Rallying Round

34

Rallying Round

    By four-thirty that Monday all of the English Department who had classes in at the City Campus had looked in on Mac on transparent excuses or none at all, depending on their age, seniority, tact or crassness, in order to ask how Georgy was taking it. When yet another tap sounded on his door he bellowed: “SHOVE OFF!”

    The door opened immediately, to reveal the plumply smiling form of Dennis Barlow’s faculty secretary. Mac’s face took on the look of one about to explode under very high pressure indeed.

    “Forgive me for disturbing you, Professor Mac,” Maisie cooed—Mac realized with horror that the woman had adopted Amy’s appellation, it would undoubtedly go the rounds of the secretarial staff and next thing you knew his own secretary would have adopted it and WHERE WAS THE MOO?—“but I simply had to pop over to ask after dear little Georgy!”

    Mac glared. He let the silence develop ripely.

    “How is she?” said Maisie weakly.

    Mac rose behind his desk. “I have no idea. I believe she gave her nine o’clock lecture this morning as usual, since no little faces appeared at my door reporting the loss of a lecturer.”

    Maisie gulped.

    “Since then she has possibly taken a tutorial or two. In fact I think she must have, since no little faces have appeared to report the loss of a lecturer.”

    “I only—”

    “GET OUT!” he roared.

    Maisie got.

    Mac sat down suddenly. His legs had gone all funny, he noted in a faint, faraway, detached manner.

    It was Wednesday afternoon before Bill Michaels turned up in the City Campus staffroom of the Faculty of Languages and Linguistics. Having, as was his habit, brazenly helped himself to coffee from the French Department’s sacred coffee-pot, he sat down beside Jill and said, blowing on it: “How is she?”

    “Who?” asked Rod from Jill’s further side.

    Gretchen had been about to join them. She quietly crept out, coffee in hand.

    “PIKER!” shouted Jill angrily.

    “Georgy,” said Bill calmly.

    “Isn’t the accepted phrase ‘wee Georgy’, these days?” said Rod to Jill, terrifically puzzled.

    “I thought so, yes,” agreed Jill, terrifically puzzled.

    “All right: wee Georgy,” said Bill amiably. “How is she?”

    “No idea,” said Jill laconically.

    “Haven’t seen ’er,” agreed the Michelangelic one. “Well, caught a glimpse of a red head emerging from a BMW convertible, round eight-forty, Mondee morning, up by the English and Hums building.”

    Bill now looked as if he was about to explode under high pressure, so Jill clarified kindly: “We haven’t seen her.”

    Bill sighed. “I could phone her,” he threatened.

    “Don’t do that,” said Jill, wincing.

    “Well, heck!” the engineer spluttered. “I haven’t laid eyes on her, and no-one’ll tell me a thing! Where is she? Is she still in that bloody dinky flat of his, or what?”

    “As far as is known,” said Jill carefully, “she is still in that bloody dinky flat of his, yes. But my information dates from approximately very late lunchtime last Sunday.”

    Bill glared.

    Jill shrugged.

    “And at that,” explained Rod kindly, “it’s apparently based on the unsupported word of J. Thring.”

    “All right; be like that!” said Bill heatedly.

    “We regret deeply not being able to solace you with gossip and news, Bill,” added Jill, relenting somewhat, “but that’s all we know.”

    “Well—uh—look, do ya reckon me and Ange oughta, um, have her round to tea, cheer her up a bit?”

    “Not yet, you cretin,” she said in a hard voice.

    He swallowed. “No. Um—well, we were thinking of round about the end of next week.”

    Jill sighed. “Broken hearts take a fortnight to mend in these semi-tropical non-nuclear wastes, do they?”

    Bill got up. “I’ll tell Ange to hold off a bit longer, then. See ya!”

    Jill just sighed.

    Spotting Georgy queuing amidst a gaggle of students for a leathery filled roll or curling sandwich in the Caff up on Puriri Campus on the Friday, Barbara Michaels, who had already bought her own provender, waited for her and then joined her.

    “Hi,” she said amiably.

    “Hullo, Barbara,” replied Georgy.

    Barbara had already had a class with Georgy this week but they hadn’t exchanged any personal words. She could see that she looked very pale and washed-out but on the other hand she looked like that every month without fail, so it was nothing much to go by. She tactfully didn’t ask her how she was, but said: “Come and sit on the grass, eh?”

    Georgy accompanied her to the lawn.

    “Are you still in that flat?” said Barbara, having gnawed her way through half of her leathery filled roll.

    Georgy looked at her own luncheon sausage and pickle sandwich with distaste. “Yes.”

    “Goob,” said Barbara indistinctly. She chewed and swallowed. “Then maybe I could come up and collect you on Saturday and you could have a ride on Dandy!”

    Georgy looked dazedly at her Third-Year Anglo-Saxon student.

    “My horse!” said Barbara, going very red.

    “Oh! I’m sorry, Barbara, I’d forgotten— Um, well, the thing is, I don’t like them, much,” said Georgy in a tiny voice, going very red. “I—I could come and—and look at him, if you like,” she said bravely.

    “Yeah, okay,” agreed Barbara weakly. “Um—tomorrow, say tennish?”

    “Um—no, I can’t manage it just then,” said Georgy, again going very red: “Miss McLintock’s taking me to the supermarkets now that Adam’s— I mean, I can’t drive!” she gasped.

    “Oh,” said Barbara numbly.

    “Our—my neighbour. From Number 12. The flat opposite,” said Georgy miserably.

    “Yeah.” Barbara looked at her dubiously. “How about Saturday arvo?”

    “Yes, I could manage that.”

    “All right, I’ll pick you up about two, okay?”

    “Yes. She said she’d give me lunch. But it should be over by then,” said Georgy with a little sigh.

    Barbara bit her lip. “Not if you don’t want to,” she growled.

    “No, I’d like to see your horse,” lied Georgy gamely.

    Barbara could see it was a lie but she didn’t have the social adroitness to get them both out of the whole thing. “Righto,” she said limply.

    ... “Where angels wouldn’t have a bar of it,” concluded Angie numbly.

    Bill just muttered: “Jesus,” and tottered off towards the whisky.

    Ralph had very tactfully held off, all week. Apart from offering the usual lifts into town at the usual times, of course. He had also offered her lifts back, very casually, but Georgy had got very flustered and explained that she had a terribly complicated timetable, and sometimes students wanted to see her: she might keep him waiting. Ralph hadn’t insisted. Besides, he sometimes had the unexpected op, there was always the possibility that he might keep her waiting. More especially since, as he had by this time discovered, all calls to the university had to go through the central switchboard, and that closed down at five o’clock, in other words, ten to five, and four twenty-five on Fridays.

    It was all the more infuriating, then, in view of this tremendous and painful restraint, to find, when he emerged onto his virtuous front porch after the virtuous shower which had followed his virtuous Saturday morning jog, to see Georgy and Miss McLintock disappearing down the drive in the dachshund owner’s horrible Japanese car. The more especially since Ralph’s neighbour and old friend had also just emerged onto his front porch—in his dressing-gown and whiskers, yawning, he wasn’t athletic, though much slimmer and many would have said better looking than Ralph—and was laughing unkindly.

    “Shut up,” said Ralph sourly.

    “Pre-empted!” gasped Mr Morton, in ecstasy. “By the owner of a walking turd!” Sniggering, he took himself, his dressing-gown, and his slim form that in spite of being the same age as Ralph’s own form could apparently take unlimited amounts of cholesterol and saturated fats indoors. Since he left the front door open Ralph could very soon smell frying bacon wafting on the morning breeze of Willow Plains and what was more he was in no doubt that he was meant to. He stomped indoors, slamming his smart black front door, and threw himself onto his perfect sofa, sulking terrifically.

    Joel was due to fly out on the Sunday evening. He would have a week of rehearsals in Australia—more than enough, he was well up in his part as Piggy-Whiskers’s feed, and it would take Piggy-Whiskers, as he had explained to his cousin, with whom he was now staying, less than the week to cut all those of his, Joel’s, lines which smacked even faintly of the amusing and to decree that Joel should play the curate as even meeker and more self-effacing than he had already decreed he should be played, and to work out the moves so that he, Joel, was successfully up-staged All The Time.

    Jill had not revealed as much to Bill Michaels, but by the time the engineer invaded the Lang. and Ling. Staffroom she had already rung Georgy and invited her round for a last lunch with Joel.

    During lunch, to which Pauline and Greg had also been invited, they all successfully avoided so much as breathing Adam’s name. Joel related some of the more amusing episodes of his professional life. Avoiding any which had occurred in shows he’d been in with Adam. Pauline and Greg, the former wringing Joel’s hand fervently and, turning puce, assuring him hoarsely it had been a privilege to work with him, the latter just grinning amiably and wishing him luck, took themselves off around fiveish, in time to join the usual traffic jams of Sunday drivers, and Jill, Gretchen, Joel and Georgy started for the airport a little after that.

    “Well, darlings—” said Joel bravely as passengers for the Air New Zillund flight to Sydney, Darwin (where?), Hong Kong, and London were ordered to get onto the thing nigh on two hours before it was due to take off, this was the Final Call. As a seasoned traveller he had ignored all the previous calls in favour of finishing their drinkies in the bar, going to the loo on solid ground (not literally, dears: really!), buying EnZed lollies and chocs at the lolly and choc stand, and letting Gretchen buy him magazines at the mags stand,.

    Gretchen held out her hand. “Very good luck vith the show, Joel,” she said gruffly. “If it vass not Piggy-Vhiskers, ve vould come ofer at Easter to see it, you know.”

    “Oh, absolutely understood, Gretchen, darling!” he agreed with a giggle, taking her hand and then quickly planting a smacking kiss on her cheek just as she thought she’d avoided it. “All the best to you, too, and hope to see you back in these semi-tropical climes—uh—some time,” he ended on a gulp, frantically avoiding looking at Georgy.

    “Ja, and in any case, I do make it to Europe effery so often!” she said with a laugh. “I look you up, okay?”

    “It’s a promise!” agreed Joel. “Look out, I’m gonna kiss you, now,” he warned his cousin.

    Jill smiled tolerantly. “Give Aunty Emmy my love and tell her I’ve decided to be magnanimous and let you have the stuffed Captain Cutlass.”

