Storms In The Antipodean Teacup

29

Storms In The Antipodean Teacup

    Adam’s Sunday evening had gone considerably less well than Livia’s. At about seven o’clock there had been a knock on the door. He had hurried to answer it. A grinning Ralph Overdale stood on the porch, propping up a groggy Georgy.

    “Your property, I believe?”

    “Not prop’ty,” said Georgy before Adam could speak.

    “Is she drunk?” he said tightly.

    Ralph gave him a mocking look. “Somewhat tiddly, mm.”

    “We had rum an’ pineapple juice, it was lovely,” said Georgy, smiling muzzily at him.

    “Come inside,” said Adam through his teeth. “If you can walk, that is.”

    “Of course I can walk!”

    Ralph released her, and she swayed a little. He grabbed her again. “Sort of, she can walk,” he agreed drily.

    “Stop calling me ‘she’,” said Georgy, frowning suddenly.

    “I’ll assist it in, shall I?” he said brightly to Adam.

    “No, thanks, I’ll do it,” replied Adam grimly. He put his arm round Georgy from her other side. “Come along.”

    “Says that,” Georgy informed Sir Ralph brightly. “Very English, isn’ it?”

    “Oh, wholly. See ya, Georgy.”

    “Thanks for the rum. And the swim,” said Georgy politely, smiling muzzily at him.

    “Oh, it was my pleasure. Er—I’d prescribe a mild analgesic and a long sleep,” he said to Adam.

    “Thanks,” said Adam through his teeth. He tugged at Georgy’s waist. “Will you get IN!” he shouted.

    “Very English!” said Ralph with a giggle, going down the steps. “Bye-bye!”

    “Bye-bye!” cried Georgy brightly.

     Gritting his teeth, Adam hauled her inside and kicked the door shut.

    “What happened? Or are you too drunk to remember?” he said angrily, once she was sitting on the sofa.

    “I’m not very drunk,” said Georgy, yawning widely. “Jus’ sleepy.”

    “WELL?” shouted Adam.

    “We had rum an’ pine—”

    “WHERE?” shouted Adam furiously. Georgy just goggled at him. “Where did you have these rum and pineapples?” he said loudly.

    “Juices. Rum an’ pineapple juices.”

    “WHERE?” shouted Adam at the top of his lungs.

    “At the Beatsons’ beach house. Ooh, isn’t that eu— euphon— Never mind. It was a beach mansion, really! Tray up-market!” she said with a giggle.

    “Where—is—it?” said Adam through his teeth.

    “Kingfisher Bay, of course.”

    “WHAT?” he shouted.

    “I told you!” said Georgy indignantly.

    “You did NOT!” he shouted. “I didn’t have the slightest idea where you’d gone: I’ve spent the entire afternoon making an idiot of myself tramping all over the bloody countryside and ringing up bloody answering-machines: why the Hell didn’t you tell me where you were going?”

    “I DID!” shouted Georgy, suddenly very red.

    “RUBBISH!” shouted Adam.

    “I DID! Only you never listened: you never listen to me, because I’m just a WOMAN!” shouted Georgy, bolt upright on the pinkish-mauveish velvet sofa.

    “That’s utter balderdash!” said Adam angrily.

    “I said I was going, and I said where it was, and everything; is it my fault if you weren’t listening?” replied Georgy sulkily.

    He did have a vague memory of her having told him she was going somewhere, but he was pretty bloody sure she hadn’t said she was going to Kingfisher Bay, she’d said it was for a walk. Or at least that she’d deliberately let him believe that. “What happened?” he said tightly.

    “Nothing,” replied Georgy in surprize. “We just had a swim in the patio pool and—um—lounged on the sun lounger, and drank rum and pineapple juice. It was all tray up-market.”

    “If nothing happened, would you care to explain why you’re wearing THAT?” demanded Adam, starting off steely and ending up just plain shouting.

