Modified Rapture

38

Modified Rapture

    “What?” said Clem numbly.

    “You heard,” replied Adam, grinning.

    “Good God, Adam, have you fallen off your trolley? First Joel rings me up in a panic to tell me you’re mixed up with some little Anglo-Saxon lecturer from New Zealand and now you ring me up before I’ve even choked my cornflakes down to say you’re engaged to some Australian cow!”

    “What?” he said feebly. “Don’t be an idiot! Of course it isn’t an Australian cow, I’m not even in Australia: it’s Georgy!”

    “Moo,” said a voice in the background.

    Clem jumped. As he did so he heard Adam say cordially: “Don’t you mean ‘baa’? Aren’t there fifty million of you, here, to three million people?” And the other voice said: “Baa.”

    “ADAM!” he shouted. “Stop farting around! Are you serious? Who is this girl?”

    “Of course I’m serious. I told you. It’s Georgy. She’s the little Anglo-Saxon lecturer from New Zealand that Joel apparently panicked about.”

    ”Help!” gasped the voice in the background.

    “Help and baa,” agreed Adam cordially. There was a burst of giggles from the background.

    “Is this a joke?” said Clem dangerously.

    “No! And I’m sorry about the cornflakes, Clem. We heard a rumour to the effect that the telephone directory tells you the time differences but we couldn’t find the page. We thought, since we’re in the Anty-podes to you, you must be up by now. In fact we tried the office first, didn’t we, Georgy?”

    “Well, I’m not at the office,” said Clem grumpily.

    At this point his wife said: “If that’s Adam McIntyre, just make sure he hasn’t reversed the charges.”

    “He hasn’t!” said Clem impatiently. “Uh—no, sorry, Adam. Um—well, congratulations, then.”

    “About time!” said Adam with a laugh. “We haven’t worked out details or anything, but Georgy’s definitely going to come and help me get rid of that horrible flat and buy a nice house. So do you think you could get your secretary to start looking up house agents?”

    “Adam!” said the voice in the background indignantly.

    “Well, darling, she’s very good at that sort of thing. –Clem, Georgy’s apparently terribly worried about wasting valuable office time, so be sure and put it on the bill!” he said with a laugh.

    “Hah, hah. House where?” said Clem heavily.

    “What?” gasped his wife.

    “Ssh. ...Hampstead. Oh, God,” he noted. “Anywhere else? …You can’t think of anywhere. Lovely. Would you consider Wimbledon? Very Betjeman-ish,” he noted. “You might? Oh, splendid. How much are you prepared to chuck away on this white elephant you’ll live in six weeks out of the year, Adam?”

    “Well?” said his wife on a strangely eager note, after Clem had reiterated his congratulations, asked Adam how the Sydney play had gone, asked Adam without hope whether he was going to do Derry’s bloody Oberon and received an affirmative answer, limply looked up Mr Abrams’s number for him, and, ordering Adam to let him know when he decided to come home, hung up.

    “Don’t ask me, I’ve never met the girl! She’s Joel’s Anglo-Saxon lecturer, apparently. So she might not be a painted little tart with two penn’orth of brain to rub together—we can but hope.”

    “Not that!” she said scornfully. “I heard all that! No, what’s he prepared to pay for the house?”

    Groaning, Clem said: “Two guesses.”

    She made two guesses but as they were in pounds, sterling, he was able to say: “No. Nothing near it.”

    “More?” she gasped.

    “I’ll give it to you verbatim. ‘Whatever it takes.’”

    He waited, but she only said bitterly: “Typical!”

    “Mm. I don’t suppose that coffee’s still hot, is it?”

    Sighing, Clem’s wife got up and reheated the coffee. “I’ll give it six months,” she offered.

    Clem thought of the clear little voice that had said: “Moo” and then “Baa” in the background, and suddenly laughed.

    “What?” she said, goggling at him.

    “As a matter of fact,” he admitted, smiling: “I’d give it rather longer than that! Keep your fingers crossed, but I rather think she might be the making of him!”

    His wife only sniffed, but Clem had expected that. He continued to smile.

    “I could ring the parents now,” murmured Adam. “Georgy, darling, this coffee is foul: didn’t you buy the beans I said?”

    “No, Miss McLintock found some that were much cheaper. Very pale,” said Georgy in an interested voice.

    “Got it,” he conceded, grimacing. “We’ll buy some nice ones tomorrow.”

    “Righto,” said Georgy comfortably. “Ugh, it’s the wedding tomorrow,” she added in a hollow voice.

    “Oh, yes,” he said, yawning. “Where are they having it?”

    Georgy didn’t know but on the whole Adam would have been disappointed if she had done. She said that Polly was picking her up; Adam agreed that Polly would undoubtedly know the place to go. Was Jake doing best man? he added idly. She didn’t know that, either.

    “Well?” he then said.

    “Mm? Oh!” said Georgy on a guilty note. “Um—isn’t it a bit soon?”

    “Never would probably be too soon for your mother, I grant you that, but mine are rather anxious about us. Well, Melinda’s rather anxious about both of us and Christopher is reported to be in a foul mood, so he’s doubtless anxious about you.”

    Georgy just squeezed his hand and said: “Silly. Go on then, ring them.”

    “Mm,” said Adam, making a face and looking at his watch. “How long do brothers and/or brothers-in-law and their wives customarily stay for dinner—I mean tea—in the Anty-podes?”

    Georgy eyed him drily. “It usually depends how far they’ve got to drive home afterwards. Aunty Christine and Uncle Joe usually leave around nine.”

    “I asked for that,” he admitted. “Er—well, Maurie and Suzanne have to go down to Devo, that’s quite a way, isn’t it? And Evan and Lisbeth are reliably reported to be in the bone-cutters’ and teeth-snatchers’ belt, isn’t that on the other side of the Bridge?”

    “Is that one of Ralph’s?” said Georgy dazedly.

    “I have no doubt he makes use of it, but actually I got it off the saturnine smileless medical one down by the letterboxes one day.”

    “Mr Morton? He isn’t smileless, he’s very nice, and quite intelligent. But he is rather sad.”

    “I’m not asking how you found that out.” Adam stood up. “It’s quarter past fourteen by my watch: I’ll risk it.”

    Georgy scrambled up and looked at his watch. “Pooh!” she said crossly.

    “I re-set it on the plane when they told us to: I wouldn’t have dared not to,” he admitted. “Especially as Derry was re-setting that chronometer-cum-ship’s compass that’s made his left wrist hang down six inches further than his right. –Er, that’s nice, sweetheart, but why are you doing it?” he said, as Georgy then kissed his right wrist just above the watch face.

    “It’s hairy there,” she said, smiling. “I’ve always wanted to kiss it.”

    “Good,” said Adam feebly.

    “Come on, let’s get it over with,” she said, tugging him towards the phone.

    “Too right,” he muttered in the vernacular.

    Christopher answered the phone in his own house, unless he was in the garden or sulking or both. So he answered it this time.

    “Well?” he said coldly, after Adam had said: “Hullo, Dad: it’s Adam,” and then stopped.

    “Um—I’m at Georgy’s,” said Adam lamely.

    Georgy perceived he’d lost his nerve. His hands were shaking and he looked very blue around the mouth. She grabbed the phone and said cheerfully: “Hullo, Christopher, how are you?”

    Christopher replied limply: “Very well; how are you, Georgy?”

    “Good. Me and Adam have decided to live together and—and we’re sort of engaged,” said Georgy.

    There was a short silence. “Glad to hear it,” said Christopher with an effort.

    “I know I’m hopeless,” said Georgy on a dubious note, “but he doesn’t seem to mind.”

    “You’re hopeless?” he cried.

    “Um—well, we’re hoping our hopelessnesses’ll be different enough to dovetail!” said Georgy with a nervous giggle.

    “Look, Georgy, are you sure? His track record’s not exactly glowing, you know.”

    “Um—no. I mean, I do know. He says he’s going to try.”

    “He’d better,” said Christopher grimly. “Well, his mother’ll be glad,” he added with a sigh. “I’d better speak to him, Georgy.”

    “Yes. Don’t be cross, we’re both very happy,” she said in a small voice.

    “I’m not cross, I just hope to God he doesn’t ruin your life!”

    Georgy of course wasn’t at all vain, but she had realized that that was what he was worried about. “I am going into it with my eyes open,” she said firmly.

    Christopher smiled a little. “Mm. Put him on, sweetheart.”

    She handed Adam the phone. “He wants to speak to you.”

    “Hullo, it’s me,” said Adam glumly into the phone.

    “Just be bloody sure you mean this, Adam,” said his father grimly.

    “I am,” replied Adam, equally grim.

    There was a short pause. “Good. –I do want you to be happy,” said Christopher with some difficulty.

    “I know. Just not with Georgy.”

    “I— That isn’t entirely true.” He paused. “Well, what are your plans?”

    “We haven’t really made any. But she’s definitely coming back to England with me to help me dump that bloody flat and buy a decent house—aren’t you, sweetheart?” he said.

    Christopher didn’t know whether his son had used the appellation deliberately, having just heard him use it, or whether it was a coincidence. He ground his teeth a little, as Georgy’s voice said: “Yes. In Hampstead Heath. Or amongst the garden sheds and gym-slips.”

    Adam sniggered and his father said loudly: “What?”

    “Hampstead or Wimbledon, we thought,” he explained. “Wake up, Dad: Betjeman country!”

    “What? Oh good God,” said Christopher limply.

    There was a short pause. Adam grimaced at Georgy. She held his free hand tightly.

    Then Christopher said: “You hadn’t though of moving out of London? Nice little place in the Cotswolds, perhaps?”

    “Are you serious?” said Adam feebly.

    “Yes!” he said indignantly.

    “Oh. Um—well, it wouldn’t be very convenient, Pa, if I had a show in town. I’d be getting home about three in the morning. And I don’t think Georgy would like being so far away from the galleries and museums and the bookshops.”

    “No. But I don’t think they’ll let you keep chooks in Hampstead, Adam.”

    “Uh—probably not, no,” said Adam, rolling his eyes.

    “I’ve always thought she might like a goat or two. You know: pair of pretty little nannies,” said Christopher thoughtfully.

    Adam put his hand over the receiver and hissed at his fiancée: “Gone potty! He thinks you might like to keep goats!”

    “Amongst the gym-slips?” hissed Georgy, rolling her eyes.

    Adam took his hand away from the receiver and said: “Precisely. –Dad, you’re wandering in your old age.”

    Christopher heard Georgy cry indignantly: “Adam!” There was the sound of a short, breathless tussle and then she gasped: “Christopher, I’m scared of goats!”

    Christopher replied with a smile in his vow: “Just an old man’s fantasy, Georgy. Pair of pretty silky white nannies, you in a smock. –What about a flock of geese?”

    “Aren’t they fierce?” said Georgy weakly.

     At the same time Adam cried: “Stop talking about livestock!” and wrenched the receiver off her. “Does this talk of domestic fowl mean you’re reconciled to it?” he said to his father.

    “Oh, coming round!” said Christopher with a laugh in his voice.

    “Good,” said Adam shakily.

    Christopher wrinkled his nose and admitted: “Of course I want you to be happy, you great loon, you are my son. And both your mother and I would be quite pleased to see a few grandchildren at the knee, or other joints.”

    “Er—yes. We definitely haven’t discussed that yet!” said Adam with a chuckle.

