarkets with three enormous bulging bags of shopping, and the prospect, even if there was a bus some time within the next hour, of a walk of several miles from the bus stop. Oh, help. After considerable lip-biting, not to say anxious adding up of her change, she decided that she couldn’t possibly afford a taxi, but she’d rather walk all the way from the bus-stop with the shopping than ring Mum. Much rather. On the other hand— Georgy trudged off to the only public phone she knew of, quite a distance from the supermarkets, especially if you had three huge bags of shopping to carry, and rang Ngaio.

    Ngaio agreed with alacrity, adding that Georgy was lucky to have caught her, she was just about to pick up Petey from school—Georgy gulped, she’d had no idea it was that late - and to stay where she was,  she’d pick her up in about fifteen minutes, okay?

    Georgy agreed it was okay and hung up. After a moment or two it dawned on her that the reason Ngaio had agreed so eagerly to collect her was that, of course, she hadn’t seen the flat! Oh, help.

    When Ngaio did turn up it was more than twenty minutes later. Smelling strongly of talcum powder and that scent that Ross’s mother had given her for her last birthday. Georgy didn’t ask her why she was wearing her new blue slacks and her new white sandals and the smart, wide-shouldered silk-look top, which had a houndstooth pattern of blue and white as a background, and as well a big spray of flowers in navy, yellow, and blue printed on the left shoulder and sort of trailing across the front—the top that she normally only wore for special occasions, in fact—because even to her, it was obvious why.

    In the back seat of the car Denny in his child-restraint was wearing his new yellow tee-shirt and a clean pair of denim shorts. His knees were suspiciously clean and shiny and his face was suspiciously clean, shiny and teary. After a few moments Georgy asked cautiously what was the matter with him and Ngaio replied grimly that he’d bawled at having to have his face washed. Georgy had thought it must be something like that, so she just made a murmuring noise in reply.

    Sartorial standards fell somewhat with the collecting of Petey from Puriri Primary School. He had started out clean and neat, Ngaio was a good mother. Somehow during the day he had managed to remove his sandals, cover his legs in grime right up as far as the hems of his very short shorts, smear blue and green matter liberally up his arms as far as the short sleeves of his washed-out green tee-shirt and in fact on a considerable portion of the front of his tee-shirt as well, and smear black, purple, blue, green—you name it—all over his face. His hair looked sticky. If you got that far.

    “What have you been doing?” gasped Ngaio. She hadn’t yet registered the absence of sandals.

    “We done finger-paints!” beamed Petey, holding out a crumpled hunk of blue-and-green-smeared paper. “Look, Mum, I did a aeroplane—see?”

    “Yes. Very ni— Where are your sandals?” gasped Ngaio.

    Petey looked down at his feet in astonishment.

    Ngaio investigated his schoolbag. Hah, hah, what a hope. She did discover he hadn’t eaten his banana, though. It was all brown and squashed-looking. It had been quite a respectable banana when it had started out this morning. “Have you and Jimmy Ngatea been bashing each other with your schoolbags again?” she demanded grimly.

    “No!” –This was true, it hadn’t been Jimmy Ngatea, it had been Scott Watson. Petey was all the more virtuously indignant because of it.

Ngaio breathed in tightly through flared nostrils. “Where—are—your—sandals?” she demanded loudly.

    “Um... “

    Ngaio took a deep breath.

    “They might be in the cloakroom,” he offered.

    Ngaio grabbed his hand. She marched him off towards his classroom, lips thinned.

    Georgy just leaned back in her seat peacefully and waited. She’d been with Ngaio to collect Petey from school before.

    Eventually Ngaio came back breathing hard through flared nostrils, lips still thinned. Petey looked dampish and somewhat chastened. He was wearing his sandals, but then Georgy would have taken a bet he would be.

    Ngaio buckled her firstborn in fiercely and got into her seat, still breathing hard. “Why they don’t have soap in those blasted cloakrooms—!” she said fiercely.

    “Have they got a basin?” returned Georgy in surprize. “We never did in my day.”

    “The primers do these days.”

    “Oh. –I thought they called them J, or something? Not primers.”

    “Yes,” said Ngaio shortly, starting the car.

    Georgy lapsed into silence.

    “No, you can’t have an ice-cream!” shouted Ngaio as the whingeing tarted up from the back seat. “We’re going to Georgy’s! Shut up, the pair of you!”

    At about this point it dawned incredulously on Georgy that her big sister, who normally took the after-school routine of lost sandals, raincoats, gumboots et al. pretty well in her stride, was nervous about visiting the flat. She swallowed hard.

    Ngaio had taken the northern route, past the Kowhai Bay turnoff, under the impression, correct as far as it went,  that the traffic wouldn’t be so heavy in that direction. However, she’d forgotten about Elizabeth Road.

    “Help!” she gasped, slowing abruptly as she turned into it and they all rose sharply in their seats to the limits of their seatbelts.

    “Big bump!” said Denny pleasedly.

    “Mm. It’s much worse past the golf course,” said Georgy weakly.