    Georgy looked down at her floral-edged sarong in mild surprize. “This? Ralph lent it to me, it belongs to Jay, that’s the lady. –They weren’t there, they’re in Canada.”

    “I bet they’re in bloody Canada,” said Adam through his teeth. “Where are your clothes?”

    “Um—dunno,” said Georgy, yawning. “’Scuse me.”

    “Georgy,” yelled Adam: “did you bathe naked with that prick?”

    “No-one says ‘bathe’ out here, that’s very Eng—”

    “ANSWER ME!” he shouted.

    “Don’t be an idiot, of course I didn’t,” said Georgy, pouting horribly. “He wouldn’t have minded if I had, mind you!”

    “I’m aware of that, thank you!”

    There was a short silence.

    Georgy yawned. “’Scuse me.”

    “What did you wear?” said Adam on a sulky note.

    “Mm?”

    “What did you wear for this b— SWIM?” he shouted furiously.

    “Bathers!” said Georgy with a loud giggle.

    “STOP THAT!” shouted Adam.

    “I thought you wanted to English-ify me?” she responded with another giggle.

    “WILL YOU STOP IT!” he howled.

    “All right. Togs. Borrowed ones. They’ve got lots of guest pairs. Only the bottoms were all cutaway. Well, nearly all. So I wore a pink spotty pair, they weren’t cutaway. And a white top. Well, bra, really. It was pretty cutaway!” revealed Georgy with yet another giggle. “Ralph said ‘pow’, so I think he liked it.”

    “WHAT?” shouted Adam.

    “He said I could cry on his shoulder any ol’ time,” reported Georgy, yawning. “Ooh, ’scuse me, I’m awfully sleepy. Does rum always make you sleepy, Adam?”

    Suddenly Adam sat down heavily in a velvet armchair. “It does in the quantities in which you apparently ingested it, yes,” he said tiredly. “Did he try anything on, or is that none of my business?”

    “Um... I wouldn’t say he tried anything on, exactly,” said Georgy cautiously.

    “What does ‘exactly’ mean?” demanded Adam through his teeth.

    “Um... He put his head in my lap.”—Adam’s jaw dropped.—“I think he’s one of my greatest admirers!” revealed Georgy, giggling. She yawned on top of a giggle and said: “Help! I think I might have a lie-down, actually.”

    “What precisely do you mean,” said Adam, very blue around the mouth, “by he put his head in your lap?”

    “Um—well, that’s what I mean. I dunno how else you could describe it.”

    “Why did you LET HIM?” he shouted.

    “He just sort of did it. I mean, if I’d known he was going to I could have stopped him. I suppose. Only I didn’t, so he did! –I think he’s quite attractive, really. In a sort of sick-making way. Can you be attracted to a person and sort of feel sick at the sight of them at the same time, Adam?”

    Adam choked. “You’re DRUNK!” he shouted. “You’re drunk and you’re a stupid, faithless bitch! What did you think you were doing, leading him on like that?”

    Georgy replied with no evidence of any emotion other than mild surprize: “I wasn’t; I just said: I never knew he was going to put his head—”

    Adam leapt up. “Then what the Hell were you doing, alone with him at a bloody beach house, drinking yourself silly in a bloody bikini?”

    “On a bloody sun-lounger. I’m a free agent, aren’t I?” she said on a sulky note.

    “YES!” shouted Adam furiously. “Do what you like, have it off with as many belted surgeons as you bloody well like, see if I care!”

    Suddenly Georgy got up, very flushed. “I know you don’t care, Adam McIntyre, you’re just a spoilt, selfish PIG!” she shouted.

    “All right, I’m a spoilt pig and you’re a thoughtless bitch that’d flirt with anything in trousers that gave her a few drinks! So where does that leave us?” he cried.

    “Nowhere! But we weren’t anywhere, anyway, were we?” cried Georgy.

    “No!” he said furiously, panting.