    Joel kissed her warmly. “Bye-bye, dear.”

    “Good luck with the show,” said Jill, pecking his cheek.

    “Ta, but we say in the the-ay-ter, Break a leg,” he replied insouciantly. “Georgy, darling—”

    Georgy allowed Joel to kiss her cheek but suddenly gave a loud sob and hugged him hard.

    “Don’t cry, darling,” he said helplessly, patting her back.

    “I’m not. Thank you for everything, Joel, you’ve been really decent,” she said, sniffing.

    “Oh cong-traire, darling Georgy, really decent would have entailed wringing a certain glorious neck we both wot of,” he said grimly. “Or at least battering some sense into a certain luverly head.”

    “I suppose people can’t help their natures,” said Georgy, sniffing. “I should have told him what I wanted.”

    “Never, darling!” he said with a shudder, still patting. “Would not have worked. Dunno that anything would have, but I can tell you this,” he said, releasing her and blinking, rather: “he’s a bloody fool.”

    “Thanks,” said Georgy, smiling shakily. “Um—here.” She held out the little brown-paper parcel she had been clutching.

    “For me?” said Joel limply. It felt like a book, oh dear, no-one had told darling Georgy he was illiterate.

    “Yes. It’s second-hand. Only I thought you might like it just as a souvenir. –Not to read!” she said hurriedly as he unwrapped it.

    Jill peered over his shoulder. She gave a shriek of laughter. Gretchen also peered. She let out a bellow. Joel looked at it dubiously, the reference was obsc— Oh. Help!

    The airport public announcement system then mentioned Joel personally By Name, very shaming, so he hurried off through the barriers, waving frantically, as much as he could for duty-frees, magazines, carry-on bags, extra woollies and his brand-new second-hand souvenir copy of A Good Keen Man.

    Georgy blew her nose very hard.

    “Come on, it’ll take off whether we’re here or not,” said Jill firmly.

    They went.

    Georgy didn’t say anything in the car going home except: “I wonder if that’s Joel’s plane,” as a large thing roared overhead as they were crossing the Harbour Bridge—not officially in the flight path. But then on the whole neither Jill nor Gretchen particularly wanted her to.

    The evening of the following Thursday was rendered hideous for all Georgy’s well-wishers who caught the TV news by an Australian interview with Adam, just about to open in his Sydney show, exhausted after a fortnight’s solid rehearsing but smiling with terrific boyish charm and, laughing deprecatingly, revealing that he thought the play was pretty marvellous, actually, and yes, they were thinking of taking it to London eventually, but we’d have to see, wouldn’t we! And of course he hadn’t had time to .see very much of Sydney just yet, but he adored what he had seen and he thought your seafood was marvellous, he’d tried the famous king prawns and the—crabbies? Oh!—terrific laughter: yabbies! Yes, yes, of course at the famous Doyle’s— Oops, was that free advertising? Never mind, it had been a marvellous meal—

    Breathing heavily through his nose, Christopher got up and switched it off.

    At approximately the same time, Maurice Black muttered: “Jesus,” and got up and switched it off, ignoring Suzanne’s howls that they’d miss the Weather.

    “Fuck me,” moaned Sir Jacob at approximately the same time, stabbing his blab-out frantically.

    “PIG!” shouted his wife furiously.

    “Eh?” he gasped.

    “Not you, HIM!” she shouted.

    “Oh!” he acknowledged. “Yeah.”

    “Turn that bloody thing OFF!” shouted Mac at approximately the same time to his uninvited grandchildren who had placed their uninvited bums in front of his TV set.

    Bruce Smith just sat numbly in front of his. “Shit,” he muttered.

    Catherine picked up the blab-out. “Well said,” she said grimly, switching the thing off and ignoring Sushi’s wail that she had to write a report on the News for School, Mr White’d kill her!

    Ariadne seldom watched the News. She listened to the much fuller report very early in the morning on the serious radio station during her very early breakfast. Shortly before the serious radio station started its bloody morning phone-in, Keith had discovered by accidentally leaving it on.

    Keith sat numbly through the whole thing, then he tottered out to the kitchen to report. Ariadne was making yoghurt. “So what?” she replied. Keith tottered back to the sitting-room and poured himself a strong sherry. It being that or nothing: their systems apparently needed cleaning out.

    The T.M. Overdales did not possess a television set but most unfortunately they had fallen into the habit, when they were not actively involved in feeding their neighbours’ fawn-headed twins, of going over the road to watch theirs. Jemima burst into floods of tears and had to be put into their hosts’ bed with a hottie.

    Phyllis Harding breathlessly watched every last millisecond of it and then rang her son. Oddly enough Alan hadn’t been glued to the T\/, he’d been out in the orchard tying up some of their smaller trees, because in case Phyllis hadn’t noticed, it was bloody windy today. “Eh? Who? Crikey, Mum, didja ring us up just for that?”

    The Hardy family sat in front of it silently until it finished. Eventually the blue-haired Pru said thoughtfully: “Hope ya come down with ptomaine, then.”

    “Yeah,” agreed Phil thoughtfully.

    There was a short silence. Mr Hardy watched his daughters out of the corner of his eye and silently hoped his wife wouldn’t open her big mouth and put her foot in it.

    “Hope ya ruddy show’s the flop to end all flops,” said Pru thoughtfully.

    “YEAH!” cried Phil viciously.

    “Phil, I thought you liked him?” said her mother in bewilderment.

    Phil got up. “Do me a favour,” she invited her sourly.

    Pru got up. “Like him! Yuck!”

    “Where are you off to?” said Mrs Hardy faintly.

    “Round to Bevan’s place,” said Phil shortly, exiting.

    “Dairy. Get an ice cream,” said Pru shortly, exiting.

    Mrs Hardy didn’t know what to say first: “Not Bevan Anderson’s?” or: “You’ve only just had your tea!” and by the time she’d opened and closed her mouth helplessly, they’d gone.

    “Before you say anything, that sod McIntyre’s dumped that nice little Harris girl: that’s why they’re so steamed up,” said Mr Hardy. He retired into his paper, regardless of the fact that it contained no more notional content than did the News. Less, it didn’t have anything at all about Adam’s Australian play.

    “Vhy haff you turned it off?” asked Gretchen, emerging from the paper she usually buried herself in when the News was on.

    “Don’t ask,” said Jill through her teeth.

    Gretchen didn’t ask.

    Livia and Wal had watched it numbly. Panda had watched it with her mouth open. Finally she said: “But what about Georgy? Where is she?”

    “The shit didn’t ask her to go with him!” shouted her father. “Are you stupid as well as deaf and blind?”

    “I didn’t know!” cried Panda indignantly, bursting into tears and rushing from the room.

    “Now look what I’ve done,” noted Wal to his fiancée.

    “Well, yes. But I don’t think it was entirely you,” admitted Livia, getting up.

    “What are ya gonna say?” he said limply.

    “I don’t know, dear. But I expect I’ll think of something,” she said calmly, going out.

    After he’d managed to scrape his jaw up off the floor Wal crept out after her. She’d closed Panda’s door so he was able to put his ear actually to the crack. Livia was telling her that everything did not always run smooth between people who were in love and that even if they appeared to other people to be really suited, one never knew, with relationships, darling: it was very tricky. Only the two people concerned could say what could work or couldn’t—and sometimes even they wouldn’t know why things went wrong. Panda appeared to be lapping it up. Lapping it up. Wal tottered back to the sitting-room and poured himself a stiff one.

    Greg had come round to Pauline’s to watch the News because his flat didn’t have a TV. “Fuck,” he noted, swallowing.

    “More a case of ‘don’t fuck’, isn’t it?” replied Pauline in a hard voice.

    “Yeah,” he agreed limply, flapping through the Listener. “Um, you wanna watch the re-run of Minder, later?”

    “Yeah! ’Course!”

    There was a short pause.

    “He’s a shit, anyway,” he ventured.

    “Look, if you wanna watch the re-run of Minder, just BELT UP!” shouted Pauline.

    “Ugh,” gulped Vicki Austin, in a very small, very scungy bach halfway along Pukeko Drive in Puriri. “I wonder if Georgy’s watching the News?”

    Her boyfriend, Euan of the blond hair and engineering earphones, turned on his front on the scraggy carpet end they’d put down in front of the TV that he’d cobbled together from bits and pieces of several sets found down the dump and other bits and pieces that had been going begging in the Electrical Engineering workshops at varsity, and put one of Vicki’s artful throw-cushions right over his head and pulled it down, hard, over his ears.

    Even Vicki got the hint: she gulped, and was silent.

    In a pleasant, modern suburban bungalow in Pohutukawa Bay, Ngaio said numbly: “Oh, help. I wonder if Georgy saw that?”

    Ross had cringed all over, more or less right through it. But he said gamely: “I suppose he is more or less a public figure, love, she’ll have to get used— Bugger,” he said as the phone shrilled. He got up to answer it.

    “Don’t answer that!” gasped Ngaio.

    “Huh?”

    “It’ll be Mum!” she gulped.

    On second thoughts, Ross sat down again. Either her mum or his. Yeah.

    The gardening girls had gone next-door to their elderly neighbour’s to watch the News. They sometimes did, though not always on a Thursday. Now they wished they hadn’t, on this particular Thursday. Even though Roberta was really looking forward to the re-run of Minder, later on.

    “That was Adam,” said Michaela feebly.

    “Yeah,” agreed Roberta in a hollow voice. “I wonder if poor old Georgy saw it?”

    “Didn’t you say that TV set was his? Wouldn’t he have taken it with him?” wondered the simple-minded potter.

    “No, he left it. –You were right: she can’t afford to keep me on,” she added.

    After a moment Michaela ventured that maybe Adam’s leaving the TV set meant that he meant to come back, but both Roberta and their elderly neighbour put her right on that one.

    Naturally Miss McLintock saw it, she always watched the News. So did Mannie. Well, he generally kept her company through it. She had already gasped and informed him it was that naughty, naughty Adam. Now she said: “Oh, dear.”

    Mannie looked up at her anxiously and wagged his little tail a bit.