    “Help. How does that neighbour of yours with the fancy foreign car cope?” asked Ngaio weakly.

    “Um, do you mean Ralph Overdale? He’s got a BMW,” said Georgy on a dubious note. “His friend Mr Morton’s got a Jag. At least, I think Adam said that was what it was.”

    “Yes. The BMW,” said Ngaio weakly.

    “Um—I don’t know, really. He mostly goes the other way, I think,” said Georgy feebly.

    “Oh. Is the road much better?”

    “Um—well, they’re laying a new surface. You know, where all those bulldozers and things are. You know, down near the dairy factory.”

    “Yeah! You know, Mum! We seen them! There’s graders, too!” said Petey eagerly.

    “Oh. Oh, yes, we did see those one day... How far have they got, Georgy?” asked Ngaio weakly.

    “Well, not up to Blossom Avenue, yet.”

    “Help,” said Ngaio in a hollow voice.

    “Ralph did say something about his springs,” remembered Georgy. She paused. “I didn’t think he was serious,” she admitted.

    “Geor-gy!” cried her sister. Georgy was humbly silent.

    ... “It’s awfully up-market,” said Ngaio weakly, looking at Willow Grove from the bottom of the drive.

    “It’s trendy tat, you mean. You can go up the drive,” said Georgy.

    “Up—which one’s yours?”

    “The top one on this side. On the right. Not right at the top.”

    “Oh.” Ngaio peered uncertainly.

    “You can park in front of our garage—see?”

    “Ye-es... What if Adam wants to get the car in? Or out,” said Ngaio feebly.

    “Too bad,” replied Georgy simply.

    Ngaio swallowed. “I don’t think I— There isn’t much room to turn, I’d have to back out.”

    “Adam sort of turns round right up the top,” said Georgy in a vague voice.

    “Oh.” Ngaio peered. “Is there room, Georgy?”

    “There must be. If he can manage it, anyone can.”

    “Ye-es... But didn’t Mum say he’s got a Laser?”

    “She might well have done, for all I know.”—Ngaio goggled at her.—“Yes, he has,” said Georgy in a squashed voice.

    “They’re miles smaller than this thing...” Ngaio pointed out dubiously.

    “C’n I get out, Mum?” cried Petey at this juncture.

    “Yeah, c’n I get out?” echoed Denny.

    She sighed, and made up her mind. “No, we’re going up the drive. Hang on.” She swung the car across the road and they ground cautiously up the drive. Georgy looked out anxiously for the dachshund but he wasn’t in evidence.

    Georgy’s usual fight with her front door key resulted, as usual, in nothing.

    “Let me,” said Ngaio with a sigh. Georgy let her. She opened the door immediately.

    “You always turn them the wrong w— Help!” she gulped.

    “Cabbage roses,” said Georgy smugly. “Go in.”

    Ngaio went in slowly. “Georgy, it’s awful,” she said in awe.

    “Yeah. Well, I did try to describe it.”

    “Yes, but I never thought— UGH!” she screamed, going into the sitting-room.

    Georgy set down her bag of shopping and followed her. Ngaio was transfixed, her back to the picture window, facing the view of, in the foreground, the piecrust coffee table, in the middle ground, the pinkish-mauveish velvet sofa, and behind that on the wall, the background of—

    “Wee doggies: aren’t they sweetly pretty?” she said smugly.

    “How can you live in it?” gasped Ngaio.

    “We don’t look at it. Well, we try not to.”

    “You wouldn’t need to!” said her sister with feeling. She looked round numbly. “There isn’t much furniture,” she noted.

    “Just as well,” recognized Georgy drily.

    Their eyes met. They sniggered.

    “What’s through there?” said Ngaio weakly.

    “The bedroom. It’s pretty bad, too. Go and look. And don’t miss the ensuite, it’s a sight for sore eyes.”

    Ngaio went in cautiously. After a while she tottered out. Georgy and the two little boys were over at the picture window, looking for the dachshund.

    “Georgy, it’s… She must like pink,” she ended weakly.

    “Yes. Well, Adam’s responsible for the foul bedding,” acknowledged Georgy.

    “It isn’t— Well, at least it tones,” said Ngaio weakly. “It must have cost the earth. It’s like the stuff in those fancy hotels that you see on TV.”

    “Yes. Well, that’s probably where Adam got the idea from,” she noted sourly.

    “Georgy!” gasped her sister after a dazed moment.

    Georgy shrugged.

    “Have you two had a row?” spotted Ngaio keenly.

    “Not really,” said Georgy airily, going very red and avoiding her eye. “Um—come on, we’d better put the shopping away.”

    Ngaio eyed her narrowly but said nothing.

    … “Well, the kitchen’s all right,” she conceded.

    “Mm.” Georgy unpacked something large, heavy and dampish, and looked at it dubiously.

    “Georgy!” gasped Ngaio. “That’s a duck! They cost the earth!”