    “PIG!” screamed Georgy.

    “BITCH!” shouted Adam.

   Georgy burst into tears and rushed unsteadily into the bedroom, slamming the door after her.

    About two seconds before Adam would have, actually. He looked round for something to throw, didn’t spot anything immediately to hand, and suddenly threw himself face down on the pinkish-mauveish sofa and burst into tears.

    “Well?” demanded Melinda.

    Christopher shrugged slightly. “Reading between the lines, ructions, I gather.” He sat down heavily in his armchair.

    “What?” she cried.

    “All he said was they didn’t fancy coming round, thanks.”

   Melinda stared at him. “How did you deduce the ructions, then?” she said on an acid note.

    Christopher shrugged. “I asked after Georgy and he said she was dead drunk.”

    “What?” said Melinda faintly.

    “You heard. He didn’t sound too pleased, that was partly how I deduced the ructions. And partly, of course, I deduced ’em from the fact that she apparently feels she needs to escape from him in alcohol. –Could be merely the boredom factor, of course.”

    “Shut up!” cried Melinda furiously, bounding up. She rushed out to the phone.

    Christopher just sat there with a sardonic look round his mouth. Sure enough, she was back ten seconds later, looking angry.

    “He’s put that dratted machine on,” she said tightly.

    “Fancy.” Christopher got out his pipe.

    “Why on earth would Georgy take to drink on a Sunday afternoon?” she muttered to herself.

    Christopher shrugged again. “Possibly His Lordship was in one of his after-the-show moods and spent the whole afternoon ignoring her.”

    Melinda glared.

    “Well, remember that time we stayed with him after the bloody first night of that damned modern thing?”

    “That was years ago!”

    “True. The fact remains that he spent the entire morning asleep and the entire afternoon in bed moaning about how drained he felt.”

    Melinda glared.

    “Of course, you could put it less politely,” noted Christopher to the ceiling, “and say that His Lordship’s refusing to do her on a lovely fine Sundee arvo could drive any red-blooded girl to dri—”

    “Shut UP!” shouted Melinda. “And if you imagine you’re getting any dinner tonight, you’ve got another imagine coming!”

    “Well?” said Charles.

    Derry sat down heavily, looking aggrieved. “He’s got the bloody answering-machine on again,” he grunted.

    “Oh, well: two young things like that,” said Charles in a remarkably neutral voice.

    “Shut up! And have you found out how much dough Jake Carrano’s got, yet?” he said disagreeably.

    “Not down to the nearest halfpenny, no,” replied Charles calmly. “It is Sunday, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

    “Lots,” said Roddy unwisely into his sketchpad.

    Derry got up, reached Roddy’s sofa in two strides, and wrenched the sketchpad off him. He flipped through it, scowling. Finally he said angrily: “Did you go anywhere near the bloody park this afternoon?”

    “No,” replied Roddy calmly. “It is Sunday, you know: I can’t  stand brass bands. Or crowded parks, come to that. Antipodean or otherwise. Has it occurred to you it’ll cost a fortune to get the City Council to agree to close off that park, should Yer Eminence decide to film in it?”

    “Rats, they’ll do it for the honour and glory,” said Charles languidly.

    Derry threw the sketchpad back at Roddy. “These stink.”

    “I’ll pop out with my Polaroid tomorrow right after brekkers,” promised Roddy, unmoved.

    “You’ll pop out with your bloody crayons and STAY THERE UNTIL YOU’VE GOT SOMETHING DECENT ON PAPER, YOU MEAN!” shouted Derry terribly.

    “Lady C. gave him the order of the boot,” deduced Roddy immediately.

    “Must have,” agreed Charles calmly.

    “SHUT UP!” shouted Derry. He returned to his sofa and threw himself onto it. It was a large black leather sofa but it creaked ominously under his weight.

    Charles went on reading his paperback. Roddy flipped through his sketchpad. Then he got out a bunch of polaroid photos.