    Miss McLintock stealthily withdrew a handkerchief from the pocket of her fine-knit lilac cardy—it had been a windy day with a hint of autumn in the air—and blew her nose. “I do hope poor little Georgy didn’t see that,” she said.

    Mannie was evidently in full agreement with her: he whined, climbed onto his little hassock, then climbed onto the couch and thence climbed onto her knee.

    “Clever boy,” she said dully.

   The medical friends from the top units in Willow Grove were intending to dine together. –Ralph did not eat when the rest of the country apparently felt it necessary to stuff its horrible face.

    “It’s the flaming Fairy King,” noted Mr Morton weakly from his position slumped on his spine in front of Ralph’s TV.

    “Which impersonation is it this time?” asked Ralph, laying silverware out carefully on his damask tablecloth.

    Mr Morton concentrated briefly. “Your favourite: simple boy from back home. All artless and teeth.”

    “Then let’s hope dear little Georgy isn’t watching it.”

    “Would the sensitive-intellectual bit make her feel any better?” said Mr Morton feebly.

    “No, Hugh,” he said with terrific cordiality: “but let’s hope it anyway!”

    Bill Michaels, who had grabbed the blab-out, apart from putting the flaming dustbin out the one male prerogative left to him in these days of Women’s Lib, especially with two of them ganging up on him now that the boys had gone flatting, had only time to draw breath and squeak: “Ooh!” before Angie rose and, breathing heavily through flared nostrils, turned it off manually.

    “Shit, I hope Georgy isn’t watching,” said Barbara numb}y.

    “Shut up!” she snarled.

    Dorothy Perkins had been spared the News because Thursday was one of the Puriri County Library’s late nights. However, she got an earful next morning, first from the pink-smocked Cynthia, then from a breathless Janet, then from the starry-eyed Bridie. This last was the very last straw and Dorothy had recourse to the Instant even though it was barely nine-fifteen.

    Georgy had watched it numbly. She didn’t cry: it was only Adam acting; it wasn’t him.

    Phil stood on one leg in the Puriri Emporium. “It’ll just be us. Um—an’ Vicki and Euan. And Ginny an’ Greg. Um—an’ Bevan and Todd Anderson, ya know them, eh?”

   Georgy didn’t think she knew them.

    “Heck, yes, ya must, Georgy: they’re Jemima’s cousins!”

    “Oh,” said Georgy limply.

    “Greg Anderson—that’s their dad—he runs Anderson’s Garage!” urged Phil.

    “Oh,” said Georgy limply. What with all these Gregs and the fact that student relationships made her nervous anyway, she always seemed to assume that they were getting engaged when they weren’t, or living together when they weren’t, or not living together when they were, or involved when they were only mixed-flatting, or only living together when they were engaged, or—

    “So you’ll come, then?” urged Phil.

    Weakly Georgy accepted the invitation to go off to New Zealand’s best-known surfing beach this afternoon with a crowd of students of whose relationships she was unsure.

    “Only I can’t surf,” she added nervously.

    “Heck, that’s okay! Neither can Pru an’ the twins! Hey, do you need a lift, Georgy?”

    “Um—yes,” said Georgy dazedly. She didn’t even know where Piha was, exactly, let alone have transport to somewhere-or-other on the other coast. “Oh! Do you mean now, Phil? Um—no, thanks, I’m with a friend. –There she is,” she said limply, as Miss McLintock, who had been sure the Emporium would have exactly the sort of Japanese parasol she remembered her old great-aunties having when she was a little girl, emerged from the parasol and caneware section, waving one triumphantly. For a little niece. Well, not a real niece, the wee grand-daughter of a dear friend, but she called her “Aunty”, didn’t Georgy think that was sweet? Fortunately she hadn’t waited for an answer: Georgy thought it was sickening, unnecessary, and ageist, not necessarily in that order.

    Phil looked weakly at Georgy’s “friend”, old enough to be Phil’s grandmother, and complete with pink cardy, pink and white candy-striped blouse, small string of graduated pearls, and neat grey slacks which were not of any cut that her generation recognized as wearable, and said: “Um—good. Well, pick you up around two, okay?”

    “Yes. Thanks very much, Phil,” said Georgy weakly.

    On the way home from the Emporium (and, of course, the supermarkets, it being Saturday morning), Miss McLintock invited Georgy warmly to spend the afternoon with her and her dear friend Miss Amber. Georgy had met her and the pretty name belied her: she was sixty-odd, rather fat, with a darkish skin but terrifyingly smartly-done pale pinkish-fawn hair, and always terrifyingly smartly made up. And even more conservatively dressed than Miss McLintock herself.

    She revealed that she would have to forgo this treat, as she was going—hoarsely—to Piha with Phil and some students.

    “Piha?” gasped Miss McLintock.

    “Um—yes. It’s all right, I won’t try to surf!” said Georgy with a nervous laugh.

    Miss McLintock assured her she mustn’t, and not to swim either, dear, what with the chilly wind, and we were into April, now, and hadn’t Georgy heard about the undertow? Georgy hadn’t but she was quite willing to take her word for it.

    Miss McLintock helped her in with her shopping, refused Georgy’s offer of help with her own shopping, as she would just run the car straight into the garage, and bustled off home to get lunch for both of them.

    Georgy sat down limply on one of the stools from the breakfast bar and just looked at the shopping. Bags and bags of frozen stuff. TV dinners and microwave dinners and lean-cuisine dinners—you name it, if it was packaged and a single-serve—and frozen, of course—Miss McLintock apparently considered it suitable for a young woman living alone. Eventually she worked up the courage to open the door of the freezer compartment. Oh. Cointreau-flavoured ice-cream and a huge bag of frozen raspberries.

    Georgy sank down on the kitchen floor and began to cry helplessly.

    Stephen got out of the car and climbed the steps of Number 9 Willow Grove, which Phil and Pru had assured him was Georgy’s current address, not allowing himself to think. He knew this whole thing was a bloody stupid mistake, of course, but when Nigel had rung him with the casual invitation to come up to Piha for a breath of fresh air, adding the casual information that the Hardy girls had said Georgy might come, he’d been unable to refuse.

    He knocked and rang. Nothing happened. Stephen found his heart was suddenly hammering in terror: what if she’d taken an overdose of sleeping-pills or something equally dumb on account of that shit? Oh, no! He knocked and rang again, hands sweating.

    “Yoo-hoo!” carolled a coy voice from behind him.

    Stephen swung round. A pink-cardied lady was waving at him from the flat opposite. “Yoo-hoo!” she repeated.

    He hurried down Georgy’s steps and across the drive. At the same time the pink-cardied lady descended her steps.

    “Are you looking for Georgy?” she said, beaming at him but at the same time giving him the sort of look that Stephen felt he might have got had he been a horse and she a horse-coper: he had a strong sensation that his teeth were actually being counted.

    “Yes,” he said tensely.

    “She’s at my place, she won’t be a minute!” she beamed.

    “Oh,” he said, sagging.

    The horse-coper’s examination had possibly led her to some sort of conclusion, for she then got rather closer and said in a very confidential voice: “Are you one of Georgy’s students, dear?”

    “No,” said Stephen in perhaps justifiable annoyance. “We did our B.A.s the same year. I’m working on a Ph.D.”

    “I see!”

    It was only too obvious she saw, yeah.

    “Well, in that case, dear,” she said, lowering her voice even more confidentially: “perhaps I should warn you that dear little Georgy’s been rather upset.”

    Stephen had parked his car outside Georgy’s garage door and he could see that Nigel and Imogen had twisted round in the back seat and were staring out the back window at them. He gave a perfunctory wave to reassure them and said to the pink-cardied lady: “Then an afternoon in the open air’ll do her good, won’t it?”

    “Ye-es... I think I’d better just make sure she’s got something warm to wear—excuse me, dear!” she cooed, dashing inside.

    Stephen’s knees went inexplicably saggy and he had to grab the pale lilac railing of the pink-cardied lady’s concrete steps.

   After a few moments Georgy’s voice could be heard saying: “Well, it was pretty hot when we came.” She emerged onto the porch, about four feet above Stephen’s head.

    Her neighbour followed closely, saying: “But in that case, dear, you’ll have to borrow one of my jerseys, it’s such a chilly wind! I’m sure your nice friend will agree. –Georgy should wear something warm, don’t you think?” she cried.

    Stephen didn’t answer. He flushed darkly, to his own annoyance, and said huskily: “Hullo, Georgy.”

    “Hullo,” said Georgy numbly.

    “I’ve been deputed to collect you by Phil and Pru,” he said. This had been supposed to be a smoothly sophisticated remark, designed to smother any possible objections on her part, but it came out as merely weak.

    “I see,” said Georgy faintly.

    “It is pretty windy,” said Stephen limply.

    “What?”

    “You’d better bring a jumper,” he said.

    “Exactly, dear!” cried Miss McLintock. “Now, just hang on two ticks, Georgy, dear, I’ll get—” She rushed back inside.

    Georgy looked down at Stephen numbly. “Can you do surfing?”

    “Yes.”

    “Oh,” she said.

    They waited. A small dog appeared on the front step beside Georgy’s feet. She bent and patted him.

    Eventually the neighbour burst out onto the porch with a selection of cardigans and jumpers. From where Stephen was standing they all looked like parts of the twinset his mother wore for very best in the colder months, for example Sunday afternoon teas with her best tea-set, and washed by hand in Lux. He just waited, sort of numbly hoping the result wouldn’t be bright pink.

    The result was pink, but a very delicate pale pink. Georgy plucked at it with a dubious hand but didn’t say anything.

    “There! I said you could wear that very pale pink!” cried the jumper’s owner proudly.

    “Yes. It’s very warm. Thanks,” said Georgy hoarsely.

    Miss McLintock assured her it was a mixture of cashmere and angora, dear! Stephen saw no reason to doubt this, the thing was sort of fluffy, but he had a fair idea from the blank look on Georgy’s face that both these terms were Greek to her. She came down the steps looking numb.

    He reminded her that her own flat might need locking up and she might need her keys or her purse or something. He leaned on the bonnet, waiting, while she disappeared into the flat. Eventually she came back, palest pink angora jumper, stone-washed jeans, and all. Stephen opened the front door of the car for her.