    “I hope you’re not definitely against it?”

    “No! Jesus, Christopher, at least let us find the house first!”

    “I’m getting on, you see,” replied Christopher staidly. “The knees are stiffening.”

    “Um—yes,” said Adam, swallowing. “Um—well, Georgy’s thinking about doing Titania for Derry, could she get that over first?”

    “That’s right, put bloody Derry Dawlish before my grandchildren!” replied Christopher with a grin. “You realize bloody Maurie’s now two generations ahead of me?”

    “Eh? Oh,” said Adam limply.

    “What’s he talking about?” hissed Georgy.

    Adam replied loudly, not putting his hand over the receiver: “He’s trying to convince me that producing grandchildren for him is a worthier cause than doing the Bard for Derry.”

    “Oh. –Oh!” she gasped, turning puce.

    Smiling pleasedly, Adam said to his father: “Well, if you’re over the first shock, go and get Ma, would you? –Hang on, are my bloody uncles still there?”

    “Yes. In fact, possibly attracted by the sound of his own name being taken in vain,” said Christopher with a laugh in his voice, “your Uncle Maurie’s standing right here in the passage, trying to hear what we’re saying.”

    Adam heard Maurice’s deep voice say cheerfully: “Rats. Only going for a leak. –Is that Adam?” Christopher replied in the affirmative and Maurice said without interest: “Come back for Livia’s wedding, I suppose. Tell him to avoid Mac like the plague, I hear he’s casting for the winter play.”

    “That was your Uncle Maurice,” said Christopher politely.

    “I heard. I wouldn’t put it past him to send Livia a huge wedding present.”

    “Nor would I,” said Christopher simply. “Can we expect to see you two some time tomorrow?”

    “Yes. Um—I suppose there’ll be lunch after the ceremony. We’ll come over in the afternoon; okay?”

    Christopher agreed to this and went to get Melinda.

    “Getting Ma,” reported Adam, smiling. “He seems quite pleased about it, now that the first shock’s worn off.”

    “Yes.”

    Adam eyed her in amusement. “Hadn’t thought of yourself as the vehicle for Christopher’s grandchildren?”

    “No,” she gulped.

    Smiling, Adam put an arm round her waist. “Mm,” he said into her tangled auburn curls. “Might be quite fun to try.”

    “Adam, I’d be hopeless!” she gasped.

    “Well, me too. Only other people manage it,” he said in a vague voice.

    It was the sort of vague voice that usually meant he was going to go ahead with whatever it was. Georgy gulped.

    Melinda then came on the line and said cautiously: “Darling, your father says it’s good news.”

    “Yes,” agreed Adam, smiling. “She’s agreed to live with me on a permanent basis and we’re sort of engaged. We’ll be even more sort of engaged once I’ve got a ring on her finger and she’s got something tangible to prove it to herself.”

    “I’m so glad, Adam,” said Melinda shakily.

    “Don’t bawl, Ma: you’ll set me off.”

    “No,” said Melinda, sniffing and smiling. “Oh, dear! I never thought you’d have the sense to— Um, well, you know what I mean.”

    “Weil, yes! Cor: what with you not thinking I’d have the sense to, and Christopher hoping I wouldn’t have the sense to—”

    “Adam, that’s not fair!” she cried.

    “Well, perhaps not quite,” he said, smiling. “So you are pleased, Ma?”

    “Yes. Terribly,” said Melinda, sniffing again. “Oh, dear!”

    “Happy tears,” reported Adam to Georgy. She scowled fiercely at him and he laughed and kissed her. “Mm?” he then said into the phone. “Yes, of course it’s definite, darling. I wouldn’t have dreamed of ringing, otherwise. And I’m going to get straight on to Mr Abrams in London—you remember, Ma, that’s where I got you that pretty garnet brooch—and see about the ring.”

    “Tangible proof,” agreed Melinda, smiling.

    “Absolutely.” Adam then described ecstatically the ring he had in mind.

    Melinda listened dazedly, very much hoping he wasn’t seeing Georgy as some sort of—of decorative toy, to be added to all of the other decorative toys he had in his horrid flat.

    “Yes, dear, it sounds lovely,” she said feebly.

    “Just right for Georgy, don’t you think?” he said enthusiastically. “I’ll get her some decent stuff as well, naturally. Pearls, I think. Not here, of course: once we’re back in London.”

    “Yes. Um—when are you thinking of leaving, Adam?”

    “Well, haven’t got as far as thinking, really, Ma!” he said with a laugh. “Um... I haven’t got anything on until that damned Henry James thing for Derry. I think he’s starting it in late July. –God, Italy in July,” he added, shuddering.

    “Good gracious, yes, Adam: won’t it be terribly hot?”

    “I think he wants the hard light, I’ve got a norful feeling he’s gone all hard-edged. Visually speaking.”

    “I suppose it’ll counteract all those fuzzy things that have been so popular the last ten or twenty years,” said Melinda dazedly, wondering why in God’s name they were talking about visual cinematic techniques when her only son had just announced his engagement. “Venice and so forth.”

    “Exactly. Um—well, I haven’t talked it over with Georgy yet, Ma. She will eventually come back with me and help me get rid of the flat and its Japanese electronics-factory gadgets.” he said with a smile in his voice. “Won’t you, darling?”

    “Yes,” said Georgy.

    “Good,” said Melinda feebly. “Let me speak to her, would you, dear?”

    Adam handed Georgy the receiver.

    “Hullo?” she said shyly.

    “Georgy, darling: I’m so glad!” said Melinda warmly.

    Georgy gulped. “Really?”

    “Yes; I think you’re made for each other!” said Melinda, smiling.

    Georgy burst into explosive tears.

    “Good grief, what did you say to her?” cried Adam fiercely, putting an arm round her tightly and taking the receiver from her nerveless hand.

    “Only that I think you’re made for each other. Did the poor little thing expect me to share your father’s views?”

    “No idea,” he said limply. “Hang on, Ma.” He laid the pink Princess receiver down on Mrs Mayhew’s notepad of Horaces and hugged Georgy comfortingly. “Come on, sweetheart: surely you didn’t expect Melinda to do the wicked step-ma bit?”

    “No!” sobbed Georgy into his chest.

    Adam laid his cheek on her head and patted her back gently until the sobs had dried up. When he picked up the receiver he heard his mother hastily blow her nose. “Not you, too!”

    “Just a bit,” admitted Melinda, sniffing. “It’s the relief, I think.”

    “Mm. Well, at least you’re not chatting on about raising goats and grandchildren,” he noted.

    “He didn’t?” she said in a voice of doom.

    “Of course he did, Mother!” said Adam cordially. “Good God, did you expect him not to? After how many years is it, now?”

    “Not far off forty, if you’ll examine your birth certificate,” she replied drily.

    “Er—yeah. All right, it’s time I was producing grandchildren in your images,” he groaned. “Could we at least get the ring on the finger, first?”

    “I’ll let you do that,” said Melinda, smiling. “Is Georgy all right now?”

    “Yes. Well, horrified at the recurrence of the grandchildren motif, needless to say. –Ow!” he gasped. “No, she’s fine!”

    “So I gather. Well, I’d better let you go, darling. –Oh: you haven’t forgotten it’s Livia’s wedding tomorrow, have you?”

    “No, and even if I had, I gather the Carranos are giving us a lift.”

    “Good. Well, shall we see you tomorrow, dear?”

    “Didn’t he say?” he groaned.

    “Of course not!”

    “Well, yes, we’ll come round after the wedding. Well, after we’ve changed into jeans or something, I suppose. Mid-afternoon?”

    Melinda agreed placidly to that, added “Love to Georgy,” wished him bye-bye, and hung up.

    “‘Love to Georgy,’” reported Adam limply.

    Georgy went very pink. “She really is pleased, isn’t she?”

    “Yes, of course. She’s been planning it for months, you know.”

    “What?” she gasped.

    “Oh, yes; well, according to Dad. Since well before I met you.”

    “Adam—!”

    “True.”

    “I don’t believe you,” said Georgy limply.

    “Yes. Ma’s like that. Been trying to marry me off to some nice, suitable girl since I was about twenty-one,” he said absently, searching amidst the notes under Mother Mayhew’s feline Horaces for Mr Abrams’s number. “Ah—here. These noughts and things must be the, um, the bit that lets you dial London, don’t you think?”

    “What? Oh. Well, it looks quite like Clem’s number, doesn’t it?”

    Adam checked it against Clem’s number in his pocket diary. “Yes. Good.” He dialled before Georgy could say hadn’t they better ring Mum next and mightn’t it still be too early, in London.

    Whether or not it was still only breakfast time in London, Mr Abrams, who in any case lived above his shop, answered the phone in person. He was terrifically pleased to hear it was Adam, intrigued to hear he was calling all the way from New Zealand, and thrilled to hear of the engagement. And he still had the ring: yes. Of course he could send it out for Mr McIntyre’s approval: only too happy!

    While Georgy was still gasping: “Adam!” in horror, Mr Abrams then very rapidly detailed some of the other interesting pieces he had in stock: there was a necklace which had just come in, of course not a companion piece to the ring, but— Georgy listened limply as Adam arranged to have all these pieces sent to him on approval. By courier or something? he suggested. Mr Abrams, chuckling, ordered him to leave all that to him, repeated his fervent congratulations, got Adam’s current address and phone number, and rang off.

    “That makes one that’s experiencing unalloyed pleasure at the news,” noted Adam.

    “Yes!” she gulped.

    “Well, two, counting Ma. Shall we victimize your ma next?”

    “I think I need another coffee first,” admitted Georgy.

    “Rubbish, darling, you need a drink. So do I, I think I’ve now been up for, um...” He counted on his fingers. “Hang on, add two. Lawks: eighteen hours or so. Not to mention,” he added with a sly look, “not sleeping last night.”

    Georgy went pink and looked away. “Oh,” she said in a small voice.

    Smiling, Adam went off to forage in the sitting-room. He came back looking dazed. “Darling, what have you done with it all?”

    Georgy had given the Cognac and the Black Label to Ralph because he’d said she was incapable of appreciating them. She had given the dry Vermouth to Ngaio because Ngaio liked it. She had given the “funny brown bottle” to Ngaio for reasons unspecified. (Kahlua: Adam’s secret vice.) Ross had been awarded the wonderful Appleton’s Special rum which Jake had given them, apparently on the strength of her already having given the brandy and the whisky to Ralph. Adam looked at her limply.

    “I gave him something else, too, only I can’t remember what it was.”

    “My Benedictine,” he groaned.

    “Um—was it?”

    “It’s certainly not there,” he groaned.

    “Um—Val might have put it in the fridge,” offered Georgy.

    “Why?” he moaned, tottering down the passage.

    “She said the ants might get it. Well, might get whatever it was she put in the fridge.”

    Gingerly Adam investigated the fridge.

    Val hadn’t put his Benedictine in the fridge: she’d put his two bottles of excellent burgundy that Jake had given him, his bottle of Pink for the rare occasions he fancied a pink gin, and his opened bottle of Grand Marnier in the fridge. The gin was also in the fridge, which was where he’d left it. Untouched, as far as he could tell. As were several little bottles of tonic water. Well, Adam wasn’t counting, but he would have taken his Bible oath there were the same number of little bottles as he’d left.

    “It’s frozen Grand Marnier or gins, then,” he noted, removing the burgundy tenderly and cradling it to his chest. “Why didn’t Ralph say you wouldn’t appreciate this, may I ask?” he whispered.