    “Yes. Adam doesn’t much like chicken,” revealed Georgy mournfully. “Well, he likes this gorgeous thing his mother does, with cream and herbs and stuff—”

    “I wouldn’t start competing with that: it never works. However good yours is they always say it’s not as good as their mother’s,” said Ngaio hurriedly.

    “That’s what I thought,” agreed Georgy gratefully.

    Ngaio poked at the duck cautiously. As she’d thought, it was frozen. “Do you know how to cook duck?” she asked weakly.

    “No,” admitted Georgy glumly.

    “Geor-gy!”

    “I thought there might be a recipe in the book.”

    “What book?” said Ngaio weakly.

    Georgy produced it. “It’s Mrs Mayhew’s.”

    Ngaio looked through it numbly. “This is a microwave book.”

    “Yes, well, there’s the microwave.”

    “Yes, but this isn’t the sort of book— Well, for a start this is a general book, where’s the book that tells you how to work this

model?

    “What?” returned Georgy in confusion.

    “Geor-gy!”

    “Um—that’s the only book there is. I found it in a drawer.”

    Her sister retorted strongly: “Well, drawer or not, it isn’t going to do you much good, it’s a book of basic recipes, it won’t have duck in it!”

    “Couldn’t I do it the same as chook, though?”

    Ngaio took a deep breath. “I don’t know, Georgy, because as a matter of fact I’ve never even tasted duck. Ross and me can’t afford to chuck away that sort of money!”

    “No,” said Georgy, going very red.

    Ngaio looked at her and sighed. “I suppose the same basic principles would apply,” she conceded. “You’d better defrost it.”

    “What?” asked Georgy in confusion.

    “Georgy! Don’t you know anything?”

    “No,” said Georgy simply.

    Ngaio took a deep breath. “How did you imagine you were going to cook the dinner, then?”

    “I thought the book would tell me,” said Georgy humbly.

    Ngaio put the book down, looking grim. “We’ll get this lot put away and then I’ll give you a ha— LEAVE THAT!” she shouted.

    “Ice cream!” panted Denny, staggering under the weight of a huge plastic bucket.

    “Ooh, c’n we gave some, Mum?” gasped Petey.

    “No! It’s Georgy and Adam’s!” said Ngaio crossly.

    “Um—let them, there’s loads,” said Georgy weakly.

    Ngaio took the bucket off Denny. “It’s that Cointreau-flavoured muck,” she pointed out grimly. She opened the freezer compartment of the fridge-freezer.

    “Oh. Would it bad for them?” said Georgy sadly.

    “YES!” shouted Ngaio. She shoved it into the freezer and slammed the door. “Is there anything else in these bags that’s melting away to nothing?” she asked grimly.

    “Um... There’s some frozen raspberries.”

    “What?” said Ngaio weakly.

    Georgy scrabbled around in a large plastic carrier bag. “Here!” she panted.

    “Georgy, this size is meant for jam,” said Ngaio feebly.

    “Oh. Well, if there’s any left over you can have them.”

    “But you can’t just—” Ngaio took a deep breath. She explained about cheap frozen raspberries in enormous quantities that were all stuck together and how you couldn’t defrost them all and then re-freeze them because—

    “You have them, then,” said Georgy simply.

    Ngaio went very red. She stuffed them into the freezer. “No,” she said shortly.

    “There’s some frozen peas, somewhere,” said Georgy, searching in the bag again.

    Ngaio waited in trepidation but it was the smallest size. The size that was relatively miles more expensive. Minted, too.

    “I wasn’t sure that Adam would like them,” explained Georgy.

    “No,” she said with a sigh. “Well, what else is there that needs to— GIVE ME THAT!” she screamed. She liberated the enormous frozen cheesecake that Petey was hugging and said weakly to her sister: “This is the most expensive brand that you can buy, I suppose you realize that?”

    “Yes. I got it on purpose.”—Ngaio gaped at her.—“I thought if it was the most expensive, he might like it.”

    Ngaio just put it in the freezer without saying anything.

    Georgy watched her dubiously. “Don’t you have to—um—thaw it out?”

    “Not yet,” she said, sighing.

    “Oh. Um—there’s veges in here, I think. And in that bag that Petey’s got.”

    “Yeah: ’ams!” panted Petey hauling out a plastic bag of them that must have contained well nigh two kilos.

    “Am— yams?” said Ngaio feebly. “Does Adam like them, Georgy?”

    “I don’t know. Do you know how to cook them, Ngaio?”

    “No,” said Ngaio limply. She looked at them weakly. Tiny pink cylindrical things—was Petey right, were they yams? They looked sort of rude, actually. “I’ve never done them.”

    “Nanna has ’ams!” volunteered Petey. –Denny wasn’t taking any notice, he’d found something much more interesting down at the bottom of the bag...

    “Yes. I’ll give Nanna a ring, I think,” said Ngaio weakly. “She might know about duck, too.”

    “Righto, ta,” agreed Georgy. “The phone’s in the front passage.”

    “Yes— LEAVE THOSE ALONE!” she screamed. She wrenched the packet of biscuits off Denny, and heaved the third bag of shopping up onto the bench, out of his reach.