    Derry scowled. After a while he said sulkily: “Where’s Lucinda?”

    Charles glanced at his watch. He’d been waiting for this, though it was not apparent from his demeanour. “Oh, I’d say Rotorua by now, wouldn’t you, Roddy?”

    Roddy had also been waiting for this, and this was apparent from his demeanour. “At least. Or possibly Lake Tarawera!” he agreed eagerly.

    “Or even Orakei Korako, The Thermal Wonderland,” agreed Charles smoothly.

    Roddy collapsed in sniggers.

    “Very funny,” said Derry blightingly. “Perhaps one of you idiots would care to translate?”

    “She took off for the thermal area early this afternoon. As per schedule,” explained Charles kindly, as Roddy was still sniggering helplessly.

    “They’ve all—got names—like—that!” gasped Roddy.

    “It is the fucking Antipodes!” shouted Derry crossly.

    “No: it’s—Ao—te—a—roa!” gasped Roddy, going into a further paroxysm.

    “Have you two cretins been reading travel brochures again?” said Derry tightly.

    Charles smiled slightly. “Yes. We’ve decided to let you slaughter the dolphins unaided. We’re going to go to—”

    “Orakei Korako, The Thermal Wonderland!” gasped Roddy.

    “Yes. Also Whakarewarewa,” said Charles carefully.

    “Fuckarewarewa!” gasped Roddy ecstatically.

    “Or, as my respected associate so correctly points out, Fuckarewarewa,” conceded Charles politely.

    “Joel’s cousin Jill explained it all to us,” Roddy elaborated kindly for the scowling Derry.

    Derry got up. “I can well believe it.”

    “Where are you going?” asked Roddy, picking up the snaps he’d dropped ih ecstasy.

    “To have a shower. And then to dine. ALONE!” shouted Derry, marching out to the bathroom, not neglecting to slam the door as he went.

    “Alone: quite,” noted Charles drily.

    Roddy, with complete insouciance, produced a handful of travel brochures from under the sofa cushion where he’d shoved them on hearing Derry’s key in the lock. “Serve him right, silly bugger: show him he’s not as irresistible as he thinks he is. Lucinda assures me Sir Jake Carrano is infinitely more fanciable to the female eye. Not to say half his weight.”

    “Sucks,” said Charles pleasedly.

    Georgy had slept throughout Sunday evening and Sunday night and was still asleep when Adam woke up, feeling as disgruntled as he’d been when he’d gone to bed. This might have had something to do with the fact that there had been nothing to eat in the flat last night but a couple of slices of bread and a spotty banana. Well, and some muesli, but there hadn’t been any milk to put on it. There wouldn’t be any milk this morning, either, as he hadn’t remembered to put the tokens out. Puriri County milkmen apparently didn’t take you on trust. No tokens, no milk. You could put out money instead if you were out of tokens but, as Georgy at one point had  explained in some detail, that didn’t necessarily result in milk. Naturally Adam had declared at the time that she—or more precisely, both she and her mother—were paranoid; but he’d since more than discovered they were right.

    He glared at the tousled mop of auburn on the pillow next to his, registered with dislike that she was snoring again, and was about to put his dull-rose pillow on his head and go back to sleep when he registered that that hadn’t been the alarm, which he hadn’t set, or the phone, because he had put the answering machine on, or the merry tinkle of cowbells on the hills or Miss McLintock’s bloody dachsie playing a carillon, it had actually been the fucking front door bell, AND THERE IT WENT AGAIN!

    He threw on the ‘“Stud” dressing-gown and stomped off to answer it.

    “Ooh, Stud!” squeaked Ralph, wriggling in his grey silk suiting.

    “What the fuck do you want?” growled Adam.

    “Well, definitely not that!” he squeaked, giggling.

    “What do you WANT, Ralph?” shouted Adam.