    “I don’t think he saw it. It was in the other compartment of that funny cupboard of Mrs Mayhew’s.”

    “Good on Mrs Mayhew’s funny cupboard, then. Let’s just hope ice crystals haven’t actually formed,” he said, setting the bottles tenderly on the bench. “Well, which would you like?”

    “I don’t know,” said Georgy feebly.

    “Grand Marnier, then? It’s sweet and—er—tastes of oranges,” he said feebly.

    “Okay.”

    They had restorative Grand Marnier, sitting together on the pinky-lilac velvet sofa.

    Round about the time Christopher was blahing on about goats, the phone rang in the Librarian’s office of the Puriri County Library.

    Dorothy picked it up in some surprize. Admittedly they were open on Friday evenings, although the County Manager was of course reconsidering that policy, cost-effective-wise. And admittedly she herself was frequently on duty at that time, but why would any Borrower want her in person?

    On the other hand, if was the County Manager’s bloody wife wanting to be put at the head of the waiting list for another bloody Barbara Taylor Bradford that the woman could afford to buy fifteen times over without noticing it— Dorothy took a deep breath.

    “Oh, it’s you,” she said, sagging.

    Her fellow-professional replied: “Yeah.”

    “One of my tiny clotlets hasn’t sent you another Overdue, has it?” enquired Dorothy genially.

    “No,” replied Val’s boss. “It’s not that.”

    Then there was a short silence. Val’s boss was finding this more difficult than she’d anticipated, the more so as she knew that Dorothy knew that she was not vitally interested in the goings-on of overseas film stars. She did, however, know that Dorothy would want to know about this, because she'd heard her views on the film star in question and the relationship with Georgy Harris. “Um... well, actually, I’ve got some news... You’ll think I’m daft,” she admitted.

    “I may think that anyway,” Dorothy pointed out calmly.

    She gave a startled giggle. “Yes! Um—well, you know Val’s a friend of Georgy Harris’s?”

    “Ye-es... Christ, don’t tell me Georgy’s done something bloody stupid on account of flaming Adam McIntyre!”

    “Ye— No! Not that. Actually, she seems to have got herself engaged to him.”

    “Eh?” croaked Dorothy.

    “Yes. Val’s been staying at Georgy’s for a few days…”

    “Lumme,” said Dorothy at the end of the story.

    “Yes. Um—what do you think, Dorothy?”

    Dorothy removed the pen from behind the ear that wasn’t glued to the phone, and scratched her head with it. “Um... Well, actually my predominant emotion is still pretty much what it was when they were in the thick of what we all assumed was just a summer ro-mance: thank God I’m not Georgy’s mother.”

    Her fellow professional might have been heard to gulp. After which she bade her a feeble goodbye, and hung up.

    Dorothy put the phone down limply. “Whaddaya mean, giving me shocks like that?” she said to it sternly.

    It just looked at her, in its smug plastic way. Sighing, Dorothy got up and moved heavily out to the Issues area. Nominally the library was open until nine-thirty on Fridays, but actually the local superannuitants were all home having cups of tea and bikkies by nine at the latest. So the only customers in sight were a couple of students looking glumly through the “Work Available” ads in the newspapers, Mr Blake’s young grandson looking through the National Geographics at the magazines table in the hopes of seeing Naked Breasts, a pair of fawn-headed twin boys aged about thirteen down in the Adult 620’s, and a burly, tousle-headed headmaster brooding over the Large Print section, no doubt on an optimistic quest for good junk that he hadn’t already consumed, as there was nothing wrong with his eyesight.

    “I’ve just sustained a Norrible Shock,” she reported to Janet, who was putting Overdues into envelopes in the intervals of not de-wanding any returned books because no-one was returning books and not wanding any books to go out, as no-one was taking any books out.

    Little Rosemary was sorting out the last few books from the Returns basket. Unlike some libraries she could name, Dorothy left the basket under the Returns slot all day, not just after hours. You got more books back that way. Books that belonged to the Big Library in town and were sixteen years overdue at it, books that were the personal property of untraceable gaga borrowers, books that were eighteen months overdue (and that they would never have otherwise got back), rude books with the rude pages either torn out or laboriously defaced so that the rude bits were no longer visible... And of course lolly papers, fru-ju sticks, used condoms... Dorothy now insisted that the girls use gloves when they sorted the Returns basket. Rosemary was an obedient little soul: she was wearing ’em. She looked up in alarm.

    “Yeah: you can listen,” said Dorothy tolerantly.

    Rosemary went very red, but came nearer, looking expectant. “Um—this book belongs to Whangarei Public Library,” she noted.

    Dorothy glanced at it cursorily. “Issued in 1956.”—Janet choked.—“Send it back with the usual comps slip and the usual note. Now, gather round, kiddies, and I shall a tale— Hang on.”

    Young Mr Blake had just come in, looking cross. “Over there, Mr Blake!” she cried, pointing.

    Crossly young Mr Blake retrieved his offspring and led him off to home, TV, and bed. The Blakes were caring parents. You still got a few of those. Didn’t stop their offspring spending hours breathing heavily over the National Geographics or the 612’s, of course. If anything, made ’em keener, as far as Dorothy could see.

    She took a deep breath. “Right. I shall a tale— I hope you don’t want a book wanded,” she said in a threatening tone to the tousle-headed headmaster as he approached the Issues desk.

    He replied simply: “No. Thought you looked as if you were about to give with something good, Big Banana.”

    Dorothy returned on a cautious note: “Depends whether you know Georgy Harris or not, really.”

    Janet gasped.

    As the tousle-headed headmaster was Tom and Jemima Overdale’s neighbour, he replied: “Uh—do I? Oh, yeah: little red-headed mate of Jemima’s that was mixed up with that fillum star. Jemima reckons he’s a creep. Dumped her. Par for the course for Overseas fillum stars, isn’t it? –Go on.”

    “Ah, yes; well, ‘dumped her’ was the last piece of news freely circulating in Puriri County, true.”

    “Freely circulating,” he said thoughtfully. “Unlike your fiction. Yeah.”

    “The serious fiction is free,” said Dorothy, looking down her nose at him, “but of course the semi-literate section of our clientele has never discovered this.”

    Rosemary gave a horrified gasp and looked round quickly but there was no-one within earshot and in fact the students had now given up on the newspapers and gone.

    “Go on, Dorothy!” said Janet eagerly, ignoring these minor matters of public relations. “What about Georgy? –Ooh, Ginny Austin was saying she went to Piha with them and a student who’s doing a Ph.D., he’s about Georgy’s age—”

    “NO!” said Dorothy terribly.

    The headmaster quailed terrifically; Rosemary went bright pink; but Janet only said mildly: “Well, what?”

    “This is the Dinkum Oil,” warned Dorothy, “so don’t dare to question it.”

    “Doro-thy!” cried Janet crossly.

    “Georgy’s got herself engaged to Adam Mc—”

    “WHAT?” screamed Janet, turning bright red.

    “Ooh!” gasped Rosemary, turning bright red.

    “Blow me down flat,” suggested the headmaster, scratching the pepper-and-salt mop.

    “Some of those,” agreed Dorothy drily.

    “Who told you?” gasped Janet.

    Even though she’d warned them not to question it, Dorothy obligingly answered all the questions.

    Quite some time later, when she’d finally got Rosemary and Janet to push off and check the windows in Children’s Corner which Cynthia always forgot to check, Dorothy sagged limply on the Issues Desk.

    “Why me?” sighed Tom’s neighbour, also sagging limply.

    “That was my thought,” she groaned.

    “If I tell ’em, they’ll go spare, and if I don’t tell ’em, they’ll go spare,” he noted.

    “Yeah.”

    “Especially Jemima. Dunno if there’ll be floods of tears because she's pleased or because she doesn’t think there’s a snowflake’s hope in Hell it’ll ever work out, but there’ll be floods.”

    “Mm. –We have yet to apprise Bridie of the Grate News,” she noted. True, as far as she knew, headmasters from obscure Blossom Avenue had not been apprised of their Bridie’s long-term obsession, but he sighed and said: “Yeah.”

    After some time of gloomy leaning on the Issues desk on both parts, Dorothy noted dully: “He’s not all bad, I suppose.”

    “That’s not what Tom reckons!” Tom’s neighbour replied with feeling.

    Dorothy sighed. “No,” she said dully.

    After a further time of gloomy leaning on the Issues desk, he said: “I’ve decided. I won’t tell ’em.”

    Before Dorothy could even formulate a reply, let alone get it out, Janet came up, eyes shining, face a-glow, with an excited speech in re where The Wedding might be held. Within sight of the whole of Puriri County, was more or less her bet.

    Dorothy didn’t even bother to say: “Highly unlikely.” She just nodded glumly at the canny headmaster and said: “You’ve got the right idea, matey.”

    “Hullo, Mrs Harris,” said Adam smoothly. “This is Adam.”

    There was a short silence. Adam made a face at Georgy. Georgy shuddered.

    “Georgy’s still at that flat,” said Mrs Harris grumpily.

    “Yes, I know that. So am I,” he replied courteously. “That’s why I’m ringing you, really. Georgy and I have decided to get engaged.”

    There was another silence. Adam made another face at Georgy. Georgy shuddered again.

    “I see,” said Mrs Harris limply. “I suppose that’s good news.”

    “Well, we’re both very happy,” said Adam, winking at Georgy.

    “Yes.”

    There was yet another silence: this time Adam rolled his eyes slightly and Georgy merely quailed.

    “Why isn’t she ringing me herself?” said Mrs Harris crossly.

    “We felt you might believe it if I told you,” said Adam smoothly.

    Mrs Harris took a deep breath. “I see.”—Adam reflected that if he’d been Ross she’d probably have shouted at him. Was this restraint because he was an Overseas Fillum Star or just because she didn’t yet know him very well?—“Can I speak to her, please?”

    “Of course. Just a moment,” replied Adam courteously. He raised his eyebrows at Georgy and waved the receiver at her.

    Looking sick, Georgy took it. Adam put a comforting arm round her waist. “Hullo, Mum,” she said.

    Mrs Harris took a deep breath.

    “It is true,” said Georgy quickly.

    “I didn’t imagine it was a joke, thank you!” said her mother acidly.

    There was another silence.

    Finally Georgy said weakly: “You might say congratulations, or something.”

    “I suppose you have thought about this, Georgy?” she said grimly.

    Not expecting the answer “Yes”, noted Georgy glumly. “Well, I know it’s what I want, if that’s what you mean,” she replied cautiously.

    Adam had his ear to the receiver. He said simply: “Good.” Disregarding the fact that Mrs Harris had burst into a long, indignant speech involving the fickleness of Overseas Fillum Stars, Adam’s rotten track record, Georgy’s illusions, Georgy’s career, the short time she’d known him, the distance from Kowhai Bay to England, Georgy’s general inexperience and naïveté, the undoubted fact that Georgy would hate living in England, the prevalence of divorce and/or infidelity in the theatrical world, Georgy’s illusions, Georgy’s career, the short time she’d known him...

    Eventually she paused for breath, gasping, and Georgy said: “I know all that. Just at the moment, I don’t care. I’m happier than I ever thought I could be. Couldn’t you at least pretend to be pleased?”