    “Chocky bikkies!” wailed Denny. “I wanna chocky bikkie!”

    “Me, too!” wailed Petey. “I wanna chocky bikkie!°

    Georgy looked weakly at Ngaio. Ngaio looked weakly at Georgy. Finally Ngaio said: “Is it all right?”

    “Yes. They’re only those Kit Kat things. Adam sometimes fancies something sweet at supper-time, but—um—just a little something, you know.”

    “I wish I could say the same of Ross: leave him alone with a packet of these and— All RIGHT!” She doled out Kit Kats. Denny immediately asked for a drink of milk. Ngaio looked weakly at Georgy.

    Georgy said weakly: “Go on. It’s in the fridge.”

    Ngaio got it out. “There’s not much left.”

    “No. Maybe Adam drank it. It’s okay, you can use it up.”

    “Did you get some more at the supermarket?” asked Ngaio in some relief.

    “No,” replied Georgy in surprize.

    Ngaio had been about to pour. Her hand quivered over the glass.

    “Go on,” said Georgy.

    Weakly Ngaio gave her younger offspring the rest of Adam’s and Georgy’s milk.

    Petey then investigated the fridge and demanded orange juice.

    “Come out of there,” said Ngaio weakly.

    “Aw-wuh! There’s loads, Mum! –Can I, Georgy?” he asked cunningly.

    “Yeah, go on.”

    Petey got the plastic bottle out eagerly.

    “Georgy, this is that awfully expensive stuff!” gasped Ngaio.

    “Rill juice, Nanna has this,” said Petey in satisfaction.

    “Nanna has that because Grampa’s a retired jeweller and they’ve got lots of money!” said Ngaio, very loudly.

    “Have you got lots of money, Georgy?” asked Petey brilliantly. Instead of recognizing his brilliance his mother merely glared at him.

    “No. Adam has, though. That’s why he buys that orange juice. You can have it, Petey. –Let him have it, Ngaio.”

    Ngaio poured weakly.

    Meanwhile Denny emerged gasping from his milk to ask: “Where’s Adam gone?”

    “He’s at work, dick-head!” said his brother scornfully.

    “PETEY CORNWELL!” screamed Ngaio, turning puce. “If I hear that expression from you again, you’ll get your mouth washed out with soap!”

    “The kids all say it,” said Georgy mildly.

    Emboldened by the example of his aunt’s temerity, Petey began: “Yeah! All—” He caught his mother’s eye and subsided.

    “Anyway, he isn’t at work,” said Ngaio, very weakly. She unwrapped a loaf of bread. That very dark Reizenstein’s rye, in this sort of weather it went mouldy before you could turn round. Added to which it cost twice as much as an ordinary loaf twice its size. She put it in Mrs Mayhew’s smart white breadbin which sat at the back of the smart gold-speckled white Formica bench under the smart knotty-pine cupboards, sighing.

    “Where is he, then?” asked Petey suspiciously.

    “Gone out, I suppose,” said Georgy vaguely. She raised the cover of Mrs Mayhew’s breadbin with interest. “Is that what this funny thing’s for?”

    “Yes,” said Ngaio weakly.

    Georgy raised and lowered the curved cover a few times with interest, finally remarking detachedly: “It seems redundant.”

    Ngaio breathed deeply. She went on unpacking Georgy’s shopping. To her utter astonishment Georgy had remembered to buy potatoes. The expensive washed kind, true, but nevertheless, potatoes. Not green, either.

    After a little the resourceful Petey, having finished his juice, dragged a bar stool over from the breakfast bar and knelt up on it, helping. Denny simply sat on the floor. He still lived a lot of his life at that level. He began to play a game with a fallen piece of the packet of Kit Kats. After a moment he investigated a cupboard and got something out and let it join in the game.

    “Look!” panted Petey.

    “A rockmelon,” recognized Ngaio with some relief. At least it wasn’t some blimming expensive up-market thing that Nanna and Grampa Cornwell had! Well, it was and they did, but once or twice a year she actually managed to afford one herself.

    “I love the pattern on them,” said Georgy, stroking it. “All rough... And this lovely pale colour. It makes me think of the desert.” She stroked it gently.

    Petey joined in eagerly, though as far as his mother knew he didn’t have an aesthetic bone in his body.

    “Yes,” she said weakly, not asking her sister “What desert?” She swallowed. “Adam likes them, does he, Georgy?”

    “I’m not sure. He usually likes fruit. He likes paw-paw.”

    Ngaio sighed. “Have you got a fruit bowl?”

    “No.”

    Ngaio took the rockmelon off them and laid it tenderly against the bread-bin at the back of the bench.

    “Pounda butter,” discovered Petey.

    “Georgy, it isn’t very good for Adam’s cholesterol level, you know,” said Ngaio, going rather pink.

    “He hates marg. Well, so do I. We don’t eat that much butter.”