    “Thanks. Hullo, Nigel; hullo, Imogen,” she said.

    “Hi!” they both said, beaming.

    Stephen closed the door on her and came round the car and Imogen immediately hissed: “Georgy, why are you wearing that lady’s jumper?”

    “I haven’t got any warm things with me,” Georgy explained in a small voice.

    “Oh,” said Imogen limply.

    “Self-evident,” said Nigel, grinning. “That very pale pink looks really good with your hair. –Eh, Stephen?” he said, as Stephen got in and started the car.

    “Yeah,” he said shortly.

    “Look out for the dog!” gasped Georgy.

    Stephen braked violently, and Nigel and Imogen shot forward to the limits of their seat-belts and gasped. Then he looked over his shoulder and said limply: “The dame’s holding him, if you mean the dachshund?”

    “Mm,” she said, swallowing.

    “He’s fine,” said Nigel tolerantly.

    Stephen drew a deep breath: she’d given him a Hell of a fright: his blood had been thumping so at the sight of her that he hadn’t really been thinking about what he was doing, and hadn’t checked the drive for stray dachshunds. Or indeed any other livestock. “Don’t do that again,” he said grimly to Georgy.

    “No,” she said, swallowing.

    He backed, turned the car so that it was nose downwards, and drove carefully down the drive.

    “She’s waving,” noticed Nigel.

    Stephen could see in his rear-view mirror that Nigel was also waving. Georgy wasn’t, though.

    As they reached the bottom of the drive two battered cars were revealed by the side of Elizabeth Road: one an elderly Vee-Dub full as to the inside of Hardy girls and large young men who were presumably the Anderson boys, and as to the roof with surfboards, and the other full of Austin twins, Euan and the silver-haired Greg. Also with surfboards on its roof rack.

    “Oh, help, were they waiting for us?” said Georgy faintly.

    “Yeah: someone has to show us the way to Piha,” explained Nigel.

    Georgy wasn’t sure whether that was a joke or not. She just said limply: “Oh.”

    After that she didn’t say anything at all, all the way to Piha. Nor did Stephen.

    Surf was up at Piha and so in spite of the brisk wind it was fairly busy, though not crowded. Georgy’s expectations of the surfing life were based entirely on an ancient American movie she had watched on TV very late at night at the age of about eighteen, when Mrs Harris had been spending the weekend at Aunty Christine’s looking after the younger kids while she and Uncle Joe had a weekend by themselves to celebrate their wedding anniversary. The scene at Piha wasn’t in the least like that. Though there were some female bodies in evidence very few of them were clad in brightly coloured exiguous bathing-suits, none of them were lounging on brightly coloured towels under bright umbrellas, and none of them were playing strange American ball games with brightly coloured beach balls. They were mostly wearing basically the same gear as the men, to wit, either black rubber tunics, which after listening carefully to her group’s conversation Georgy decided silently were “wetsuits”, and which looked very odd over togs with bare legs sticking out under them, or tee-shirts over the sort of tight nylon shorts which Phil had on. A few bodies of either sex were clad not only in the rubber tunics but also tight black rubber pants. Georgy expected them, without thinking about it, to have feet in them, like tights, and was very surprized to see that they didn’t. Some of these suits had coloured stripes up the sides. After some thought she decided they were probably the more expensive variety. There were also not a few young men in only swimming trunks but Georgy decided silently that must be sheer vanity: on the beach the wind was really very brisk and they must be freezing.

    As well as these very obvious surfies there were a few family groups, mostly not swimming but building sandcastles or sunbathing face down or simply quarrelling amongst themselves.

    After some discussion, or perhaps argument put it better, which both Georgy and Stephen kept out of, their group walked along the beach and found a spot to dump their gear. Vicki Austin, who was wearing, even though her hair was a much brighter ginger than Georgy’s, a shocking-pink fuzzy jumper over tight bright green nylon shorts and long pink socks with sneakers, immediately removed all these outer garments to reveal a small green bikini, and lay face-down on her towel, ordering her twin to do her back.

    Ginny was more simply clad in ragged jeans cut off at the knee, Roman sandals, and a limp black jumper with arms that were too long for her. She rolled these up a little and, although saying dubiously: “Isn’t it too cold for sunbathing?” obediently began to slather her twin’s back with sunscreen cream. The sun was out, true, but Georgy wouldn’t have taken her jersey off for anything in this wind, and she was very glad she’d let Miss McLintock force it on her. Vicki informed the company it was much more sheltered at ground level.

    Pru lay down experimentally, decided it wasn’t too bad, removed her brightly checked green and red sloppy shirt, removed the heavy red sweat-shirt she had under that, removed her sneakers and jeans and lay down again in a bright yellow bathing-suit with very cutaway legs that reminded Georgy irresistibly of Elspeth’s. She swallowed, and sat down on the sand beside her. Pru immediately asked her to do her back, and Phil, who was delving in a battered satchel, produced a plastic bottle of sunscreen cream. Obediently Georgy spread it on Pru’s back.

    Phil then divested herself of her own outer integument, to reveal an old blue bathing-suit Georgy had often seen her wearing down at Kowhai Bay. She produced a black wetsuit from the satchel and got into it. Georgy watched this operation numbly. Even though Nigel, Stephen, Greg and one of the Anderson brothers were performing identical manoeuvres.

    Euan was wearing merely cut-off jeans and a black tee-shirt. The other Anderson brother, the heavier one with the light brown hair, who was apparently inarticulate, at least he hadn’t said anything in Georgy’s hearing so far, sported a baggy green singlet and a pair of black nylon shorts just like Phil’s discarded ones, which unfortunately, in Georgy’s opinion, the singlet was not long enough to cover politely. His brother looked at these rude shorts in horror and said: “Hey, those aren’t ya good cycling shorts, are they?”

    “Nah!” he said scornfully.

    The dark Anderson boy appeared content with this reply.

    Then Phil, Nigel, Stephen, Greg, Euan and the Anderson brothers grabbed their surfboards and ran down to the water.

    Imogen, who was a very pretty girl, undoubtedly why Mac had chosen her as a silver fairy, was wearing smart jeans and a pretty pale blue tee-shirt with an even prettier cream cardy embroidered with pink and pale blue flowers open over it. She sat down composedly at Georgy’s other side and said: “Nige isn’t much of a surfer.”

    “He looks okay to me,” said Georgy numbly as they all dashed competently into the breaking waves.

    Imogen adjusted her pale-blue-rimmed sunglasses. “You’ll see.”

    Georgy supposed she did see, in that Nigel then fell off his board a lot, but so did everyone else. The waves, though far too fierce for Georgy herself to brave, were not nearly as huge as the ones in that surfing film and after a while the innocent Georgy, who hadn’t realised that almost all the actual surfing footage in that film had been stock shots taken in Hawaii, concluded the whole thing must have been fake. She did, however, think that Phil and the boys and all the other surfers were very daring and intrepid. Though none of them, she was unable to help noticing, could have been called graceful.

    In the surf Phil and the young men rowed themselves energetically on their surfboards, knelt poised on their surfboards waiting for a wave—Georgy couldn’t see what the criterion was, sometimes they came in on them, sometimes they let them roll under them—or wobbled in towards shore standing on the boards before falling off heavily in the crashing spume of the breaking waves.

    On the beach the girls lay on their fronts or sat up and hugged their knees and talked desultorily.

    After a while Ginny produced a paperback from the canvas army-surplus-type bag she had with her and began to read it. Georgy could see that the cover was very lurid. It was the sort of cover you saw a lot of in the second-hand books section of the Emporium but even if the content of such volumes might have been interesting, Georgy had never dared to buy one and bring it home to her mother’s house. Ginny caught her watching her and held the book up for her to read the cover. “Dorothy Uhnak,” she explained, though Georgy could now see that for herself. “She’s great. Police procedural: really tough. Jill Davis recommended her.”

    “Oh,” said Georgy weakly. She knew Jill didn’t care what sort of lurid cover she was seen with. Even in the S.C.R. And her sitting-room was lined with such volumes. “I’ve never read her.”

    “You can have it after me, if ya like.”

    “Thanks,” said Georgy weakly. Though it did cross her mind that if she was still at the flat, Mum would never see it and would be unable to pick on her: good.

    “Thought Euan was next?” said Euan’s girlfriend.

    “He can wait,” replied Ginny brutally.

    Vicki seemed content with this.

    That was about it for the excitements of an afternoon at Piha, really. Though Imogen, greatly admiring Miss McLintock’s pale pink fluffy jersey on Georgy, did initiate Georgy into the newness and fashionableness of her own pretty cardy. Adding a full account of what other pretty styles were In this autumn. As Georgy had never realized the local shops had an autumn season she wasn’t really able to keep up her end of this conversation, but Imogen didn’t seem to notice. She then spotted that Georgy was squinting into the sun, and suggested she put her sunglasses on. Georgy didn’t think she had them with her, but at Imogen’s prompting looked in her bag and found she did, the smart white-rimmed ones Adam had bought for her in Newmarket. She adjusted them with hands that shook. Imogen duly admired them. Georgy was incapable of saying anything in reply except a low-voiced: “Thanks,” but Imogen didn’t seem to notice.

    The surfing film had suggested to Georgy that the afternoon might be followed by a bonfire with marshmallows (she wasn’t sure what happened to the marshmallows, since this was not a New Zealand tradition) and then a considerable amount of snogging on the beach or frolicking in the miraculously calmed wavelets, and she had been silently dreading it. Because it was very obvious that she would be expected to snog and/or frolic with Stephen. However, this did not happen. The sun began to sink, but no-one lit bonfires. The families gathered up their towels and their chillybins and screamed at their kids to COME ON! and went home. One or two groups had ghetto-blasters but no-one got up and danced in exiguous bathing-suits, with or without the sort of sarong provided by Ralph Overdale’s rich beach-house owning friends, and in fact the ghetto-blasters and their owners began to retreat to their cars.

    Phil and the young men had left the water jointly or severally at odd intervals, though only in order to towel their heads briefly and drink Coke from Phil’s satchel or similar canned drinks from Imogen’s chillybin before returning to the water. Now Phil again came up the beach, grinning, towelled her head roughly, undid the snaps positioned at the front of her wetsuit in a rude place, remarked casually that it was getting cooler, towelled her legs roughly, drank the last Coke from her satchel, and decided she’d catch that one last wave. She did up the wetsuit again and ran back to the water.