    Mrs Harris burst into another speech, this time involving Georgy’s general inexperience and naïveté, the short time she’d known him, Georgy’s illusions, the little she and Adam had in common, Georgy’s general inexperience and naïveté…

    Eventually Georgy cried: “All right, be like that! At least Adam’s mother is pleased!”

    “Georgy, it’s not that I don’t want you to be happy—”

    “No: it’s just that you want me to be happy on your terms. Well, I can’t do it!” cried Georgy. “I don’t know whether it’ll last or whether he’ll be faithful or whether I’ll like England, or any of those things, either, Mum! But we love each other and we want to give it a try! For Heaven’s sake, can anyone say anything more than that? Look at Sheena Forrest, if you want an example of the so-called ideal suburban marriage!”

    The phone was silent: Adam could only presume that Mrs Harris was looking. “Eh? Wot? Who?” he hissed.

    “You know: our neighbours on the other side: Sheena’s their eldest daughter. She married a wholly suitable accountant,” said Georgy rather loudly and not putting her hand over the receiver, “and they bought a wholly suitable house in Pohutukawa Bay, and settled down to a wholly suitable lifestyle with a shiny Japanese Laser-Whatever-That-Is and a microwave oven.”—Adam shook silently all over.—“And after a year of married bliss he decided he wasn’t ready to settle down and ran off with his secretary.”

    “That’s apocryphal!” he gasped.

    “No, unfortunately it’s true. Poor Sheena was only twenty-one: she was dreadfully upset. Still, the consensus of Kowhai Bay is,” said Georgy on a dry note, and disregarding the fact that the phone was now squawking at her, “that she’s young enough to get over it. –Shall I hang up?”

    “No!” he gasped. “Darling,” he hissed, covering the receiver with his hand: “what in God’s name is your mother’s name?”

    “Eh? Oh—Coral,” said Georgy. “It’s pretty, isn’t it? She hates it, of course.”

    Adam didn’t know whether it would make things better or worse for him to use it, then. However, he took the bit between teeth and said firmly into the phone: “It’s Adam again. I fully understand your feelings, Coral, and Georgy and I have discussed it, of course. And we are aware of the problems. All I can say is that I’ll do my best to take very good care of her and make her happy. I do love her, you know. And I’m not interested in a Hollywood lifestyle: I’ve been through all that, and I hated it. We thought we might buy a house in a suburb of London; I’m hoping to do a fair bit of theatre work.”

    After a moment Mrs Harris said feebly: “It’s such a precarious life.”

    “Yes, it is, of course,” agreed Adam promptly, “but I am pretty well established, now. It’s not as if I was just starting out.”

    “Mum, he’s got thousands!” cried Georgy loudly.

    “That isn’t very delicate, Georgy,” said her mother with distaste.

    “No, it isn’t, darling,” said Adam to Georgy. He showed her the tip of his tongue. Georgy went very pink and gave a smothered giggle.

    “However, Georgy is right, Coral, in that I can afford to support her,” he said smoothly.

    “Well—well, I’m glad to hear it. So—in London, then?” she said feebly.

    “Yes. Well, in a nice suburb. Um... Did you get The Good Life here?”—Numbly Mrs Harris acknowledged that they had. Georgy rolled her eyes in horror at him.—“Yes. Well, a suburb rather like that: pleasant detached houses with nice gardens.”

     “That sounds very nice,” she said weakly.

    “Yes; I think Georgy will like it. I really do intend to do my best to make her happy.”

    “Yes,” said Georgy’s mother, gulping and sniffing. “She’s never been overseas... Well, she’s never really been away from home, before.”

    Ignoring the fact that his beloved had stuck her tongue out angrily at the phone. Adam said smoothly: “I know. In some ways she’s very young for her age, isn’t she?”

    Mrs Harris agreed to this with great feeling, and expanded on the theme. Adam agreed with everything she said. She ended up sounding quite happy, congratulating him on the engagement, and telling him they’d better both come round to tea. She’d ring Melinda, perhaps his parents would like to come. Adam agreed smoothly to all of this, bade her a warm goodnight, and rang off.

    “You swingeing hypocrite!” gasped Georgy.

    “Rubbish: every word of it was true.”

    Georgy glared and he said, smiling: “Well, quite a few other things that weren’t mentioned are also true, of course: such as I need you to support me far more than you need me.”

    Georgy gulped.

    He put his arms round her and said into her curls: “It’s true. Let’s go to bed: I’m exhausted after all that semi-hypocrisy. Besides,” he added, sniffing, “I’ve got a feeling that I’m going to bawl.”

    “Um—well, put the machine on, she’ll be ringing Ngaio and Aunty Christine and everyone.”

    Smiling a bit, Adam put the answering-machine on.

    Then they went to bed. Rather to Georgy’s surprize he did bawl. Quite thoroughly. She was also surprized to find that she enjoyed comforting him and in fact felt astoundingly maternal towards him as she did so. After that, she was even more surprized to find that he felt like making love. Male physiology was very odd, she decided.

    He went to sleep very soon after, cuddled up very close.

    Georgy didn’t sleep for quite a while. She felt very warm and happy. It wouldn’t have been true to say she felt she was doing the right thing: she could see that all of her mother’s objections—and more—were pretty well valid. She could also see—at least intellectually, though she recognized that she wasn’t grasping it emotionally—that living with Adam would not be particularly easy. What she most recognized, however, was that, whether or not it was the right thing, and whether not it would be difficult, she had to do it. Because she couldn’t have borne not to do it.

    “Oh, you’re back,” said Sir Jacob simply as Adam opened the door of Mrs Mayhew’s flat next morning.

    “Don’t tell me no-one’s told you the news?”

    “Mighta done,” he recognized cautiously. “Well, mighta tried to: she’s buggered up the answering-machine again.”

    Adam gave a delighted laugh. “I see! Well, the news is, not only am I back, but Georgy’s agreed to marry me. Don’t tell me I don’t deserve her, I realize that, thanks.”

    “All right, I won’t,” he said simply. “Congratulations. Taking her back to Pongo, are ya?”

    “Eventually, yes. She thinks she ought to give Mac a decent notice—can’t imagine why, he’s hardly in the running for considerate boss of the year. We thought she might stick it out until the mid-year break; I think that’s in July.”

    “Uh—aw, yeah. Could be. Can’t get used to this new system. May holidays were a damn good idea. Weather’s bloody horrible in July. Travelled in that, didja?” he said, cocking an eye at Adam’s crumpled Don Johnson suit.

    “No. All my other clothes are in an even worse state, I’m afraid.”

    Sir Jacob sniffed slightly. “Mm.” He turned his head slightly and bellowed: “POL!”

    Polly emerged from the Merc, immaculate in dark green suede, looking cautious. “What?”

    “It’s all right, ya nana, he hasn’t chucked Georgy out of the flat on ’er ear, they’re engaged!” he said loudly.

    “Ooh, wonderful!” she cried, rushing up the steps and embracing Adam warmly. “Congratulations, Adam: I’m so glad!”

    “Thank you, Polly,” said Adam, kissing her cheek gently.

    “Oy, you reckon you could iron this bloody thing ’e’s got on?” Sir Jacob asked tersely.

     Polly looked at it dubiously. “Is it linen, Adam?”

    “I think so. We have tried to get the creases out.”

    “It needs to be ironed damp. Have you got an iron?” said Lady Carrano simply.

    “Thinks of everything!” marvelled Sir Jacob.

    “Shut up. –He’s pissed off with me because I did something to his stupid answering-machine and it’s not picking up the messages,” she explained.

    “So I gather,” said Adam, grinning.

    “My God, how did you fit that in, between hearing about his engagement and telling him his suit needed ironing?” she asked her spouse.

    Sir Jacob was unmoved. “Well, come on!” He pushed them both remorselessly into the passage.

    Livia’s wedding day had dawned fine but windy, with a lot of high cloud, so the linen suit wasn’t entirely inappropriate. Though Jake was in a dark thing which looked like a silk and wool mix, noted Adam.

    “Thank God it isn’t morning dress,” he said, climbing out of the suit in the downstairs laundry. “I did ask Georgy, but she didn’t know.”

    “This is a lovely little laundry!” returned Lady Carrano enthusiastically.

    Jake sighed. “Just get on with it. One of us has to give the bride away, ya know.”

    “I thought Wal would want you for his best man, Jake,” said Adam, as Polly expertly set up the ironing board that lived in a cupboard and if you didn’t stand over Georgy as she put it away, came out of the cupboard and brained you when you opened it.

    “Nah. Well, we did think of it. Only he decided his eldest son had had better do it.”

    “Bruno,” said Lady Carrano, spitting on the iron.

    “Yeah,” he agreed without enthusiasm. “Wonder if ’e’ll turn up in beads and moccasins.”

    “Why are beads and moccasins intrinsically less worthy than Pierre Cardin suits and Gucci loafers?” she wondered.

    “These aren’t Gu—” he began indignantly. “Never mind,” he sighed.

    Grinning, Adam said: “I’ll just leave you typical married folks to get on with this typical married discussion, shall I? And see if Georgy’s ready.”

    Jake brightened, but his wife said grimly: “Don’t you dare!” So he stayed where he was.

    “Pleased?” he ventured finally, as she ironed with great concentration.

    “Mm,” she grunted, ironing with great concentration.

    He swallowed. “Truly, sweetheart?”

    Polly looked up, beaming. “Of course! I never thought he’d have the sense to ask her!”

    Inexplicably Sir Jacob’s knees went all wobbly and he had to sit down on a dinky blue-covered bar-stool that was a feature of Mrs Mayhew’s blue-Formica-ed laundry. “Good,” he croaked.

    Polly flicked him an amused glance but didn’t point out that there was, of course, more to it than that. Even though he was pretending not to, she knew he knew it. And that he knew she did, too. But for typical married folks like them, there was no need to express it, really. Not that this would prevent either of them doing so later, if they felt like it.

    Why were Wal and Livia being married in the chapel of a boys’ school? Not the school that Wal had gone to, no, revealed Jake cheerfully as he drove them there. And not by the chaplain: someone else. Driven to it, Adam asked.

    Well, the thing was, ya see— The thing was, apparently, that Wal was owed one or possibly a few, by the Superintendent of a boys’ home in the city. Not an orphanage: the sort of home young men went to when they were let out of borstal. This Superintendent was a youngish fellow in Holy Orders who was best mates with the chaplain of the boys’ school. Not to mention an Old Boy himself. And as the chapel had been available that Saturday—

    “One of Angie and Bill’s boys went there,” contributed Georgy.

    “Have you rung them yet?” asked Polly, twisting round in the front seat of the Merc and smiling at them.

    “Their machine’s probably on the blink,” noted Sir Jacob. “Unless he has the sense not to let her near it, of course. And sit DOWN, ya blocking the rear-view!”

    Polly subsided.

    “Well, no, we haven’t rung them, what with discovering that none of my clothes were wearable, and trying to press this thing, and not actually getting up all that early this morning,” said Adam apologetically. Jake gave a snigger and Georgy blushed.

    “Have you rung your mother, Georgy?” asked Polly, attempting to look over her shoulder without blocking the rear-view.

    “Yes,” croaked Georgy, redder than ever.

    “Mum went on about the cake, when I broke the news of our engagement,” she reported. “Something about having lots of almonds left over from Christmas, I think.”

    Georgy swallowed.

    “Good,” said Adam calmly. “Now I needn’t feel quite so bad about Dad going on about raising bloody goats.”