    They couldn’t do: Ngaio had just opened the fridge and discovered an almost untouched pound there in the butter-softener. As the butter-softener was only big enough for one pound she looked rather weakly at the one in her hand and laid it gently on a shelf nearby.

    “Tawlet paper!” said Petey proudly.

    By now Ngaio was fully expecting it to be the softest kind that was so fearsomely expensive that even Nana Cornwell didn’t buy it, and indeed it was.

    “I’ll put it away!” volunteered Petey eagerly.

    “Um, do you know where?” said his mother weakly. It was blue, it would swear at that pink bathroom...

    “I’ll show you,” volunteered Georgy as Petey ran to the kitchen door and hesitated. They vanished.

    Ngaio bit her lip. She betted Georgy had chosen it on purpose to ruin Adam McIntyre’s colour scheme! Ooh, heck.

    “Vrrm, vrrm!” grunted Denny as she unpacked a lettuce. Crikey, one of those red and green ones: crikey, they cost the earth! How much had Georgy spent? Also the lettuce had got a bit squashed, why had Georgy let them pack it near the bottom— Never mind. Ngaio rinsed it under the tap in the hopes that a wash would brighten it up, and since Mrs Mayhew’s stainless steel sink-bench featured two sinks, left it in one to drain a bit.

    “Vrrm, vrrm!” grunted Denny again.

    “Yes,” she said vaguely. Olive oil? What on earth was Georgy planning to do with that? She looked round vaguely and opened a knotty-pine cupboard. Well, at least Georgy appeared to have got something right, in the cupboard was another bottle of the same brand of olive oil, but it was almost empty. Ngaio put the new bottle beside it. She went back to the bag. Down at the bottom was a funny little jar...

    “Vrrm, vrrm!” grunted Denny.

    “Yes,” she said vaguely. Capers? What on earth—? Sighing, she put the bottle of capers in the cupboard next to the olive oil and glanced down at—

    “What have you got there?” she gasped.

    “Vrrm, vrrm!” grunted Denny. “Thass a big road, see, and—”

    Ngaio snatched up Mrs Mayhew’s— What in God’s name was it? She turned it over. It was an egg-coddler. Come to think of it, Nanna Cornwell had one of those, but Ngaio didn’t have a clue what you did with them. You knew this was an egg-coddler because it had this fact inscribed on its bottom but also inscribed on its bottom it had the words “Royal Doulton.” Ngaio turned a very funny colour. Her knees felt all peculiar.

    “My TRUCK!” wailed Denny.

    “It isn’t a truck. It’s not a toy, Denny,” said Ngaio feebly. “Um…” She looked desperately in a cupboard. “Have this,” she said, shoving a large metal colander at him. It was one of those up-market enamel ones, Ngaio had never seen one outside of a kitchen shop, and it was bright red, Ngaio had definitely never seen one of those outside of a kitchen shop, but at least it was unbreakable.

    Denny placed it gravely upside-down and began to vrrm the piece of Kit Kat packet up the slope. Ngaio was so relieved that she scrabbled in a drawer and found a pair of nutcrackers and let him have those for a truck. She rinsed the egg-coddler tenderly under the hot tap, dried it and, stretching and tip-toeing, put it away carefully in a top cupboard.

    “That cupboard’s too high for me,” said Georgy’s voice behind her, very detached.

   Jumping, Ngaio gasped: “Good! –This kitchen certainly isn’t childproof, is it?”

    “What’s the matter?” replied Georgy, looking at Denny in some alarm.

    “He’s all right,” said Ngaio with a sigh. “I dunno about the Royal Doulton egg-coddler, though.”

    “What?” said Georgy blankly.

    “It was in one of those bottom cupboards. I’ve put it up there where he can’t reach it.”

    “Oh,” said Georgy without interest.

    “What are the capers for, or don’t I dare to ask?” said Ngaio with a sigh.

    “Adam likes caper sauce with duck. He told me, once.”

    “Who’s gonna make it, you or him?”

    “Um—” Their eyes met. They both giggled explosively.

    Ngaio had defrosted the duck in the microwave. She had rung Nanna Cornwell and got the good gen on how to cook duck and, with the aid of the microwave book which did at least tell you how to cook a chook, and with the extra aid of Nanna’s own superior microwave book, had worked out how long the duck had to be microwaved for. Ngaio was so grateful that she didn’t even resent it when her mother-in-law reminded her to take the plastic bag of innards out of the duck’s inside.

    Nanna had also given Ngaio a recipe for caper sauce, which was quite easy, thank goodness. Ngaio had found a little pot and put the giblets on to simmer for this sauce.

    She and Georgy were now relaxing with a cup of tea in the sitting-room. At least, Ngaio was relaxing, though slightly on the qui vive for the sound of Adam coming home. Georgy was praying neither of them would spill tea on the pinkish-mauveish suite.

    Petey and Denny, having discovered the spiral staircase to the nether regions, were playing on it. Georgy had been worried that they might fall off it but Ngaio hadn’t been. Ngaio had been worried that they might get hold of the tools in the garage and ruin them but Georgy had pointed out that it was Adam’s garage: there weren’t any tools in  it.