    “Georgy, actually,” he said with a grin. Adam’s visage became immediately empurpled—what was visible of it for the growth of blue-black whisker—so he added mildly: “It is Monday morning, and I gather she does have a class in town?”

    Adam’s jaw—whiskers and all—dropped.

    “And I believe your car’s still in town?” added Ralph politely. “I did ring but your machine’s on,” he added politely.

    “What? God, what time is it?” he muttered.

    “I’m afraid it’s only seven-thirty,” replied Ralph politely.

    Adam winced, and passed a hand over the whiskers. –Well, nice to see he wasn’t immune, reflected Sir Ralph on a sour note. Nice to see he looked damned bleary, too. Not to say puffy under the eyes. Sort of look that would require the application of several ice-packs if one was Film-ing today, reflected Sir Ralph acidly.

    “I’ll get her,” he muttered.

    “I would,” agreed Ralph cordially. “Sorry to circumvent the shouting match—or did you have that last night?” he added cordially.

    Adam gave him a look of bitter dislike and turned on his heel.

    “I’ll be in the car!” said Ralph with a laugh. He pattered down the front steps grinning to himself.

    Adam marched into the bedroom and shook Georgy’s shoulder. “Get UP!” he shouted. “You’re late for WORK!”

    Georgy pushed her face into the pillow and moaned.

    “Get UP!” shouted Adam. “You’ll be late for your LECTURE!”

    She sat up with a gasp. “What time is it?”

    “Seven-thirty. Bloody Overdale’s waiting for you, if you want a lift.

    Georgy fell out of bed with another gasp and rushed into the bathroom without so much as glancing at him.

    Ralph refrained until they were well down the motorway and the traffic had started to thicken before the Harbour Bridge. Then he said solicitously: “How’s the head?”

    “Thumping,” said Georgy faintly. “It hasn’t really helped to have the top down.”

    “No. There’s some stuff in the glove compartment: give in and take it.”

    … “You wouldn’t like to give a lonely bachelor a ‘thank-you and bye-bye’ kiss to make his morning, would you?” he said plaintively as he drew into the curb in font of her faculty’s building.

    Georgy replied politely: “I thought you were a lonely divorcee?”

    “Mm. Not a gay one, though!” he added hurriedly.

    “I love that film, don’t you?” she cried, face lighting up. Ralph nodded firmly, and she said: “It was on TV just a while back, did you—?” He nodded again and she said: “I watched it but Adam wouldn’t. He said Ginger Rogers was a lump.”

    Ralph winced. “The man’s a cretin. And blind with it. Though I do agree with Katharine Hepburn’s remark about those two—don’t know it? ‘He gave her class, and she gave him sex,’” he quoted thoughtfully.

    Georgy gave an explosive whoop and clapped her hand over her mouth.

    “Come on, don’t I deserve a wee kiss for that?” he said plaintively.

    “You never made it up,” returned Georgy sturdily, getting out.

    Ralph undid his seatbelt and leaned over. “No, but who in the whole world would have reported it to you if I hadn’t, Georgy?”

    “That’s true.”

    “Come on, put it here,” he said, turning his head to one side and proffering his cheek.

    “Oh, all right.” She bent down and pecked his cheek politely. “Thanks,” she said gruffly.

    “Thank you,” he returned firmly, lips twitching.

    Nevertheless, as he went on his necessarily somewhat roundabout way (given that the car was now pointing in the wrong direction entirely and the options were motorway he didn’t want, city traffic, worse city traffic or illegal U-turn), he was conscious, other interests or not, of a distinctly wistful feeling in re Dr Harris. Why couldn’t it have been his wee nest she was due to return to tonight? Life was bloody unfair, thought Ralph Overdale sourly, steering his BMW convertible carefully through the jungle of more plebeian vehicles towards his up-market Parnell consulting rooms. Bloody unfair.

    “Where the fuck were you yesterday?” said Derry grumpily.