    Stephen had followed her. He rubbed his hair slowly. Imogen opened the chillybin and offered him the last can but on discovering it was L&P he refused it. “Come for a walk, Georgy,” he said abruptly.

    “Oh—um—righto,” said Georgy weakly, scrambling up.

    Stephen undid the rude snaps on his wetsuit. Until this moment Georgy would probably have claimed that she hadn’t even noticed that where he had one of the expensive-looking ones complete with the stripes down the sides and the rude snaps, Greg and Nigel had only cheap-looking tunics which ended about where their swimming-trunks began. Now she found that she was wishing fervently that Stephen also had just had a cheap-looking one. She looked away. “Won’t you be cold in that?” she said faintly, as he then didn’t take it off, but towelled his thighs perfunctorily.

    “No; they keep you warm.”

    Georgy was very far from understanding how or why, or even accepting this remark, but she said: “Oh. I see.”

    He then apparently contradicted himself because he picked up his worn-looking brown leather jacket and said: “Come on.”

    Georgy accompanied him silently.

    After some time he said: “Here,” and held the jacket out to her.

    “Oh—no—that’s yours!” she gasped.

    “I don’t need it. You look cold: put it round it you.”

    Georgy then realized she was hugging herself. “I suppose there is a bit of a wind,” she said feebly. Stephen continued to hold out the jacket to her. “Thanks,” she said limply. She held out her hand but he draped it over her shoulders himself. “Thanks,” she said again.

    Stephen didn’t say anything. He just walked on, along the hard sand below the tide-mark.

    Georgy did her best to keep up with him, but was finally forced to say: “Slow down.”

    “What? Oh. Sorry.” He walked on very slowly. “Beautiful evening, isn’t it?”

    Piha was on the western coast and with the setting sun and the heavy, low clouds that had now gathered in the west it was a very beautiful evening, though it was not a pink sunset, merely a gold and grey one, so Georgy agreed.

    After a minute he said: “Whose idea was this expedition, anyway?”

    “Um—Phil’s, wasn’t it?” she gasped, horrified at the idea he might think it had been hers.

    “That figures,” he said neutrally.

    Georgy looked sideways at his square, solid, pleasant face but it was expressionless. “Um—she never said you were coming,” she said faintly.

    “I did sort of gather that,” he replied evenly.

    Georgy gulped.

    Stephen clenched his fists. He turned and stood motionless, staring out to sea. Georgy looked up at him nervously. Finally he said: “Is McIntyre coming back?”

    “No,” she said faintly.

    “Good,” he said grimly.

    Georgy went very red. After a moment she managed to say: “Don’t.”

    “I know it’s too soon,” he said, not looking at her. “But it’s too soon to tell me not to, too.”

    Georgy gulped. She didn’t think it was, but she didn’t see how to say so without getting them both involved in a very emotional discussion indeed and, quite apart from the fact that the whole conversation and indeed the whole day had an unreal quality, she didn’t feel she could handle that.

    “Shall we go back?” he said. “I think the others might be planning on takeaways: would you like pizza or fish and chips?”

    Georgy wasn’t really hungry. But she hated pizza: it always had raw onions and raw green peppers on it and although her digestion was capable of coping with both of these she found them extremely unpalatable. Especially when soused in tasteless rubbery cheese. “Um—well, fish and chips, I suppose. I don’t much like pizza. Anyway, it’s too expensive.”

    Stephen agreed with these sentiments: he looked at her approvingly. “Yeah. Come on, then. Is there a good fish and chips shop in Puriri?”

    “Yes. The one in Sir John Marshall Avenue.”

    “Okay; shall we head for there, then?”

    “Well—um—it’s a long way. What if the others don’t want to?”

    Stephen replied unemotionally to this: “It’s my car.”

    Georgy gulped.

    “Anyway, Nigel’s left his heap up at the Hardys’ place, he’ll have to go back there to collect it.”

    “Oh,” she said, accompanying him numbly back to the others.

    Nigel and Imogen appeared quite happy with the fish and chips decision. The Anderson boys thought Mum might be expecting them back for tea, but decided they’d have fish and chips anyway. Vicki tried to argue for pizza but was howled down by both her boyfriend and her twin. Greg confessed cheerfully that he’d eat anything that didn’t cost over two dollars seventy plus a used bus-ticket. Phil and Pru, having ascertained with relief that Stephen meant the good fish and chips shop up Sir John Marshal Av’, not the other place, voted for it happily.

    It was quite a long drive back to Puriri, and the back road, especially if you didn’t go to Helensville in order to get onto the better section of back road, was really terrible. So at Nigel’s suggestion they stopped for ice creams first. Georgy just ate her ice cream silently, and sat silently beside Stephen in his car, feeling both hopelessly lost and hopelessly unreal, all the way back to—

    “Oh,” she said feebly. “I see where we are, now.”

    “This is the way we came!” returned Imogen in amazement. “Your place is just up there!”

    “I know,” said Georgy, swallowing

    In front of them, Euan’s battered vehicle hooted loudly and then turned the other way. Behind them, Phil’s bug hooted loudly.

    “Is it quicker this way?” said Stephen, following Euan.

    No-one replied.

    “I don’t know,” said Georgy limply, realizing far too late that he’d been addressing her. After a moment she said: “You go past the dairy factory and—and come out on the main road.”

    “Mm,” he said.

    “North or south of Puriri, Georgy?” asked Nigel with a laugh in his voice.

    Georgy looked frantically at her hands. “Um—we go left—no, right—um— Closer to town!” she gasped.

    “South,” said Stephen in a remarkably grim voice.

    The ebullient Nigel replied in a very chastened tone: “Sorry.”

    Georgy gulped. “No, it was a normal enquiry, Nigel. It’s me: I—I can’t do directions or—or—”

    “Yes. It’s okay, Georgy,” he said quickly.

    “It’s rather pretty round here, isn’t it?” put in Imogen quickly.

    “Yes. –That’s Blossom Avenue. Where Jemima and Tom Overdale live,” said Georgy, as they passed it on their ri—left.

    Nigel had recovered himself. He peered into the dusk. “I can’t see any blossoms, or even any trees!” he choked.

    “Shut up,” said Stephen grimly.

    There was silence from the back seat.

    Because the twins lived so near to the good fish and chips shop Vicki vetoed Coke in favour of going back to their place in Pukeko Drive for a cup of coffee. Everyone agreed, Greg in particular very thankfully. The Austin twins were renting a very small bach which dated from the time when the main road north to Puriri had been very bad and cars hadn’t been so fast—and perhaps the population had believed that commuting forty-five kilometres or more to and from work every day was mad. There was very little furniture in its one big room, apart from a double bed, but there were plenty of floor cushions, so the girls mostly sat on those and the boys mostly sat on the floor.

    Georgy had chosen a cushion. Stephen sat down beside her. Very fortunately Vicki Austin was the sort of girl who was incapable of entering a room that contained electronic gear without turning it on, and she put a tape in her cassette recorder: loud pop music made conversation unnecessary. Georgy felt too stunned and numb, really, to feel as excruciatingly embarrassed as she’d sort of vaguely expected to. She just ate a few chips and let the pop music wash over her.

    Stephen was hungry: he’d been taking vigorous exercise all afternoon and he was a healthy young man. He ate silently and voraciously. But inwardly he was wishing he’d taken his own good advice and turned down Nigel’s kind invitation, because this was as close to a living Hell as he ever hoped to come in his lifetime. Normally he disliked loud pop music very much—one of the bones of contention between him and his ex which had contributed to the break-up of their short-lived marriage—but now he was thankful for it.

    By eight o’clock Vicki and her boyfriend were having a brisk argument over whether to watch a repeat of The Love Boat (Vicki’s choice), a repeat of Jaws II on the other channel (Euan’s fallback choice), or go down The Tavern for a quick one (Euan’s preferred choice), Ginny had retired with her book to the little lean-to sunporch that was her room, the Anderson boys were urging everyone to come back home with them (after The Tavern) and watch a video of Terminator II, and Georgy was yawning uncontrollably.

    Stephen got up. “Come on, Georgy, I’ll run you home. –You two’ll be okay, eh?” he said to Nigel.

    “Yeah, Euan can run us up to collect the car, eh?” he said. Euan  agreed placidly.

    Georgy got up uncertainly. “Um...”

    “Come on, you’re dead on your feet!” he said crossly.

    “Yes, it must be the fresh air,” said Georgy, yawning again. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

    Everyone tried not to look at her sympathetically except Vicki, who looked at her with terrific sympathy.

    Stephen reminded her to pick up her bag and they went, Georgy in a confused way thanking first Vicki for the coffee and Vicki replying in surprize that that was okay, and then Phil for inviting her, and Phil looking surprized and then saying that that was okay.

    To Georgy’s relief Stephen didn’t say anything as he drove her home.

    He drove right up Willow Grove’s drive to her garage door, as the dinky outside lights were now all on and it was clear there was no livestock wandering around on the expanses of concrete. “Got your key?”

    “Um…” Georgy scrabbled frantically in her bag. “Oh! Yes!” she discovered with relief.

    There was a short pause.

    “Thank you for driving me and—and everything,” she said in a tiny voice. “It—it was very interesting.”

    Stephen didn’t reply.

    “I’d never been to Piha before. And—and I did need the fresh air, I suppose I haven’t been out much lately.”

    “How are you getting to varsity?” he said abruptly.

    “My neighbour gives me a lift,” she said, swallowing. “He works in town.”

    Stephen had thought she meant the pink-cardied lady until she said “he”. He was almost unable to speak for the wave of hot jealousy that flooded his body. “I see,” he croaked. “What about when you’ve got early classes at Puriri Campus?”

    “It’s only the one. English One. He says he doesn’t have to get into the surgery early that day, so he—he takes me,” said Georgy in a tiny voice.

    “I see.”

    “I don’t have language labs, of course. And for the afternoon English One tutorials at Puriri Campus I get the varsity shuttlebus from town, of course,” said Georgy, now feeling she was talking too much but not knowing how to stop.