    “Didn’t she bawl?” remembered Polly’s husband vaguely.

    “Um… I’ve forgotten. Well, probably, she usually does. Whether the news is bad or good,” said Polly, smiling over her shoulder at Georgy and Adam.

    “Will ya stop DOING that!” he bellowed.

     Polly subsided into her seat but explained calmly: “He’s nervous. This is the fourth time round for Wal and he’s terrified it’ll be another failure.”

    “I think they’re pretty well suited,” said Adam feebly.

    “So do I,” she agreed calmly. “And it’s very obvious it’s what Livia wants. She’s been working very hard at it.”

     Sir Jacob choked.

    “Even taking cooking lessons,” said Polly, ignoring him completely.

    “That’s a good idea,” said Georgy faintly.

    Adam squeezed her hand. “Yes, it is. Let’s both enrol.”

    “Really?” she said feebly.

    “Why not?”

    “The WEA run them in the evenings at Puriri High,” said Polly helpfully.

    “Good. I’ll look into it,” he said with determination.

    “You haven’t said if you like Georgy’s outfit,” Lady Carrano then noted.

    “Of course I have! –Oh, no: sorry, Polly, not to you!” he recognized, laughing. “I adore it, of course!”

    “She’s got taste, I’ll say that for ’er,” acknowledged the driver.

    Adam smiled. She had, indeed. It was true that Georgy’s new outfit, to anyone who knew the two of them, screamed “Polly Carrano”, but nevertheless Georgy looked lovely in it. Where Polly’s suit was a dark forest-green suede, with a very tailored look, Georgy’s suit was also a green suede, but a pale silvery green, with a much softer look. Its jacket was cut like a loose blouse and gathered into a wide belt that fastened with a big, plain silver buckle. The suit didn’t have a blouse: both the body of the jacket and the sleeves were gently gathered onto a yoke that was detailed with a little silver scroll-work. The skirt was a mini; since Adam’s eyes had bulged when she expressed worry on this point, Georgy had concluded it looked all right after all. The pale tights were new, as were the simple black patent shoes and handbag.

    Of course, Polly looked lovely, and very sophisticated, in her forest-green suede complete with little matching pillbox, cream silk blouse and big creamy pearls hung with an emerald clip, but Adam preferred Georgy’s softer look and her lovely clouds of auburn, just brushed back behind the ears to show a dear little pair of silver corkscrew earrings that he hadn’t known she possessed. Polly had given them to her, she’d admitted, blushing.

    Adam had forborne to ask what the suit had cost. He had a fair idea, since Polly had taken her to a shop she often patronized, that she’d subsidized it: unbeknownst, of course, to Georgy.

    “Bevy of beauty, aren’t they?” concluded Sir Jake on a proprietorial note.

    Laughing, Adam agreed that they were.

    “The shop had an adorable white suede outfit that fitted Georgy, only we thought white would have looked a bit odd at a wedding,” Polly reported.

    “White suits her; you’ll have to give me the address of the shop, Polly,” said Adam smoothly.

    “No, I’ve got this suit now!” gasped Georgy.

    “Pooh,” he said smoothly.

     Smiling, Polly gave him the name of the shop. Adding: “It’s no use doing the ‘Oh, Mr Rochester’ bit, Georgy; I tried that at one stage, and Jake got all miserable. Then I got the point that they need to shower you with clothes and junk.”

    “‘Clothes and junk’!” muttered the driver wildly.

    “It establishes their ownership, you see!” added Polly with a naughty laugh.

    “No!” gasped Georgy in horror.

    “Male bowerbirds were mentioned at one point,” noted Sir Jacob neutrally.

    Georgy gulped. Adam didn’t get it for a moment; then he choked.

    “I don’t know whether it relates to bringing the hunt home and laying it proudly at your feet, but anyway,” said Lady Carrano serenely, “it seems to make them feel needed, or something.

    “But—but doesn’t it diminish you?” gulped Georgy.

    “How can it, if you know why you’re doing it?” she replied serenely.

    “No; I see,” gulped Georgy.

    Polly just smiled and didn’t say any more. Jake glanced at her and touched her knee fleetingly. She smiled at him; his eyes were back on the road but he smiled, too.

    Adam had caught the exchange. He took Georgy’s hand and kissed it. She went very red but didn’t try to pull away. “Got it, Jane?” he said. She nodded convulsively; he laughed, and kissed her hand again. “Good,” he murmured.

    The car sped southwards towards the Bridge, the city, and the Anglican chapel of an expensive boys’ private school that had been achieved through Contacts. In the front, the typical married folks smiled every so often but didn't attempt to chat. In the back, the young engaged couple were silent, holding hands.

    It was just as well they’d had this preliminary period of quiet relaxation because even though Livia had no relations in the country except Amy, and Wal, of course, was an orphan, the wedding was about what Adam had expected. He had tried to warn Georgy but his powers of expression had apparently failed him, to judge by the look on her face when they got there.

    Although the school was an old establishment for New Zealand, as Jake had tried to explain, the chapel was relatively new and had been erected to commemorate the school’s centenary. Its design had caused a storm of controversy at the time: it had no steeple, but was all low, roughcast white walls under a huge, swooping gabled roof. Inside, the vault of this roof was entirely lined in narrow varnished timber strips, the high gables at either end being filled in with narrow glass strips, mainly clear, but interspersed with small oblongs in purples, blues and yellows. If you looked very hard at the window beyond the altar you would have spotted that these coloured blocks formed the shape of the Cross. However, what with the harsh Antipodean light and all the clear glass it was almost impossible, in fact, to look at the window at all, and after some time of struggling with it the school had given in and had gigantic sun-curtains made. Yellow, for what reason was not immediately apparent, though the timbering of the ceiling, being kauri, did have a golden look about it.

    In spite of the chapel’s décor, Livia had had every available surface including the ends of the pew decked in pink and white flowers and bows. Mainly carnations, with oodles of gypsophila. This was pretty fair warning, but possibly Georgy hadn’t taken it as such. She grabbed Adam’s arm and gasped as the small group of musicians up at the front struck up the appropriate jingle and everyone turned their heads.

    A very small girl was first. Completely covered in pink fluff, even to the head, which was laden with flowers and bows. She bore a small pink basket, of the long-handled, bergère-hat variety, from which she was scattering rose petals. Well, possibly carnation petals, but they were certainly pink. Then there was a gap, and next came a small boy, looking completely agonised. Pretty understandable: he was wearing—omigod—a white velvet jacket and a white, read my lips, thought the shaken Adam, white kilt. He was also wearing a lace jabot and bearing a small satin cushion in the shape of a heart but you barely noticed these details. Though possibly Polly did: she was on Adam’s far side and he heard her gulp as the white satin heart passed them.

    The spectacle of these two small children was made all the more exquisite when the little girl, on reaching the waiting groom, hissed hoarsely: “Hullo, Grandpa!”

    Wal winked at her and returned, not particularly quietly: “Gidday, Petal. Ya done good. You stand over there, okay?”

    Then came the bridesmaids. Only three? Perhaps Polly had read Adam’s mind: she said very quietly in his ear: “Livia wanted all the daughters but the eldest one refused. That’s Caitlin in front, she’s the next in age to Panda; and that’s Kamala.”

    Adam nodded mutely. The bridesmaids were very definitely not in pink fluff, so why in God’s name had the flowergirl been? Well, possibly Livia believed flowergirls had to be in fluff. The bridesmaids were in suits. Caitlin, a tallish, pretty, dark girl with a pale skin, was leading the way in pale pink satin. Kamala was next, in a deep, dusky pink velvet that was a lovely shade but didn’t look its best with her yellowish hair. Either shade would have looked appalling with Panda’s dark looks, and Livia hadn’t put her into them, but instead a dark plum satin, which in fact suited her very well. The suits were identical in style, which in Adam’s opinion was definitely a mistake, as the girls were all different shapes. They all had miniskirts, which in view of Panda’s nice but definitely sturdy legs and Kamala’s very thin ones, weren’t the best choice. The jackets were short, boxy things, double-breasted, square-shouldered, with long sleeves and very wide revers. Six large, glittering, rainbow-like buttons flashed on each jacket-front and the vees of the jackets were partly filled in with rainbow-like flashing frilly stuff: Adam failed to see whether this iridescence was beading or sequins or both.

    Had Livia stopped there it would have been more than enough but of course each girl also carried a bouquet: in Panda’s case deep plum carnations mingled with pink and white and in Caitlin’s and Kamala’s just pink and white; but also lots of loops of pink and white ribbon and of further flashing iridescent things. Smaller bunches of the same composition adorned each left lapel. Then there were the Hats. Picture hats with most artistically swooping brims, laden with silk roses and satin bows, and two long, fluttering lengths of broad satin ribbon trailing down the girls’ backs. Oh, dear.

    After that you might have concluded that the bride would also be in a suit and she was. White brocade, the brocading having been accomplished in iridescent thread. The style was the same as her bridesmaids’ except for the revers. Livia’s suit didn’t have revers, it had a huge ruched collar of the suit material that encircled shoulders, bosom and back. Above it you could just see the tips of the shoulders, and the neck was, very cunningly, encased in a tiny, lacy, rainbowy-glittery ruff. Below this she was wearing Rudi’s pearl necklace. It was a pity Adam hadn’t thought to make a bet on this last point, for he’d have won a handsome sum.

    Livia’s hat was of course a huge picture thing: stiffened white gauze, surprisingly, rather than white satin. As well as roses in both silk and velvet and trailing ditto ribbons it featured a wreathing of iridescent veil. Bridal—yes.

    If anyone was noticing, they all wore very high-heeled satin shoes which matched the colours of their suits and which Panda was having difficulty walking in, but by this time very likely nobody was.

    Livia of course had a bouquet: a huge cornucopia-shaped object dripping with white orchids and white carnations and iridescent loops and white satin loops and more white orchids and gypsophila and maiden-hair fern...

    “Pretty average,” concluded Sir Jacob, grinning, as he seated himself at their table, having deserted the bridal table after the cake-cutting to fight his way to them through the scrum at the reception—Wal’s golf club, he was on the Membership Committee this year.

    “Average?” said Georgy faintly.

    “Hell, yeah: been to much worse!” he said cheerfully.

    “And seen much worse bridesmaids,” confirmed Polly.

    “Crikey, yeah! Gawd, remember the Harding girl’s?” he said.

     “No. That was before we’d even met, you clot.”

    “Was it? Well, it was pretty bad. –Here, remember that do where the bride wore a huge red thing?”

    Polly winced.

    “’Course, that do we went to in Pongo was pretty bad,” he recognized.

    “Which: Roger’s and Debbie’s?” she said weakly.

    “Nah! –Well, yeah, it wasn’t too good either, now ya come to mention it. Well, Oxfordshire in January? Never been so cold in all me puff! –No: that bloody awful up-market thing we went to in—uh—was it May? Dunno. Meant to be summer, I think. –You know, Pol!” he urged as she looked blank. “With the mauve marquee!”

    “Oh,” said Polly in a hollow voice. “That.”

    “Good, that was. That wasn’t wisteria they had everywhere, was it?” he asked.

    “I think it was meant to be lilacs. Artificial, anyway.”

    “Yeah. Swags of it,” he said pleasedly to the company. “Dripping off everything. Anyway, came on to pour right in the middle of the speeches and the marquee collapsed,” he finished without emphasis.