    Ngaio sighed. She got up. “I’d better get on with that sauce. And hadn’t you better do the potatoes?”

    “Um—they won’t take long. I’ll just boil them.”

    “Peel them,” said Ngaio with a sigh.

    “No, Adam likes them with their skins on.”

    “Boiled?” said Ngaio weakly, gathering up the tea-tray.

    “Mm,” said Georgy, nodding.

    Abruptly Ngaio realized what she was doing, and stopped with a start. “Sorry,” she said weakly.

    “What for?”

    “It is your house,” said Ngaio, going very red.

    “Flat. Yeah, but I don’t mind if you play Kitchen in it,” returned Georgy simply, going out.

    Ngaio didn’t know what that meant, exactly, but she had a definite feeling she didn’t want to know. She followed her limply. With the tray.

    ... “Will he have time for tea, at this rate?” she worried, some time later, consulting her watch. “I mean, if he’s got to get into town to get his costume on and everything...”

    “Probably not,” said Georgy indifferently.

    Ngaio recognized the tone which meant that Georgy had lost interest in something that she, Ngaio, had taken over. She bit her lip. “Um, why don’t you make some dessert?”

    “What with?” said Georgy simply.

    “Some of that rockmelon. Cut up into nice little pieces and put a few of those raspberries on it, they’ll be al right by the time we’re ready for it.”

    “Are there any loose ones?”

    “Have a look,” said Ngaio, repressing a sigh.

    Georgy investigated the raspberries. Ngaio refrained, with an effort that was actually physically painful, from looking over shoulder. Instead she turned back to the stove. She added capers to her sauce and tasted it. Yuck. But she’d done what Nanna had said. She began looking in drawers...

    “Haven’t you got any lunch paper?” she said in despair.

    “No. We don’t make lunches,” replied Georgy simply.

    “What’ll I use for a piece of butter-paper for the sauce?” asked Ngaio in despair.

    “Butter-paper.”

    Ngaio opened her mouth to blast her younger sister, but fortunately remembered there was that extra lot. She got the spare butter out of the fridge and removed its paper, putting it on surface of the sauce. Well, that was what Nanna had said to do!

    “Have you got any Glad-wrap?” she said without hope, looking the naked butter.

    “No. Just bung it in the fridge.”

    “Ye-ah… But it’ll taste all fridgey,” she warned.

    “Tough.” Georgy looked thoughtfully at her desserts. “Do these look all right?”

    “Yes: lovely,” said Ngaio in some relief. “What dear little dishes: are they the landlady’s?”

    “Mrs Mayhew’s. Yes.”

    Ngaio looked at them again. They were undoubtedly cut crystal. “Is there anything in this flat that isn’t dinky, expensive and breakable?” she said weakly.

    “Um—well, that colander you let Denny play with. There’s me, I suppose. And Adam’s not particularly dinky, though I get you he’s expensive.”

    “Yes. How much did you spend on those groceries?” asked Ngaio before she could stop herself.

    Georgy told her.

    “WHAT?” she screamed.

    “There were three bagsful.”

    “Three bags full!” panted Denny, coming into the kitchen, beaming. “Your daddy’s come home, now,” he informed Georgy.

    “No, he— Yes, he has,” said Georgy in a doomed voice as they heard the front door open.

    “Good! He’ll have stacks of time for tea, after all!” said Ngaio.

    “Yeah.”

    “Put the potatoes on, Georgy.”

    “What? Oh—yeah.” Georgy put the potatoes on.

    Adam came down the passage saying with a laugh in his voice: “What on earth’s that wonderful smell? You’re not actually cooking, are y— Oh, hullo, Ngaio,” he said, reddening.

    “No, Ngaio is,” said Georgy gruffly.

    “So I see!” said Adam, laughing and shaking Ngaio’s hand.

    Ngaio was much redder than he was. She shook his hand fiercely. “Hullo, Adam!” she gasped.

    “What is it? It smells terrific,” he said.

    Ngaio explained somewhat breathlessly: “It’s duck with caper sauce. The duck’s in the microwave, it’s mostly the sauce you can smell. Um—I’m not responsible, really, Nanna Cornwell told me what to do."

    “We rang her up,” said Georgy in a small voice.

    “Your mother-in-law, Ngaio?” said Adam with a laugh in his voice.

    “Yes. She’s a great cook.”

    “She said we shouldn’t do duck in the microwave at all,” revealed Georgy in a small voice.

    “Mm,” said Ngaio, going red all over again.

    “There wasn’t time to roast it!” gasped Georgy.

    Adam’s mouth twitched. “I see.”

    At this point the microwave pinged. Ngaio and Georgy looked at each other nervously.

    “Stage two,” said Ngaio.

    “Yeah,” gulped Georgy.

    Ngaio counted under her breath. Georgy watched her nervously. Adam watched her with his mouth twitching. After a moment he realized Denny was tugging at his trouser legs. He hefted him onto his shoulder, still watching Ngaio.