    “Yeah. Good.”

    “Um—well, thanks, Stephen,” she said, scrabbling for the door handle.

    “Listen,” he said huskily: “are you doing anything for Easter?”

    Georgy never planned holidays for such periods as Easter because she had never been able to afford them. And had usually had essays to write during them, in her student days. And in any case, the Harrises had never been in the habit of going away for holidays. So she said simply: “No.”

    “They’re doing the St John Passion in the Anglican Cathedral on Easter Saturday, would you like to come? It’s more interesting than the St Matthew,” he said.

    “Yes,” she said faintly.

    Stephen wasn’t sure whether this meant yes, she thought it was more interesting, or yes, she wanted to come with him. “Well, will you?” he said loudly.

    Georgy’s hands trembled. She locked them together in her lap. “I don’t think we ought to, Stephen,” she said, so faintly he could hardly hear her.

    He was within a hair’s breadth of losing his temper with her. He forced himself to say calmly : “I thought you might enjoy it, since you didn’t seem to be enjoying that crap of Vicki’s. And I’ve seen you at the Early Music Society once or twice.”

    “Yes, I sometimes go with Val. But she sometimes has to work in the evenings at her library. In term-time.”

    He didn’t know or care who she was talking about. “Yeah. Look, I’m not proposing the romance of the century, just an evening at a concert, for Heaven’s sake.”

    “Yes—um, but... It’s a long way,” she said faintly.

    Stephen honestly didn’t know what she meant. Finally he said limply: “Eh?”

    “I don’t think... I mean, the last bus goes at about eleven o’clock and it’s a long way from the cathedral… I mean,” said Georgy, gulping, “you did say it was in the evening, didn’t you?”

    “I’ll collect you and take you home,” he said weakly.

    “No—um, that’d be a date,” she said faintly.

    Stephen clenched his fists. “All right: when you go to the E.M.S. with this girlfriend of yours, how do you get there?”

    There was a short silence. “In her car,” she admitted.

    “So?” he said drily.

    “You know it isn’t the same,” said Georgy in a tiny voice. “Don’t pretend.”

    Stephen bit his lip. “Okay, then; let’s drop it.”

    “I—I don’t want to hurt you,” she said anxiously.

    “You’re going a funny way about it, then,” he noted tiredly.

    She swallowed loudly.

    “Look, it’s just a concert, Georgy! For Pete’s sake, can’t you give us a chance just to get to know each other? Be friends?”

    Georgy was very tired and the whole day still seemed to her very unreal. She reflected limply that the love-at-first-sight, whirlwind-romance thing hadn’t got her anywhere: why not give the getting-to-know-each-other, just-being-friends approach a go? In any case she felt too tired to argue with him any more. “All right,” she said in a tiny voice.

    Stephen’s heart pounded but he merely said: “Good. Easter Saturday, then. It starts at eight, so I suppose I’d better collect you around quarter to seven.”

    “Okay.” She fumbled at the car door.

    “I’ll do it,” he said, leaning over her. Georgy could feel his warmth and smell what must be some deodorant he’d used when he changed and although she didn’t believe she could fall in love with Stephen Berry she trembled slightly because he was male and big and so near.

    “Goodnight,” she said, getting out and bending down to close the door.

    Stephen’s heart thudded furiously. He gave her a shaky smile and said: “Goodnight. See ya.”

    It seemed to take her ages to get the front door open; he waited until she was safely inside and then drove off carefully, with due regard for possible dachshunds.

    Georgy hadn’t thought she’d sleep much that night, she hadn’t been sleeping much at all over the past two weeks, but the fresh air must have done its job, because she fell into bed and slept like a log for ten solid hours.

    “You went where?” said Ngaio numbly next day. –Georgy hadn’t volunteered: Ngaio had had a minor panic on finding her phone unanswered all yesterday afternoon, and had rung up early this morning, and asked.

    “Piha,” repeated Georgy, swallowing. “With—with some of the students that were in the play.”

    “Well, good,” said Ngaio limply. “I’m glad you’re getting out a bit. Um—well, would you like to come up to Carter’s Bay with us this afternoon? We thought we’d see if we can pick up some free-range eggs and then maybe go to that pipi beach—if his Lordship can find it again!” she added with a giggle.

    It was the sort of giggle that indicated that all was better than quiet on the Cornwell domestic front, it was peachy, so Georgy accepted. Even though she knew it would probably mean tea with Mum at Ngaio’s place afterwards.

    And so it proved. However, Mrs Harris was so busy being indignant with Ngaio for letting Ross boil up a dirty billy-ful of pipis on her (Ngaio’s) clean stove and for letting her (Mrs Harris’s) grandchildren eat pipis straight out of the billy for their tea, not to mention for expecting her (Mrs Harris) to eat pipis and bread and butter for tea, that she didn’t have much breath to waste on Georgy, so it wasn’t too bad.

    Just as she was leaving at nine o’clock in order to get an early night, she did remind Georgy that it was Easter next weekend, adding that Georgy had better come to her on the Saturday for tea in order to get a decent meal inside her (whether this was a crack at Georgy or Ngaio neither of them could decide), but Georgy, concealing her inner dismay at the discovery that it was Easter this very next weekend, replied with her nose in the air that she couldn’t: she had a date. Ill-advisedly Mrs Harris gasped: “Who with?”, thus enabling Georgy to reply crossly: “None of your business.” Mrs Harris flounced off.

    “Was that true?” said Ngaio limply, closing the front door.

    “Yes. Well, it’s only to go to a performance of the Passion at the cathedral with one of our Ph.D. students.”

    Ngaio replied incautiously to this: “Heck, isn’t that Catholic, Georgy?”, thus enabling Georgy to cry: “What? No!”

    Ross appeared at the sitting-room doorway looking cautious, Listener in hand. “The wrestling’s on later.”

    “Then you can watch it by yourself!” snapped his wife.

    “Uh—it’s that arty thing now,” he reported glumly.

    “What’s on the other channel?” she said.

    “Still the Sunday weepie, of course.”

    Ngaio sighed but said: “Well, Georgy might want to watch the arty—I mean the arts programme.”

    “Do you?” he said immediately.

    “Not much.”

    Ross put it on anyway, but retreated to the kitchen to make supper. –Mrs Harris had refused to stay for it on account of the early night. They were all aware that she only proclaimed the need for an early night in order to make them all feel obscurely guilty, but as what they normally experienced when she vanished out the door was overwhelming relief, none of them had asked her tenderly why she needed the early night or urged her to stay for supper. Mrs Harris would quite probably have stayed if urged. They weren’t admitting to themselves that they knew this.

    Naturally TVNZ was tonight screening its interviews with Mac and Adam plus its review of the play. It was a rave review but as Georgy noted in a hard voice, it was too late now. The sculpture exhibition in Dunedin that was then reviewed was also over, as Ngaio noted limply.

    “Would anyone like a slug of brandy in their coffee?” asked Ross limply.

    There was a short pause.

    “Yes,” admitted his wife.

    “I’ve finished my coffee,” admitted Georgy.

    So had Ngaio, actually.

    “I’ll make us a second round!” He bounced up and dashed out to the kitchen.

    “I suppose that was inevitable,” admitted Georgy.

    Ngaio bit her lip. “Mm. Um—you haven’t heard from him, have you, Georgy?”

    “No.”

    Ngaio bit her lip again. “Um—do you wanna watch this?” she said as a play came on.

    “What is it?”

    “Dunno.”

    They watched it for a bit. High-rise apartment blocks, yobbos in artful tat, incomprehensible dialogue in incomprehensible accents. “Pommy,” diagnosed Ngaio.

    Ross came back with the brandy and fresh coffees. “That’s not The Bill, is it?”

    “No,” they said glumly.

    “Turn it off, eh?” he suggested.

    Thankfully they let him turn it off.

    When he came back from taking Georgy home his wife was in bed. Drinking out of a mug. “What’s that?” he said weakly to the smell of brandy that pervaded the bedroom.

    “Warm milk with brandy. –I needed it!”

    “Yeah,” he said limply, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Know whatcha mean.”

    “Did she—did she say anything to you?” she ventured.

    Ross just snorted.

    “No,” agreed Ngaio sadly.

   There was a short silence, during which Ross removed his sneakers and undid his jeans.

    “I wonder who this Ph.D. student is, that she’s going out with on Saturday,” she ventured.

    Ross just snorted.

    “He might be all right.”

    “How long did it take her to get her Ph.D.? –Three years,” he answered himself. “That makes him a good four years younger than her, by my calculations. And what’s more, we don’t even know that it’s a he!” he added on a triumphant note.

    “There’s no need to sound like that about it!”

     Ross hadn’t meant to, really. So he just looked sulky.

    “Well,” said Ngaio on a weak note: “at least her students are rallying round, I suppose.”

    Ross just snorted.

    Ngaio wasn’t wrong; and it wasn’t only the students rallying round. Georgy, who had never in her whole life before been invited by anyone to do anything at Easter, received a multiplicity of invitations for the long weekend. Almost none of which she wished to accept.

    Bill Michaels was first: the engineering brain had not neglected to file the information inadvertently supplied by the Michelangelic Dr Jablonski that Georgy arrived on the City Campus in time for a nine-o’clock class on Mondays. He himself usually got in to work by at least half-past eight, so it was no trouble to him to be discovered lounging negligently amidst the papyrus, flax and small pools of the English and Humanities building that Monday. Georgy didn’t ask him what on earth he was doing there and Bill would have taken a large bet that she didn’t even wonder it. However, all this cunning was wasted: she turned down the invitation to spend the weekend on the boat with him and Angie and Barbara because she got sick on anything that moved. Bill was pretty sure this was genuine: she’d gone green at the mere thought.

    Erik Nilsson of her own Department was next: his office was just down the corridor from Georgy’s. He and his wife wondered if Georgy would like to come to dinner on the Saturday: it would just be Tom and Jemima, and a few friends from varsity... Oh, busy already? Well, another time, eh?

    After her lecture Georgy was buttonholed by Imogen, her friend who had been a silver lizard, a silver-haired female fairy of whose name Georgy was unsure, and Pru Hardy. Imogen and the lizard were having a party at their flat on the Saturday and would Georgy— Oh. Oh, well, another time, eh?