    After a moment Georgy gasped and Adam went into hysterics.

    “Good, it was,” said Sir Jacob when he was more or less over them.

    “It was frightening, actually,” said Polly.

    “I should think so!” gasped Georgy.

    “Well, yeah; a few people panicked,” Jake admitted. “We were okay, though: had me pocketknife, cut a hole in the bloody thing, got out no trouble. –Groom broke his leg, that’s right, eh?” he said to his wife. Polly nodded.

    “Hell’s teeth!” said Adam in awe.

    “It sounds dreadful,” said Georgy weakly.

    “Well, yeah,” admitted Jake. “Like I said: it was a classic. Well, hard to see how it coulda got worse, eh?”

    “True. And rest assured,” said Adam with a grin, taking Georgy’s hand and squeezing it hard, “that we won’t have a bloody frightful do like this!”

    Georgy smiled at him gratefully, but he perceived that the typical married folks were regarding him with tolerant smiles. “What?” he croaked.

    “They always say that,” noted Sir Jacob wisely.

    … “Darlings!” cried Livia, when they had at last fought their way through the scrum to the bridal table. She embraced first Adam, who was nearer, and then Georgy, who was definitely hanging back, in clouds of brocade and L’Air du Temps, picture hat and all. “I’m so glad! How wonn-der-ful!”

    Wal shook hands with Adam wincingly hard. “Never thought you’d have the sense to do it,” he admitted.

    “That’s what they all say,” agreed Adam calmly.

    “God Almighty,” he concluded, as Jake let them out of the Merc about five thousand years later and they crawled up Ma Mayhew’s concrete steps.

    “Are they always like that?” said Georgy weakly. “I’ve only been to Lorraine’s—my cousin’s.”

    “Was it?” asked Adam, fumbling with the key.

    “Yes,” she said baldly. “And the bridesmaids were in bright lime-green satin.

    “There you are, then,” he groaned.

    “But—but surely there must be some way to—to make them nice?” she ventured, as he tottered inside and flung himself onto the pinky-lilac sofa. After Livia’s three-toned bridesmaids, not to mention the fourth shade of the flowergirl’s fluff, it actually looked normal, he noted foggily.

    “Not one known to humanity, darling,” he groaned.

    Georgy staggered to an armchair and fell into it, kicking off her shoes. “Adam, I simply couldn’t,” she said faintly.

    “Livia enjoyed it,” he noted meanly.

    Georgy swallowed. “Can’t people just go to registry offices or—or something?”

    “Yes, I believe so. Well, never had to look into it before.”

    “Adam! You’ve been married!”

    Adam winced. “I don’t know anything about registry office procedure. Claudia insisted on a country church, white satin, orange blossom, grey toppers, the lot. Fortunately I’d had a bachelor party the night before and was so hungover that the thing passed in a merciful blur.” He sighed. “I must have been mad… Well, let myself be dragooned into it, I suppose. Regretted it—not just the ceremony, the whole bloody marriage—from the moment I’d said Yes when she proposed.”

    Georgy looked at him limply.

    Adam raised his eyebrows. “Yes, she did. What fools these mortals be, mm? Well, me, anyway. I’m told I sometimes yell and moan in my sleep, not to mention thrash about: it’s usually when I’m having nightmares that she’s got me in her clutches again. Well, tends to be brought on by opening-night or pre-première nerves—that sort of thing. So Be Warned.”

    “What—what should I do, if—if you do?”

    “Wake me up,” he said, shuddering. “Shake me and yell at me until I come out of it.”

    “Righto, I will,” said Georgy, gulping.

    “I may not have any more,” he said, smiling a little. “You might have cured me.”

    “I wouldn’t think so. Not if opening nights or premières bring them on. –I’m sure people can just go to a registry office and—and not have an awful reception or get dressed up or anything.”

    Adam looked dubious. “People with mothers, sisters, and hoards of well-wishers?”

    Georgy gulped and admitted: “I shouldn’t think Mum’d let us get away with it, actually.”

    Well, hooray! Apparently she’d now accepted the notion that he intended to marry her! Well, there was nothing like a few concrete examples to ram the idea home! Not to mention get it into her red head that it was the norm: people went and did it every day. “No, well,” he said happily, “it’s like I was saying: there is no way known to humanity of making them nice.”

    It dawned that his fiancée was looking at him in genuine horror. “Oh, Hell,” he said weakly. “Um—well, it’s a bit soon to decide, of course, dearest, but shall we think about possibly having a Goddawful engagement party out here with, uh, full participation from all sides; then sneaking off to England and quietly tying the knot at the local registry office with—with perhaps just Charles and Norah as witnesses?”

    “And Clem,” said Georgy firmly. “And Joel, of course, if he’s back in England by then.”

    “And Clem and Joel,” agreed Adam, smiling.

    Georgy had had a shower and was in her cabbagey housecoat, and Adam had made them both a nice cuppa, and they’d drunk it and he was about to step into the shower, when there was a loud knock at the front door.

    Georgy edged into the bathroom. “There’s someone at the door.”

    “I think it might be Dad,” he admitted.

    “I think it might be Miss McLintock.”

    “You answer it,” he decided, shuddering.

    “Ye-es... Um—well, can I tell her?”

    “Mm? Oh!” he said, laughing. “Yes, tell her, darling! And listen, we must definitely have her at engagement party.”

    “Good, she’d like that, it’s the sort of thing she does like.” Georgy went off to the door.

    Ralph raised his eyebrows at the housecoat. “Not up yet? Not brooding, I hope?”

    “No,” said Georgy blankly. “Oh!” she said, going very red. “Um, no.”

    “Don’t tell me you’ve found consolation already?” he drawled. “Which one is it, the null-looking pakeha or the brown one?”

    “Neither,” said Georgy, looking very cross. “Um—come in.”

    Ralph came in. Once in the sitting-room he could hear the shower running. Georgy crossed to the bedroom door and closed it.

    “Do I gather that you haven’t merely left your shower running out of respect for Ma Mayhew’s water rates?” he drawled.

    “What? Oh. No. Um—sit down.”

    Ralph sat down, reflecting that his new navy needlecord trou’ and his new cream Aran-knit vee-necked sweater and his very good Paisley silk scarf in navy and maroon were being bloody well wasted. “I was going to invite you for a run up to Kingfisher Bay,” he sighed. “Not to actually sail, of course, merely to potter round on deck, possibly take a rum and pineapple in the cabin or on deck, depending on the weather— No?”

    “No, I can’t,” said Georgy in a strangled voice.

    He sighed. “Go on, which of your inept and impossibly young admirers is it?”

    “It isn’t. I mean, it’s Adam!” she gulped.

    Ralph winced. “Wasn’t one dose enough, Georgy?” he said faintly.

    “No; I mean, you’re quite justified in thinking that; I’d be the last to deny it. Only he— It isn’t— It’s different.”

    Ralph raised his eyebrows very high.

    “We’re engaged,” said Georgy limply.

    “Show me the ring,” he replied instantly.

    Georgy swallowed loudly. “He’s having it sent out from London on—on approval, he’s got a little man. Well, he maintains he meant a little shop but I know he really thinks of him as a little man. Mr Abrams.”

    “Circumstantial,” he murmured. “Told your mother yet?”

    “Polly asked me that, too,” said Georgy limply.—Ralph’s lips twitched but he didn’t permit himself to laugh.—“Yes, we have, actually. Um—I think she’s sort of coming round. Well, if you want to know, I think he’s started to twist her round his little finger,” she admitted.

    Ralph went into a spluttering fit. “Thought—she was—immune!” he finally gasped.

    “So did I,” admitted Georgy, smiling weakly.

    “Yes, well,” he said, recovering himself: “I won’t say congratulations, Georgy. But I will say I wish you very happy, and all the luck in the world.” He stood up.

    Georgy also got up, looking at him uncertainly.

    Ralph smiled a little wryly and gently kissed her cheek. “He’s a lucky bastard, but I think you know I think that, don’t you?” he murmured.

    “Yes—no— I’m not perfect, either!” gasped Georgy.

    “Oh, very nearly,” he murmured, drifting out. “Very nearly.”

    He did go up to Kingfisher Marina to his yacht. And he didn’t go sailing. What he did do was drink so much rum, largely without pineapple juice, that he was incapable   of driving himself home and had to spend the night on the boat.

    It was not, he told himself sourly, driving back very carefully on the Sunday with a monumental hangover, that one had kidded oneself one had a chance. Only somehow hope sprang eternal, didn’t it? How bloody silly.

    “What?” said Stephen on the following Friday, going very white.

    “Didn’t you know?” gasped Vicki.

    “Idiot,” noted her boyfriend.

    “No,” said Stephen grimly, striding away from them.

    “Ooh, heck!” gasped Vicki.

    “Don’t you ever look before you leap?” asked Euan crossly.

    “Don’t be mean! I thought she’d have told him!” she wailed.

    “Probably forgot all about him. Well, he’s a pretty forgettable sort, isn’t he?”

    Vicki’s jaw sagged.

    Euan gave her a mocking look. “Come on, all the beetroot filled-rolls’ll be gone if we don’t get a move on.”

    They joined the queue at the Caff.

    Unlike Ralph Overdale, Stephen had really had hopes of Georgy. She rang him the following Monday to tell him in person but that didn’t make him feel any better.

    Being, however, a sane and sensible young man, he did not go into a deep depression or even a mild depression but instead buried himself in his doctoral studies. Mac began to feel quite hopeful about him. If he kept it up he might offer him a job after all. Well, tell him to apply.

    Adam’s and Georgy’s engagement party was held at the beginning of June. The weather had worsened: in fact it was a terrible day, pouring with rain and a howling gale blowing to boot, but Georgy in a narrow little white knit dress with a fluffy band of swansdown ringing the off-the-shoulder neckline of which Mrs Harris disapproved and Adam in a heavy grey broadcloth suit that he’d had Clem’s secretary dispatch by courier with most of the rest of his warm clothes looked ecstatically happy and as if they’d never heard of stormy weather.

    Joel’s Australian tour had just finished and in spite of the fact that Perth was on the other side of Australia from what he’d thought it was, he’d come for the party. So, apparently, he perceived, had the whole of Puriri County. There was lovely Dorothy from the library—who was that thin, dark-haired girl with her, looking scared stiff? Oh: Georgy’s pal Val; got it, dears. And the terrifying Ariadne Nicholls—gracious, yes, the daughter was like her, wasn’t she? So where was Dr Keith? –Oh, yes: drinking in a corner with that other nice doctor, Bruce Whatsit: possibly he’d like to look at Joel’s toe, which the full weight of Piggy-Whiskers, pace the accident insurance, had not improved. Adam’s uncles and aunts were there in full force, not to mention the cousins, but let us draw a veil, dears. So of course were Georgy’s relations, and whether Coral Harris in an orange and violet Chanel-type checked tweed suit with a frilly violet silk blouse was a more terrifying sight to see than Aunty Christine in bright lemon wool with American-footballer shoulders and an even frillier silk blouse of just off-lemon, was beyond his powers to decide.

    The entire cast of the Dream also seemed to be present, unless it was just that Georgy had invited all her students. NO, not Quince, dears: really! Bill and Angie Michaels and the delightful Barbara, of course; when Joel said one couldn’t hear oneself speak Bill offered to wire a mike to his tits. Indelicate, that was Wot.