    “Where were you?” returned Adam nastily.

    “I was looking at LOCATIONS, didn’t you get my message?” shouted Derry.

    Adam held the pink Princess receiver away from his ear and poked his tongue out at it. Then he put it back to his ear and said coldly: “I was under the impression you were looking at Polly Carrano. And there’s no need to shout, that piece of string on your empty catsmeat tin does actually stretch all the way to my empty catsmeat tin, you know.”

    “Well, you’re certainly not hungover, if you can think up that sort of Beano bilge at this hour of the morning!” said Derry with feeling.

    “No. Are you?”

    “YES!” shouted Derry. “Ouch,” he muttered.

    “Good,” said Adam nastily.

    “Look, are you coming into town or not?” said Derry crossly, after his receiver had been silent for a while.

    “Probably not, I haven’t got transport,” he drawled.

    “Well, take a bloody— No, hold on. CHARLES!” he shouted. “CHARLES! –Ouch,” he muttered.

    Adam heard the girlfriend’s voice say: “He went downstairs to have breakfast, Derry.” And Derry’s voice reply nastily: ‘‘Well, why the fuck didn’t you go with him, then?” The girl murmured something and Derry shouted: ‘‘YES! Go ON!”

    He came back on the line and said sourly: “That girl’s an imbecile.”

    “Some of us have been telling you that for months, Derry, dear.”

    “Well, she’s out for Mrs Margery, anyway,” he said sourly.

    “Had she not been so, Derry, I assure you I would not have been ‘in’ for Horner.”

    “Look, SHUT UP!” shouted Derry. “—God, why did I touch that muck?” he muttered.

    “Are you waiting for me to ask ‘What muck was that?’” asked Adam nastily. “What muck was that?”

    “Get knotted. –Some bloody local liqueur filth,” he admitted sourly.

    Adam laughed coarsely.

    “And before you ask, bloody Livia’s out, too,” he added nastily.

    “Well, thank Christ for that,” returned Adam cordially.

    There was a short silence. Then Derry said: “I’ll come up there.”

    “Do you know the way?”

    “No! I’ll get someone to drive me!”

    “Ring Jake: he’ll lend you the Group’s helicopter,” said Adam languidly.

    “Get knotted,” returned Derry morosely. “—How rich is he, anyway?”

    “Billionaire class. Joel informs me you can tell this from the gents’ jewellery alone,” he said blandly.

    “I might have known you wouldn’t have a clue!” said Derry with feeling.

    “You might, indeed. When may I expect you? In time for lunch?”

    “God. All right, lunch. I’m paying, before you start.”

    “You’re certainly paying,” replied Adam calmly. “I haven’t a dollar on me.”

    “Haven’t you ever heard of credit c— Never mind. And don’t wear that bloody Don Johnson outfit, my nerves aren’t up to it.”

    “Shall I wear a bag over my head, dear?” Adam asked solicitously. “Then there won’t be any risk of you being dazzled, at all!”

    “Yes,” replied Derry grimly, hanging up on him.

    Adam poked his tongue out at the pink receiver and hung it up. Bugger, Derry would probably be ages, what with the hangover... Did he intend bringing Charles—or forcing Charles to drive him, more like—or not? And should Adam therefore book a table for two or three for lunch? And was there anywhere to book a table for a nice lunch up here, or not?

    He rang Polly but her machine was on. Damn.

    He rang Melinda.

    “That depends whether you want ersatz food and genuine chick, not to say hydrangea tablecloths, or genuine food and very little chick,” she replied in a cold voice to his humble enquiry.

    “What’s up with you?” asked Adam glumly.

    “On the one hand, your turning down my invitation to dinner last night—I’ve got a fridgeful of cold lamb. And on the other hand, the mood your father’s been in ever since you turned down my invitation to dinner last night,” she replied brightly.