    Georgy didn’t have any more classes this morning, so she tottered off to the English Department’s staffroom and got herself a cup of instant coffee. This was a mistake: it enabled Maisie Pretty to track her down with no effort whatsoever and issue a very warm invitation to lunch on Saturday: it would only be her and her son and daughter-in-law and their wee kiddies, just a quiet— Desperately Georgy lied and said she was busy all Saturday, thank you very much, Maisie. As Maisie herself had made other arrangements for the rest of the weekend she was unable immediately to propose an alternative.

    Georgy stumbled off to her office and went so far as actually to lock the door behind her. Though no-one would have walked in on her without first knocking.

    That was it for the Monday.

    On Tuesday Ralph collected her as usual. He waited until they were about halfway to the Harbour Bridge before saying casually: “Busy this Easter, Georgy?”

    “Um—I’m going out on Saturday night,” she gulped.

    “That’s good,” he said mildly.

    Georgy looked at him nervously.

    “You’ll be free for a small non-Christian festival on the Friday, then?” he said.

    “What?” she gasped. “Oh—um—what?”

    “A few friends to dinner. Er—Hugh Morton from next-door, your delightful self if you would honour us, Tom and Jemima, and—er—actually, Derry and Lucinda, before Lucinda heads off back to the North.”

    After a moment Georgy said limply: “North with a capital N, I suppose,” and Ralph snickered. “I thought she’d already gone?”

    “No. Been down to the South Island in the hopes of getting a glimpse of Mount Cook in between the clouds and rain of March and the clouds and snow of April.” Georgy was looking merely blank: he smiled a little and said: “it may be an unbalanced table, but that’s it. I could have left Hugh out, of course, but I was feeling sorry for him.  Or do you think I ought to invite Miss McLintock for him?”

    “No!” she choked.

    “No,” he agreed smoothly.

    After a moment Georgy said: “They won’t all fit at your little dining table, though.”

    “No, and I do abhor things on laps, don’t you? Especially when the bums attached to the laps are on my pristine white sofas.”

    “Yes.”

    Ralph sighed. “Georgy, will you come or not?”

    “Oh. Well, if all those other people are coming, I suppose so.”

    “Er—I don’t know whether to be flattered or infuriated,” he noted. “Dare I breathe the words ‘black tie’?

    “You just did. Only I’ve never known what it means.”

    Wincing, Ralph explained that the feminine form was “long frock”.

    Georgy was about to protest that she didn’t have anything remotely resembling a long frock, then remembered the peach thing Adam had  bought her, went bright red, and said nothing.

    “Er—does that pose insuperable difficulties?” he murmured.

    “No,” she said in a strangled voice.

     Ralph looked at her sideways but said nothing.

    Rod Jablonski strolled into her office later the same morning to issue a warm invitation from him and his wife for the Friday and was very disconcerted to find that she was booked up for it.

    Georgy would much rather have had dinner with the pleasant Rod and his lovely Italian wife: she looked at him helplessly and said: “I really can’t get out of it.”

    “Uh—no,” he recognized. “Another time, eh?”

    … “Cor, you are booked up,” said Jill, having hoiked Georgy bodily off to the Club to get a decent meal inside her.

    Georgy was eating hot chicken with chips and gravy. She nodded hard round them.

    “Well, come and eat with us on Monday, then.”

    “Aren’t you playing golf?”

    “We probably shall be, yes, but not in the dark. We’ll pick you up afterwards: around five-thirty, okay?”

    Georgy nodded again, with her mouth full of chips. She swallowed. “Do you like Cointreau?”

    “Er—in smallish quantities, yes. Why?” said Jill limply.

    “I’ve got some Cointreau ice cream you can have. As my contribution. I gave Ngaio and Ross the raspberries,” she said obscurely.

    Jill didn’t ask. At least it was an indication that Georgy was more or less in the land of the living again. “Fine, Cointreau ice cream it is, then. It’ll go good on top of that sauerkraut and franks thing that Gretchen does,” she noted.

    Georgy just grinned round the chicken and gravy.

    … Ginny stood on one leg in Georgy’s office doorway later that afternoon. “Um—me and Twin were wondering—” she gulped, very red.

    As Ginny was doing Classics and this bore all the earmarks of a student asking for extra coaching, Georgy was a bit puzzled but she was enlightened soon enough.

    “Um—no, I can’t, I’m afraid, Ginny, not on the Monday!” she gasped.

    “Would Sunday be all right?” said Ginny, going redder than ever.

    Georgy recognized this as the redness of one who was not herself religious wondering whether her hearer was. She smiled and perforce accepted the invitation to tea at the twins’ place on the Sunday. Ginny then said something obscure about Euan working up at the boatyard but being able to collect her about six, would that be okay? Georgy acceding to this, Ginny then added, as something of an afterthought, did Georgy know how to cook flounder, as Euan’d probably bring some back. Georgy said she didn’t. Then she remembered that those had been the fish the nice American man had given her and Adam up at the Carranos’ bach, and went very red.

    “Oh, well, Euan’ll have to cook them. –Here,” said Ginny, suddenly thrusting something at her.

    Georgy took it limply. The Dorothy Uhnak with the lurid cover. “Thanks, Ginny.”

    The red-haired twin beamed and exited.

    Georgy sagged all over her desk. Help! How many more?

    She was shortly to learn how many more.

   Jemima Overdale was the first, looking very shy. She knew they’d be seeing Georgy on the Friday at Ralph’s, but if she was free on the Sunday, they’d love her to come to lunch. Georgy actually wanted to accept this invitation. She explained dubious that she was due at the Austin twins’ for tea but Jemima said happily that was no problem, Tom would get her home in plenty of time. Georgy beamed at her and accepted eagerly. Jemima then suggested they go to the S.C.R. together for afternoon tea, if Georgy didn’t have a class? Georgy didn’t, and she also hated walking into the S.C.R. alone, so they went together.

    Twenty minutes after she got back to her office Nigel appeared in her doorway, grinning. Had she got anything planned for mid-semester break next week? Him and Imogen thought they might go down to Rotorua, it could be nice this time of year.

    Georgy just looked at him limply. The more so as she had forgotten that Easter this year would be immediately followed by mid-semester break.

    Nigel explained hurriedly that he had relatives down there, they wouldn’t have to shell out for a motel. Georgy continued to look at him limply. Nigel assured her it was a huge house, Aunty Barb wouldn’t mind how many turned up. Georgy gulped. Nigel assured her a break’d do her good. Georgy said in a feeble voice she had a lot of work to do. Nigel ascertained that this was only marking and told her she could bring it with her. Georgy dithered. Nigel overrode this dithering quite easily, made firm arrangements, explained they were coming back on the Friday, as Imogen had to go to a wedding on the Saturday; and said he’d collect her on the Tuesday morning. He exited, beaming.

    Georgy sagged all over her desk. What had she done? A week—no, well, four whole days—in the company of students of whose relationship she was unsure, in the house of someone’s aunty that she’d never met!

    That evening Miss McLintock, having popped over between doing her dishes and the News, issued a counter-invitation: the Bay of Islands with herself and Miss Amber. Miss Amber had a cousin who lived at Russell: it wouldn’t be like staying in a noisy motel. It was difficult to decide whether this would have been worse or better than Rotorua with the students but Georgy was at least enabled to turn it down. Miss McLintock expressed regrets, but also delight that Georgy was being taken out of herself. It would be a lovely break! She then bustled off: Mannie had been left alone with the television set.

    Georgy didn’t ask for clarification of this peculiar utterance, she just sagged all over Mrs Mayhew’s pinky-lilac velvet sofa. In fact, she felt so effete that she thought she might go to bed— The phone rang.

    It was Angie, informing her that Bill was a dyed-in-the-wool clot, they’d be back on the Sunday: how would Georgy like to come down on the Monday— Oh. Well, look, next week, although Bill would probably be immured in his dratted engineering hutch regardless, how would Georgy like to— Really? Well, that was good news!

    Georgy hung up with a palsied hand.

    She’d got as far as the bedroom when it rang again. Derry. If Georgy fancied it, he thought they might spend part of next week togeth— Oh. ...Oh, Rotorua, eh? Roddy and Charles had found some quite interesting locations round there... Mm. He’d let her know.

    Georgy was so horrified that she was incapable of telling him that since it was school holidays next week all the motels would have been booked out weeks in advance, though she did realise this. She just hung up with a palsied hand.

    She actually managed to have a shower before the phone rang again. Aunty Christine. Lunch on Sunday. After church. Your mother was coming, of course. –Busy, dear? As Aunty Christine was not the sort of person to take an evasion for an answer, Georgy had to explain. Aunty Christine then dragged her entire timetable for the long weekend out of her. She then said cheerfully that Georgy could take Noel and Fiona to the pictures and McDonald’s next Wednesday. It would have been a question of these two huge and determined hoons, aged thirteen and twelve respectively, taking Georgy, as Georgy very well knew, and she was very glad to be able to refuse. Though of course Aunty Christine made her explain why.

    After that Georgy put the answering-machine on, before Mum could ring to interrogate her in the wake of Aunty Christine’s inevitable report. As it never occurred to her to change the message on it, it was Adam’s voice that in fifteen minutes’ time would meet her mother’s affronted ear.

    Georgy got into bed and without hope opened the lurid-covered Dorothy Uhnak the longer-haired twin had forced upon her. ...Ooh. Heck!

    Ten minutes later she was so absorbed that the phone could have rung its pink heart out without disturbing her. And that in fact Ralph’s optimistic knock at the front door did not disturb her. The more so since she had sort of absent-mindedly closed both the bedroom and the sitting-room doors between herself and the front door.

    Adam’s recorded voice had reduced Mrs Harris to a burst of angry, impotent tears followed by a nice cup of tea. Then she rang Ngaio. Ngaio wasn’t interested in the fact that Adam’s message on the machine had answered her mother’s call. She was more interested in Mrs Harris’s report of Aunty Christine’s report of Georgy’s plans for mid-semester break, but managed not to let this show. Mrs Harris hung up angrily. Ngaio returned thoughtfully to the ironing she was doing in front of the TV, wondering exactly which students were going on this Rotorua expedition and whether one of them might be the Ph.D. student and again—because surprizingly enough Aunty Christine had failed to get this information out of Georgy—whether it was a “he” and if so how old he was.