    Naturelle-mong Elspeth was there, it being a sort of late-lunchy do. Wobbly highish heels that she couldn’t manage properly. Joel had advised her not to scrunch the toes, dear, but she’d said tersely: “I have to!” The dress was crushed velvet in a strong burnt orange shade, draped and wide-shouldered and a sort of bunch at the hip, but as it was more than clear they must have let her choose it herself Joel had tactfully not mentioned it to her parents. Whetu, by contrast, looked amazingly smart, if noticeably cuboid, in a longish straight black wool skirt surmounted by a really charming pink handknit with a totally tasteful ornamentation in tiny beads and tiny feathers, no prizes for guessing the mother had chosen that, dears, and no prizes for guessing about the shoes, either: they exactly matched the top and they were flat. Joel praised both girls’ appearances extravagantly but this struck the Wrong Note: Elspeth looked sulky and said: “Dad wouldn’t let me wear my new hoop earrings,” and Whetu looked sulky and said: “I hate pink. Mum chose this. She won’t let me wear high-heels and it isn’t fair, Elspeth’s had them for years!”

    Joel then ventured feebly that the food and drink were fab, but Whetu retorted sourly that Mum had said she wasn’t to touch anything with pastry or shellfish, at which he choked on his crayfish vol-au-vent, and Elspeth announced sourly that Dad had said if she went anywhere near the champagne he’d ground her for the rest of the year, at which he choked on his champagne.

    After various attempts of this sort to socialize he gave up and tottered to Livia’s and Amy’s sides. At least they understood the Actor’s Lot, and could sympathize with his being exhausted after the tour with Piggy-Whiskers. Even if Amy was in a draped Thing of the most depressing shade of morve imaginable. Not velvet, sort of a crêpey imitation velvet. She’d had it for Livia’s wedding? Oh. Livia by contrast was in yer actual velvet: very blue as to the shade and very wide as to the shoulders, not to say extremely short as to the skirt, presumably darling Wallace just let her have her head. A huge flower on the shoulder, could yer get blue rhododendrons, because if so, it was. The hat was sort of a pillbox covered in blue petals: tray Queen Mum but Joel knew better than to say that. Livia and Wal were buying a house. Real-ly? Fabulous, darling! And Livia had found a little cat. Joel waited, quailing, for her to tell him it was a blue Persian kitten but it turned out to be a darling little tabby, just like Polly’s little cat! Joel’s knees went all funny.

    It had been difficult to know what to buy for an engagement present for The Man Who Had Everything, especially when it had to be crammed into your already overweight suitcases while you prayed Qantas had got tired of using their weighing machine today. Livia and Amy were dying to have another drool over The Presents, so he went, hoping to see that it didn’t look as unimpressive as he was afraid it might. In order to accommodate the engagement presents Mrs Harris had totally stripped Georgy’s erstwhile study and, according to Georgy, shoved everything holus-bolus into her old bedroom. Yes, well, you could read what you pleased into that; in fact the more he thought of it the more he read into it, so Joel hurriedly stopped.

    “There!” cried Livia proudly, grabbing his arm in a grip of steel. “That’s ours!”

    A Normous saucepan. “Very nice, dear.”

    “Its a slow-cooker, Joel, darling,” she explained. “They’re simply mar-vel-lous: you put the meat and so forth in and the ragoût just cooks away happily for hours; you don’t have to look at it all! It’s impossible to burn it, isn’t it, Amy?”

    “Yes: temperature-controlled.”

   Joel nodded numbly, he wouldn’t have bet a sou, not a sou, dears, that Georgy and Adam combined wouldn’t succeed, not merely in burning the ragoût, but also in burning the house down with the thing.

    The Carranos had more simply given them a large microwave oven.

    “That’s mine!” said Amy excitedly, grabbing his other arm in a grip of steel. What was it, mating fever? No, couldn’t be, in her case. Could you have sympathetic, or transferred, mating fever? Joel duly admired the cut-glass cruet set in its cut-glass (now that was a nice touch) holder.

    “Gawd strewth,” he then noted, as his eyes dazzled.

    “Isn’t it luverly?” breathed Amy. “The rose pattern!” –Evan Black. Full canteen of sterling silver cutlery. Last resort of the tasteless and well-off. True, Adam liked Victoriana, but even Joel could see that this was ersatz rose-pattern.

    Maurie had given them a set of decanters. With them little silver necklaces that said “Sherry” or “Brandy” or “Whisky” or in this case all three. They were quayte nayce but even Joel could see they were ersatz, too. Second-to-last resort of the tasteless and well-off.

    He roved on, past the fish knives and forks—didn’t seem as popular out here in the Anty-podes as they were back home, only two sets; the toasters, always a popular item, yer toaster; well, they’d never need to buy another one and in fact would have a spare for their great-grandchildren’s engagement present; yer electric jugs: my, my, weren’t they a popular item in the Anty-podes, and not only chromium plate, neither: that one there was gen-yew-wine white plastic, tray moh-durne; yer electric carving knives, oh God, better phone Clem and make sure someone wrote the emergency ambulance number Very Large by every phone Adam had in that bloody flat of his; yer—um—oh, yes: electric can-openers, of the sort that you needed a Ph.D. in nuclear physics to operate, let’s hope this house Adam apparently intended buying had deep cupboards—

    He became aware that Livia was expecting something. “Yes, dear?” he said weakly.

    “Joel, dear! Which is yours?” she said reproachfully, all mascara and blue eyelids.

    “Um—oh: lurking behind these lemon bath towels—who on earth? ‘Aunty Christine and Uncle Joe’—but of course,” he recognised in a hollow voice.

    “Very pretty, Joel: very pretty!” said Livia brightly, looking blankly at the little round silver box with its lovely rose-pattern lid. “For cigarettes, dear: I see!” she decided.

    “No, Livia: it’s antique!” gasped Amy. “Isn’t it, Joel?”

    “Mm. 1860s, they tell me.”

    “Oh, Vic-tor-i-an!”cried Livia. “Joel, darling: how perfect!”

    “Absolutely; I’ll have it, if they don’t like it!” said a light tenor voice from behind them with a laugh.

    Now, wouldn’t you have Thort, dears, that a certain belted surgeon what had eyed up Georgy incessantly ever since she got to Willow Grove would have had the tact, even if invited, to stay aw— No. Manifestly not.

    Ralph came up, smirking, with his lovely sister-in-law on his arm. Joel overlooked the preggy in this instance, Jemima was still lovely.

    After they’d all more or less got over Livia’s tender enquiries after the blushing Jemima’s health and welfare, Livia said avidly: “Which is yours and Tom’s, dear?”

    Joel didn’t know whether to be relieved or embarrassed when Jemima indicated the wee Swiss cottage in varnished wood that he’d been silently puzzling over for some time. Too big for a clock; anyway it didn’t have a face.

    “Tom made it,” she said, blushing. “I suppose it’s a bit silly, really, but they love our one.”

    “Oh. Oh! For their first kiddie, dear?” said Livia eagerly.

    Overdale choked, so that was one against the Home Counties, thought Joel glumly.

    “No—it’s a letterbox!” gasped Jemima.

    “What a lovely idea, Jemima! Isn’t he clever?”

    Amy agreed with these sentiments and raised and lowered the letterbox’s lid—roof—lid—a few times to prove it.

    “Do they allow Swiss cottage letterboxes in Swiss Cottage, though?” drawled Ralph.

    The English persons present choked but darling Jemima didn’t get it, so Joel regretted his.

    Jemima then asked Ralph what he’d decided to give them in the end, so he led them along further past a few plebeian electric blankets and mohair rugs and more sets of bath towels—well, New Zealanders did have to shower a lot, it wasn’t the heat, dears, it was the humidity—and yer odd tea-set and saucepan set or two, and waved negligently at it.

    Jemima gasped.

    “Er, no, dear heart: not the one from my bedroom, my middle name isn’t quite Sidney Carton yet.”

    “Melbourne Carton,” suggested Joel. Jemima gave an anguished squeak—dear girl!

    “Thank you, I’ll make use of that,” Ralph agreed—smiling but underneath hating it: hating! Home Counties umpteen, Anty-podes one! “Er—no, chosen for the occasion. I have warned them it might be better not to walk on it.”

    “Oh, they’ll hang it on the wall,” breathed Amy. “Isn’t it exquisite!”

    “Divine!” sighed Livia, though Joel would have taken a bet that left to herself she’d have walked on it. Or shoved it in front of the fire for cinders to pop out on.

    “Yes, well, after all Adam is exquisite and Georgy is divine, so what else could one give them?” he sighed.

    “It’s a lovely rug,” said his sister-in-law, looking at him in disgust: “but that one’s a bit beyond the pale, even for you, Ralph!”

    Bravely Joel agreed, though placing himself on the far side of Amy as he did it.

    When the adorable Jemima had taken her beastly brother-in-law away he had to say, couldn’t stop himself: “Darlings: a Persian rug worth a Shah’s ransom? What is it? Coals of fire?”

    Livia and Amy sniggered guiltily.

    “No: wait: I know! Every time they look at it they’ll think of him,” said Joel dreamily. “And knowing Adam, he’ll never be able to resist hanging up something that beautiful, not to say expensive, where it’s highly visible. They’ll be unable to avoid looking at it.”

    “Joel!” gasped Amy in horror. Well, at least she’d stopped calling him “Mr Thring”. 

    Livia, however, looked at him guiltily.

    “Well, go on, darling: am I right or am I right?” he said.

    Weakly Livia had to admit he was very probably right.

    A few of Georgy’s well-wishers had got together to recover from it.

    “Lotta towels,” noted Sir Jacob thoughtfully, pouring hospitably.

    “Ta,” replied Angie Michaels. “Yes, weren’t there? The tan ones with ‘Georgy’ and ‘Adam’ on them were ours. There’s this woman in Devonport that’ll embroider anything on anything. You just buy a pair of ordinary towels. –It’s a Helluva lot cheaper than buying the embroidered ones,” she explained.

    They looked at her in huge admiration.

    “I counted fifteen sets,” said Jill dreamily. “You can fill that up, I’m not driving,” she noted. Jake filled it up.

    “Not fifteen, darling, surely?” said Joel. “Not even in the Anty-podes!” He purveyed his theory about why they gave you towel sets in the Anty-podes but everybody took it seriously, oh, dear.

    “Fifteen counting Angie and Bill’s and those little matched guest towels with ‘Guest’ embroidered in flowing script on a dinky satin cushion,” said Lady Carrano firmly.

    “Those pale green ones?” said her spouse.

    “Doesn’t he take an interest, darlings!” marvelled Joel admiringly.

    “They were from Miss McLintock,” explained Jemima with a smile. “You know, Jake: Georgy’s neighbour from across the drive.”

    “Oh, right: lady with the pink cardies,” he agreed.

    Certain people looked at him admiringly. Though admittedly Bill Michaels looked at him incredulously.

    “What did Phyllis Harding and her hubby give them? I couldn’t see their card,” said Angie.

    “Set of cut-crystal tumblers with bloody gold rims,” grunted Sir Jacob.

    As they were drinking out of cut-crystal tumblers with gold rims certain of those present looked at him incredulously.

    “The same as they gave us!” gasped Polly helplessly, when it was plain it hadn’t dawned on any of them.

    “Let’s have a vote on which was the worst! I vote for Aunty Christine’s lemon towels,” said Joel.

    “They were quite unexceptionable!” said Polly indignantly.