    “Here goes nothing,” she said. She removed the duck from the microwave.

    “Big chock!” cried Denny.

    “It looks lovely,” said Adam.

    “We had to brown it first. In the big pan,” said Georgy.

    “Mm.” Ngaio poked it gingerly with a large fork. “Heck, Nanna was right: look at all that fat,” she said to Georgy.

    “Yeah.”

    She sighed. “Gimme the big knife.”

    Georgy gave her the carving knife. Ngaio began to skin the duck.

    “This’ll have to go on that flash stainless steel tray thing,” she said to Georgy.

    “Yes.” Georgy produced this and Ngaio laid the strips of fatty skin on it. Adam opened his mouth but thought better of it.

    Wincing, Ngaio then removed more excess fat from the duck. “Have you got any newspaper?” she asked Georgy.

    “Um—no.”

    “Yes, we have!” said Adam with a laugh, producing one from under his arm.

    “That’s tonight’s,” said Ngaio faintly.

    “Doesn’t mean it’s worth reading. Hang on.” He sorted out the back section, which was full of ads for cars for sale and such like—not easy, he was still holding Denny—and gave her that.

    Ngaio put the fat on it.

    “Go on,” said Georgy.

    Ngaio took a deep breath. She gulped. “I’ve never done this before.”

    “What?” asked Adam.

    “Um—cut it up.”

    “It has to be dismembered,” Georgy explained. “Well, that’s what Mrs Cornwell said.”

    “Carved?” he murmured.

    “No. Into big pieces. Then you put it back in the microwave for a bit. Then when it’s ready you pour the sauce onto the pieces,” said Ngaio, not sounding very convinced.

    Adam put Denny down. “Let me.”

    They watched in silence as he capably dismembered the duck.

    “Where did you learn to do that?” said Georgy limply.

    “I had to learn how to carve a bird for a play I was in where I played a cook. It was set in a kitchen. Never eaten so well in my life: all the food was real. The whole cast put on weight!” He laughed.

    “Oh,” said Georgy numbly.

    “Now,” said Ngaio busily, “I’ll put it back in the microwave, Georgy: all you have to do is take it out when it pings; and those potatoes won’t take long, I’d say you could put the peas on in ten minutes. And the skin can go in the oven with the yams.”

    She put the duck in the microwave and set the controls. Then she began to remove her apron.

    “Hang on!” protested Adam. “Aren’t you staying to share in this Lucullan repast?”

    “Um—no,” said Ngaio, going very red.

    “Yes: stay: there’s far too much for us,” said Georgy on a note of relief.

    “Well—if you’re sure... We’d better do a few more spuds...” said Ngaio weakly.

    Both Adam and Georgy assured her warmly they were sure. Ngaio was practically certain they were so eager to have the Cornwells inflicted on them for tea because they had had a row, but the call of the duck—not to say the smell—was too strong for her.

    Weakly she gave in and went out to ring Ross.

    “Come here!” said Adam with a laugh.

    Georgy looked at him uncertainly.

    He put his hands on her waist and pulled her gently against him, regardless of the fact that Denny was again tugging at his trousers. “Duck?” he said in her ear with a laugh.

    “It was stupid,” said Georgy, swallowing. “I got it home and then of course I didn’t have the faintest... Anyway, Ngaio gave me a ride home, so she said she’d help.”

    “Mm,” said Adam into her ear.

    “I just wanted to make you a nice dinner!” said Georgy on a desperate note.

    “I realize that, darling,” said Adam, feeling very glad that he hadn’t had much to eat at lunchtime. He had thought of going to The Blue Heron again, but hadn’t been able to face the Good Keen maître d’.

    “I suppose it’s too early, really,” said Georgy glumly.

    “No, I didn’t have much lunch. Just an oddish sandwich at a vegetarian place in town.”

    “Oh.”

    “I got hold of Nigel and Livia and we did a bit of rehearsing. I think she’s actually improving. -Did you know she’s apparently living with that lawyer friend of Jake’s?”

    “Really?” said Georgy dazedly.

    “Mm. Since Sunday, I gather. Long may it last, gets her off my back!” he added with a laugh.

    “Yes,” said Georgy uncertainly.

    Adam might have said something else but at this point Denny bellowed: “LIFT ME, ADAM!” So he lifted him up, instead. Perhaps fortunately.

    ... “Splendiferous,” pronounced Ross judiciously. He leaned back in his chair, undid his belt a notch, and belched.

    “Ross!” cried Ngaio.

    “Just giving the meal the appreciation that’s its due,” he said, with a wink at the company generally.

    “He doesn’t dare to do that at his mother’s table,” she said weakly to Georgy and Adam.

    “Hell, no, be more than my life’s worth,” he agreed, again winking.

    “Nanna’s strict,” explained Petey.

    “Got in one,” grinned his father.

    “Little pitchers,” muttered his mother, reddening.

    Denny had let all this float past him. “C’n I’ve some pudding?” he asked.