    During the course of that evening and the following day several people left messages on Georgy’s answering-machine. She’d forgotten the machine was on, and didn’t get round to listening to them until well into the morning of Good Friday.

    The first was Mac. He said without preamble: “I’ve been trying to get hold of you for days!” (This was a lie.) “What’s this story about you and Nigel pushing off to Rotorua next week? Have you forgotten we’re casting for the winter production? I want him to try out for Face.” There was a pause. “Or maybe he can do Subtle—well, never mind, he can read for them both. And what’s his number? I can’t get any reply from that bloody number you gave me before!” He hung up with a crash.

    “You’ll be lucky,” said Georgy in a hard voice.

    Livia was next, reminding Georgy, dear, of the imminent date of her wedding to  Wallace, and she would get a card in the mail very, very soon!

    “Ooh, help!” gulped Georgy, stopping the tape. She flew down the drive to the letterboxes to retrieve yesterday’s mail. Not to say Wednesday’s as well. The card was there, all right: silver bells, engraved silver message, and all. Ooh, help.

    The next caller was Mac’s secretary: presumably the two had not connected. Or possibly she was merely reinforcing Mac’s message. After introducing herself very properly she said: “Professor Mac asked me to ring and remind you we’re casting for The Alchemist next week, Georgy. He’d like you to assist him as usual. Nine o’clock on Tuesday morning in the hall, and casting meeting on the Wednesday. He’ll start rehearsals on the Thursday.”

    “Yeah, well, he’ll start without me!” snarled Georgy.

    Georgy’s friend Val was next. Sounding very shy—she had been horribly disconcerted to be met by Adam’s voice. If Georgy wasn’t busy, would she like to have lunch on Easter Monday at her place?

    Georgy rang and accepted gratefully. She knew that Val would never dream of breathing the words “Adam McIntyre” unless she did so first.

    She returned to the tape. There came the usual clicks and clonks and so forth and a male voice said: “Georgy, it’s Stephen. Mac’s been trying to blackmail me into reading for Subtle in the bloody Alchemist, so just in case he tries to get you to twist my arm, I’m letting you know I wouldn’t do it if he paid me. See you on Saturday.”

    Georgy didn’t feel that this had been a need-to-know, really: it was pretty clear to her, even though she was almost entirely devoid of personal vanity, that Stephen had just wanted an excuse to ring her, and her heart sank into her sneakers.

    After that came a lot of heavy breathing and Georgy was on the point of deciding it was a heavy-breather and wondering how you fast-forwarded the tape (she had picked up the phrase “to fast-forward” from Adam, who apparently owned a video machine, which he affected to despise but clearly didn’t), when a high, Scots-sounding voice said: “Hello, this is Elspeth Macdonald here.” Then there was a pause, more heavy breathing, and a voice in the background hissed agonisedly: “Go ON!” Undoubtedly Whetu, concluded Georgy. “If you’re not too busy on Saturday, me an’ Puppy could come round, mebbe?” said Elspeth, very high-pitched and more Scottish than ever.—“And me!” hissed an agonized voice in the background. “I’m not gonna double you all that way!” retorted Elspeth in the local vernacular, very cross. “I can ride!” wailed Whetu.—“And Whetu. Um—that’s all,” said Elspeth, presumably once again addressing Georgy. “Um—oh, yeah. My number is Puriri 65-901. This message timed at sixteen forty-five point seven. –What? Oh, yeah: Thursday. Bye, now!”

    Georgy had omitted to write down the number so she had to re-run that piece of the tape and with some difficulty did so, scribbling the number down quickly.

    The tape was still rolling: it clicked and clonked and then a laughing male voice said: “Hi, Georgy, it’s Nigel. If Mac tries to get my number out of you, would you mind awfully not giving it to him? Not if it would entail perjuring your immortal soul, of course! By the way, Aunty Barb says can you bring a quilt or some blankets, it can get nippy down there this time of year. See ya!”

    “Crikey, the plot thickens,” groaned Georgy. Obviously the only way to avoid Mac’s wrath was going to be to leave the answering-machine on. Well, no, it wouldn’t assuage the wrath, but it would mean she wouldn’t have to speak to him personally for a while. And quilts and blankets? The only thing she had was the duvet that Adam had brought from his mother’s house. With the cover he had purchased for it. Oh well, too bad, it was that or nothing and she was blowed if she was going to freeze, it could come to Rotorua and risk being lost or left behind or something.

    After that it was just Imogen reminding her that, if she should happen to be free on Saturday after all, the party was still on, and Pru Hardy (separately) reminding her that if she should happen to be free on Saturday after all, the party at Imogen’s was still on and she and Greg (here Georgy felt distinctly dizzy) could give her a lift.  Followed by Georgy’s mother in a furious temper demanding to know why this machine was on still, and reminding her that her mother would quite like to know if she was alive or dead! Crash!

    Georgy sat where was, on the floral Axminster in Mrs Mayhew’s little front hall, hugging her knees, looking thoughtful, for some time. Then she rang the Macdonald residence. She had to explain to Elspeth’s father that Elspeth wasn’t bullying her into something, and had to endure his assuring her that she was to take no notice at all of anything the bluidy kid had said, but she eventually got through to her and confirmed that she would be happy to have Elspeth and Puppy and Whetu come on Saturday. And would they like to have lunch at her place? –Ooh, yeah! Ace!

    Hamish Macdonald here got back on the line and said if Georgy was absolutely sure, he’d bring the wee sillies round himself, he wasn’t having Puppy exposed to the bluidy Saturday traffic on the main road. And actually, he’d spare her Puppy.—Wails in the background.—Georgy asked nervously if he thought Puppy would attack a small dachshund. Sounding stunned, he replied that if he did, he and Jake both would be askin’ the bluidy obedience school for Jake’s money back.—“And me!” said a voice in the background.

    “Aye, and her as well. I can assure you he’s never even been known to attack a cat, Georgy. In fact he treats them with the ignore they deserve.”

    Georgy at this point realised there was no way the child’s father could have learned of the awful scene with Puppy in the hall during rehearsals: Elspeth most certainly wouldn’t have told him. She gulped a bit but managed to say that in that case she would like Puppy to come.

    Then, looking determined, she rang Ngaio.

    “Hullo,” said her sibling weakly.

    “Are the shops open tomorrow?” demanded Georgy.

    “Uh—yeah, the ones up here are,” she said limply. “It’s one of their big shopping days.”

    “Good. Then—um—if you’re going in to Puriri, Ngaio,” said Georgy, ceasing to sound determined and now merely sounding timid, “do you think you could give me a lift?”

    “Yeah, of course!” said Ngaio in amazement. “I thought that lady next-door with the cardies was taking you?” she added, rather puzzled.

    “She was, I mean, she sort of is; I mean,” gulped Georgy, “that’s just it!”

    “Eh?”

    “The cardies. I thought I might buy some jumpers or something and she’ll make me buy—”

    “Cardies!” said Ngaio with a loud laugh, winking at Ross, who was looking blankly at her from the kitchen doorway with a hot-cross bun in his hand. “Yeah, of course you can come with us. Not that the clothes shops up here are much. Never mind, we’ll find something warm!”

    “Yes. I thought I might buy a windcheater or something.”

    “Eh?”

    Georgy gulped. “Adam called them anoraks, only I know that’s wrong,” she said in a tiny voice.

    “Uh—yeah. Oh!” she discovered. “You mean a parka!”

    “Yes. Nigel says it can be cold in Rotorua, especially at night, at this time of the year.”

    Ngaio began to wonder frantically who Nigel was and how old he was, but before she could phrase a tactful question, Georgy recollected that she’d invited Elspeth and Whetu for lunch tomorrow and got terrifically flustered and upset. But Ngaio smoothed that over, saying the shops were open all day: they’d have a look round in the morning, she’d get Georgy back in stacks of time to give the girls lunch, and as they’d probably be bored by the afternoon, after all there was nothing to do at Willow Grove, they could always come out to the shops again with her and Georgy!

    After which Ngaio reported triumphantly to Ross and, even though it was rather too near lunchtime, awarded everybody another hot-cross bun all round.

    She then decided she was mad (Ross didn’t argue with that): why hadn’t she asked Georgy to tea tonight—and went out to the passage to ring her back.

    “Do you know what she’s doing tonight?” she croaked, returning to the kitchen.

    “Uh—nah,” replied Ross, hurriedly swallowing the last bite of his last and illicit hot-cross bun.

    Ngaio closed her eyes briefly. Then she revealed the awful truth. Not omitting a version of what Ralph Overdale was really like that she’d got from the local lady who did housework for the Carranos.

    Ross just sat through it, wistfully looking at the last two hot-cross buns from the second packet. “She is an adult.”

    Ngaio glared.

    “Anyway, he won’t try anything on with other people there!”

    “You never know. What if she’s the last one left?”

    Uh—oh, yeah. Well, on the face of it this was likely, since she lived two doors from the bloke. He didn’t say so, however. Well, he might have, only the bottom lip was sticking out just like Denny’s did when he was about to bawl. Ouch.

    “Um, I thought you wanted her to cheer up and get over McIntyre?” he ventured.

    Ngaio sniffed dolefully. “Not like this!”

    “Um—well, I s’pose she didn’t like to refuse.”

    She looked slightly mollified.

    “Besides, didn’t you reckon it was a good thing her friends were rallying round and taking her mind off him?” Cornwell the Clot pursued.

    “NO! I said her STUDENTS!”

    Oh. Well, he could say goodbye to them last two hot-cross buns, that was for sure.

    “We should have invited her before,” she said, scowling.

    “Yeah. Well, that’s what I said; only you said—”

    “SHUT UP!”

    —You said we’d better not make it too obvious, Ross ended in his head. Make sure she wasn’t moping, but just make it casual invitations.

    His hand crept out stealthily.

    “LEAVE THOSE ALONE!”

    Glumly he left it all alone. He might be a clot but he didn’t actually have a death-wish. –So much for rallying round poor old Georgy, eh? Damned if you do, and damned if you don’t. Well—words to that effect.