    “Adam hates lemon, dear,” he explained carefully. She gulped.

    After a considerable time had passed in mature discussion or, in some cases, shouting, it was decided that the matter was too complicated merely to vote for the worst. Or, indeed, the best. Though Jake continued to maintain that the Hardings’ cut-crystal with gold rims was the worst and Jemima continued to maintain that Joel’s darling silver box was the best.

    Eventually Livia’s slow-cooker was voted Most Inappropriate, followed by a short nose by Aunty Christine’s lemon towel set.

    Most Useless was a hard nut to crack. Polly held out for the gen-yew-wine New Zealand leather telephone-book cover with “Telephone” chased on it. As she said, it was anyone’s guess what size the London telephone directory might be. For a while Jill’s suggestion of the wok complete with wok tools looked like running away with it, but when Gretchen came to and pointed out that that that was their contribution it was ruled out on the grounds of gross interference. Finally Polly was allowed the telephone-book cover but only on condition the tiny china sweetcorn picks in the shape of tiny sweetcorn cobs could tie with it. As Joel said, the food was an American idea, dears: at Home, We had never heard of it.

    A tea-set got Most Hideous, by a length and a half. Greenish-brownish; not yer real hand-made pottery but a commercial imitation of the same. One of Adam’s cousins, it was thought. At Angie’s insistence they had a Most Truly Useful category, apparently so as Angie’s vote for the ironing board and steam-iron contributed by Ross and Ngaio could gallop away with it.

    Most Redundant was the next class.

    “Towel sets Numbers Two to Fifteen,” yawned Sir Jacob.

    “No! I know!” gasped Jemima.

    “Electric blanket?” suggested her spouse, cocking an eyebrow over the gold-rimmed specs.

    “Close,” she said with dignity.

    Jill smiled slowly. “That bloody herb pillow, guaranteed to induce drowsiness and a peaceful night!”

    “Yes!” gasped Jemima, going into a paroxysm.

    “Who was that from?” said Polly limply, when everyone had finished choking.

    Jill sighed. “One of Adam’s cousins, what else?”

    “Dinkiest,” suggested Bill Michaels.

    Jake began: “Those bloody cut-crystal, gold-rimmed—”

    “SHUT UP!” several people were driven to roar.

    Jake was appeased by Miss McLintock’s guest towels being voted dinkiest, though the set of toilet-roll holder in pale blue china with a pale blue rose and the matching door-plaque that said “Here Tis” was voted very close.

    On second thoughts, it got Most Truly Nauseating.

    When most of the Carranos’ guests, exhausted by the party and the competition, had been driven home by the obliging Bob Grey, Jake said thoughtfully: “That rug of bloody Ralph’s...”

    “Absolutely, darling Jake!” gasped Joel, positively galvanized.

    Gretchen came to. “Most Beautiful, but that’s beside the point. And very definitely Most Tactless.”

    “Mm. Deliberately tactless, I’d say,” said Polly thoughtfully. “And you’re wrong, Gretchen: Most Beautiful was definitely part of the point.”

    Joel shuddered all over. “Isn’t she sharp, darlings!” he marvelled.

    “Would he want to be deliberately tactless, though?” asked Jill foggily.

    “Yes! How much whisky have you drunk?” gasped Joel.

    “Not enough,” she decided, holding out her gold-rimmed, cut-crystal tumbler.

    Jake refilled it obligingly, but noted: “At least it’s official. Thought you might be pleased.”

    Joel agreed cautiously: “One did sort of think you might be sort of pleased, Jill, dear.”

    “I sort of am.”

    Before Joel could actually explode his hostess said quickly: “I know what she means.”

    “Just don’t,” groaned her husband.

    “Well, but darling, nothing in life’s all black or all white, is it?”

    “Shut up,” he sighed.

    Polly looked at him dubiously.

     Gretchen began: “It iss true that the divorce rate—”

    “Shut up!” cried Joel and Jake simultaneously.

    Gretchen shut up, looking very disconcerted.

    Jill sighed, and sipped her whisky. “I suppose it could work out.”

    “Seems to be all right so far,” noted the millionaire.

    She took an indignant breath. “Living in that bloody flat in Willow Grove surrounded by bloody friends and relations and well-wishers on all sides?”

    “Absolutely: recipe for disaster,” he agreed.

   Jill choked, but made a swift recover. “Balls. It doesn’t come anywhere near representing his real life, and you know it, Jake!”

    “Derry’s gone home, too,” noted Polly thoughtfully, expressing—not for the first time—what everyone else felt would have been too obvious.

    Feeling the usual sensation of extreme relief this trait of dear Polly’s produced in him, Joel agreed: “Well, yes, dear: very true. One has to admit the point is well taken, Jill. Only couldn’t you have refrained? At least until the effect of Sir Ralph’s rug had worn off slightly?”

    Since everyone else agreed with him on that one, a glum silence fell.

    Finally Jill said: “Okay, all clichés aside, I admit it could possibly succeed. Providing a lot of ‘ifs’ work out.”

    Jake grunted. Polly sighed.

    “They do seem to be terribly in love, dears,” ventured Joel.

    His cousin withered him with a look. “That isn’t the point!” she snapped, ramming it home.

    “Oh,” he said humbly. “One had thought it was, dears.”

    “It’s what’s making them do it, certainly,” said Polly.

    “Just don’t mention the word ‘hormones’, it’ll be grounds for divorce,” warned her husband.

    “That iss vhat makes the world go round,” noted Gretchen reasonably.

    “Don’t you start,” he warned.

    “Well, it is,” said Polly reasonably.

    “That does it!” Jake got up. Joel looked at him in alarm but he only said: “I’m going upstairs to have Vegemite on toast with Nanny and the kids. And before you intellectual varsity types start—and you theatre types, so take that look off yer face,” he adjured Joel—“might I remind you that kids is what make the world go round, too, and if poor bloody Adam’s realized it at last, all can say is, I’m bloody glad for him!”

    He went.

    After a certain silence had elapsed, Jill said numbly: “Help.”

    “You could say that in some ways he’s a very simple person,” said his wife mildly. “Fundamentally, he’s right, of course.”

    “Possibly. But civilisation has added a few thousand years of complications on top of the fundamentals, hasn’t it?” noted Jill acidly.

    “Dearest: inter-lek-tu-al though this conversation is,” said Joel, equally acid: “dare one venture to point out that Jake may possibly have realized that?”

    “Thank you, Joel,” said Polly calmly.

    Jill made a face. “Sorry.”

    “Ja; it’s these very complications,” decided Gretchen very definitely, “that make it impossible to determine vhether or not Georgy and Adam vill manage to make a go off it, once they are in London and he begins to lead his normal life and Georgy realizes exactly vhat this entails. Not to mention vhat domesticity in Hampstead and being the mother of his children entails.”

    There was an awed silence.

    Finally Jill noted faintly: “The Aryan mind.”

    “Absolutely: even one’s humble self didn’t need it spelled out to that degree, Gretchen, darling,” agreed Joel limply. “How much whisky have you had?”

    “Leave her alone,” said Polly quickly. “That put it very well, Gretchen.”

    Gretchen shook her head sadly. “No, Yill and Yoel are right, off course: it vas redundant.” She went on shaking her head sadly, but the motion got slower and slower and her eyes gradually closed.

    “Pissed out of her Aryan mind,” deduced Jill. “Notice how she said ‘Yill and Yoel’?”—They nodded numbly.—“Only does that when she’s practically paralytic.”

    They eyed Gretchen cautiously, but whether she was paralytic or merely asleep, at least she was quiescent.

    “Well,” said Polly firmly, “on the whole, I’m glad.”

    “Hormonal predisposition,” noted Jill crossly.

    “No, but darlings, so am I!” gasped Joel desperately as the two old friends glared at each other.

    “Oh,” said Polly weakly. “Well, good.”

    Jill rumpled her short fawn waves. “On the whole, I suppose I am, too. –Well, yes, all right, I am!” she cried loudly as they glared.

    “Glad but nervous,” summed up Joel.

    Neither of them could have put it better, actually; so they didn’t try.

    A week later Jill and the Carranos stood with Adam’s parents on the near side of the barriers at the International Airport, waving, as Adam, Georgy and Joel vanished into the hinterland of the Overseas Departure Lounge.

    “Could nip off to the Koru Club?” suggested Sir Jacob on a weak note, as Adam’s mother blew her nose fiercely.

    Nobody replied to this suggestion but Polly said feebly: “At least he was being supportive about—about the trip.”

    “The travelling,” corrected Christopher.

    “Yes.”

    “While she was being supportive about finding a house and getting rid of the flat and spending the better part of the summer months in the sweltering heat of Italy being screamed at by Derry Dawlish,” he noted.

    “Um—yes,” conceded Polly feebly.

    Melinda put her hanky away, smiling. “Of course! Don’t you see: that’s precisely it!” she beamed, as they goggled at her. “They’re shoring each other up! I knew it would work!”

    “I won’t say ‘too soon to tell’ Melinda, because I can see your husband is dying to,” said Jill kindly.

    Melinda choked, and Christopher glared.

    “It’s always too soon to tell, isn’t it? said Polly detachedly.—Jake winced.—“Some couples get divorced after thirty years of marriage.”

    “Let’s hope for that, then,” said Christopher cordially.

    “Yeah, right,” agreed Sir Jacob grimly, taking his spouse’s arm in a grip of iron. “She does that,” he explained to the Blacks. “Goes all analytical on ya. Won’t get a word of sense out of her for the next three hours or so, now. Come on, let’s get a drink in the bloody Koru Club.”

    Taking the line of least resistance, they allowed Jake to drag them off to the Koru Club. As he was driving he only had a light-beer, but those who knew him well had expected this.

    “We’re both terrifically happy about it, really,” Melinda confided to Polly after she’d got half a sherry inside her.

    “So are we. Well, Jill is too, of course.”

    Adam’s mother sipped sherry slowly. “Only less optimistic,” she murmured, looking over at the window where Jake was demonstrating to Jill and Christopher that not only could you not see the runway from here, you couldn’t actually see the planes that were scheduled to leave today at all.

    “Uh—yeah,” admitted Lady Carrano, swallowing.

    “For quite a long time,” Melinda then explained with a little grimace, “I was afraid Adam never would work himself up to the point of giving it a go. I thought that being married to Claudia had—had knocked the emotional stuffing out of him to such an extent that he’d never—well, never take the risk again, I suppose is what I mean: never have the—the emotional stamina to try; do you see—? Yes, of course you see!” she said with little laugh.

    “Mm. I’ve always felt the same sort of thing about Georgy. You know: would she ever work up the courage to come out of her shell and take the risk of living.”

    Melinda’s eyes were rather misty: she smiled and nodded. “Well, here’s to them,” she said, raising her sherry glass.

    Polly was only drinking mineral water but she raised her glass and agreed: “Here’s to Adam and Georgy.”

    Jill had just joined them, abandoning Jake and Christopher to their male peer-group. “Good luck to ’em: they’ll need it,” she noted, raising the remains of her whisky.

    “We all know that, Jill,” said Polly crossly. “Can’t you just agree on ‘Good luck’ and leave it at that?”

    Jill smiled a little. “All right: I’ll drink to that. Adam and Georgy: good luck!”

    “Yes,” they said. “Good luck, Adam and Georgy!”

    And since that was, really, pretty much all you could ever say of any hopeful young couple, they did leave it at that.