    Denny wasn’t a great duck eater. That was just as well, since even on a good-sized duck there wasn’t really all that much meat. Well, just enough for four when two of them didn’t eat like pigs, as Ngaio had pointed out to her husband. And a bit over for Petey. Denny had only had a few scraps.

    Neither of the kids had had the sauce—though Adam had assured Ngaio that it was delishimo, a word he’d picked up recently. Ngaio giggled explosively. –Adam and Ross had got the girls onto dry vermouth with a slice of lemon before the meal. They themselves had each had one whisky, because they were driving. Ngaio hadn’t had dry vermouth before. She’d decided she liked it. While she drank three in rapid succession she’d extracted from Adam a catechism of the drinks he had drunk. During this process it had gradually dawned on Georgy that her big sister was not as sophisticated about matters alcoholic as she had hitherto assumed.

    After dinner Ngaio had a lovely play with Mrs Mayhew’s dishwasher. Georgy and Adam actually had the right powder to go into it, Ngaio hadn’t drunk enough vermouth not to be surprized at this.

    However, she did say to Georgy in the kitchen: “I thought it was awf’ly sophisticated, the way he said: ‘Bring your drinks to the table.’”

    “Did you?” said Georgy. “I thought it was redundant: the whole thing was self-evident.”

    “Oh,” she said in a puzzled voice.

    “We weren’t going to leave them behind,” elaborated Georgy drily.

    “Heck, no! –Oh, I see what you mean.”

    “I suppose Mum’d call that ‘nice English manners,’” said Georgy on a sour note.

    “Yeah,” responded Ngaio dubiously, eyeing the dishwasher.

    “Go on, turn it on. It’ll either crunch Mrs Mayhew’s dinner set to smithereens, or we’ll end up with nice clean dishes.”

    “Um—yeah,” said Ngaio, smiling uneasily.

    “Go on!”

    Ngaio turned it on.

    “Come on,” said Georgy, heading for the door.

    “Are you sure it’ll be all right? I’ve never even seen one of these, she must have got it at that place in Greenlane that specializes in imported whiteware. German and stuff.”

    “Well, we usually only have a couple of plates to wash, but it’s never crunched anything up before. Always a first time, though.”

    “Hah, hah,” retorted Ngaio.

    “I hope you didn’t put anything with gold rims in there, though,” warned Georgy.

    All of Mrs Mayhew’s china, except a small set comprising two cups and saucers, two bowls (genus uncertain), two eggcups, a sugar bowl, a small jug, and two bread-and-butter plates, which Adam had pronounced after Deep Thought was a breakfast set, was smothered in gold rims. And all of it without exception was smothered in pink cabbage roses. “What? Why?” gasped Ngaio.

    “The ones with the gold rims go bang!” squeaked Georgy, exiting hurriedly.

    “Very FUNNY!” shouted her sibling, forgetting where she was. She followed in Georgy’s wake, swallowing a giggle.

    On the way home she retailed this joke pleasedly to Ross but whether because he was a Man or because his business was hardware and appliances, he didn’t think it was funny. Ngaio certainly attributed it to the former failing.

    “Well?” said Adam with a little smile as they drove down Elizabeth Road towards the good surface and the highway.

    “Um—me?” replied Georgy in a hoarse squeak.

    “What’s the matter?” he asked mildly.

    “Nothing,” she said in stifled voice.

    Adam shot her an uncertain glance but only said: “Look out, here comes the bump!”

    Georgy hung on to her door like grim death and they bumped up onto the sealed surface.

    “It’s getting nearer,” he noted with a smile.

    “Yes. Every day in every way it’s getting very slightly nearer,” said Georgy faintly.

    “Mm.” He glanced briefly at her and squeezed her knee hard. “Thank you for the lovely dinner, darling.”

    As it was still light and in fact the westering sun was at an angle to strike you right in the eye and blind you if you were in a car, Georgy had her sunglasses on. She blinked fiercely behind them and said gruffly: “That’s all right. I’m sorry about—about the other day, and everything.”

    “So am I. I behaved like a pig after the bloody First Night. God knows why: I must have been more het up about it than I thought I was. –Oh, well, the parents being there and so on,” he said, pulling an awful face.

    “Yes. That’s all right, I understand.”

    There was a short silence.

    “I didn’t mean to—to push you away, darling,” he said, laying his hand fleetingly on her denim knee again.

    “No,” said Georgy hoarsely.

    Adam drove on in silence for a while. Then he put his hand on her knee again, not saying anything. After quite a while Georgy put hers on top of it.

    They drove most of the rest of the way into town without speaking. When Adam didn’t need his hand for driving he put it back on Georgy’s knee and she put hers on top of it. He didn’t try to do anything rude, like sliding his hand up her inner thigh—as he sometimes did. Nor, although after a while Georgy saw that he had an erection, did he pull her hand over and put it on it, as he sometimes did. Nor did he make a laughing reference to it, as he very often did. Georgy’s body felt warm all over, as if she was glowing with love for him. Talking about it or doing anything more direct about it would have spoiled it utterly, and she was very, very glad that Adam evidently felt the same way.