    “Look, I’ve said I’m sorry, Ma! I don’t see how in Hell I could have made it: well, it was a choice between bringing Georgy in a completely comatose condition, or abandoning her in a completely comatose condition in this bloody dinky flat!” he said angrily.

    “Yes. Well, at least you didn’t do that: neither of us would have spoken to you again if you had,” she returned cordially.

    “Thanks,” he said sourly.

    “Da nada,” replied Melinda airily.

    Adam bit his lip: she must have got that off Joel. “Well, what’s the name of this damned restaurant?”

    “Which?” returned Melinda blandly.

    “The one with the genuine food,” said Adam through his teeth.

    “Are you sure?”

    “Yes,” said Adam through his teeth.

    “It’s The Blue Heron. And before you ask, it is sort of attached to the motel of the same name—”

    “I’m not taking Derry to a place down Motel Row!” he said in horror.

    His mother replied coldly: “Chicken. No, actually it’s nowhere near those waterfront abortions, it’s up the far end of Pukeko Drive, next to that patch of bush.”

    “Oh, very clear, Ma!”

    “Get your map, Adam,” said Melinda heavily.

    There was a pause.

    “It’s in the car.”

    “Well, go down to the car and get it, have you lost the use of your legs entirely after your dratted First Night?” she cried.

    “Uh—no. The car’s in town still,” he said in a foolish voice.

    “What?” cried Melinda.

    “Well, we left it there after the sh—”

    “I know that, Adam! What exactly did you do all day yesterday, if it isn’t too much to ask? –Don’t answer that, your father was right,” she sighed.

    “Isn’t he always?” said Adam coldly.

    “I’m not admitting that!” said Melinda in horror.

    “No,” he said, smiling. “Well, if his bet was that I spent the entire day flat on my back feeling effete, he was right, damn his eyes.”

    “Of course that was his bet, how long have you known him?” gasped Melinda.

    “Long enough.”

    There was a short pause.

    “Don’t be like that, darling,” she said weakly.

    “Tell him not to be, and I might not be,” replied Adam tiredly. “Anyway, can you describe how to get to this Blue Whatever?”

     Melinda explained in words of one syllable. Then she waited.

    “Uh… you’d better put Dad on, I suppose,” admitted Adam heavily.

    “What is it?” said Christopher on a grumpy note.

    “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it for dinner, Father,” said Adam politely.

    “Apologize to your mother, not me, she’s the one that was slaving over the bloody stove all day!” he said irritably.

    “I have.”

    There was a short pause.

    “Is that It?” said Christopher sourly.

    “More or less, mm. And in case you’ve been wondering why Georgy should have drunk herself into a comatose condition yesterday afternoon, thus preventing our accepting Ma’s kind invitation, all I can say is, she didn’t do it my presence, so I have no idea.”

    There was a short pause.

    “What is this rigmarole, Adam?” said his father grimly.

    “Nothing,” he said sulkily. “—She went up to Kingfisher Bloody Bay with bloody Ralph Overdale and let him fill her up with rum!” he burst out, far more loudly than he’d intended.

    “Why did you bloody let her, Adam?” asked his father politely.

    “She’s a grown woman, how could I stop her?” cried Adam angrily.

    “I have no idea,” said his father, very politely.—Adam gritted his teeth.—“But possibly paying some slight attention to the poor girl—or even noticing she was there, in between the bouts of ‘I feel drained after my great dramatic effort’—might have gone some slight way towards suggesting to her that you desired her presence rather than her absence.”

    “Thanks very much,” said Adam bitterly.

    “Wasn’t that what you expected to hear?” asked Christopher blandly.

    “Yes. I suppose so,” said Adam tiredly.

    There was a short pause.

    “If you knew you were doing it, Adam—and I don’t think you’re that stupid, you must have known—why did you do it?”

    “I—” Adam broke off.

    “Well?”

    “I suppose I didn’t dream that she’d go off like that,” he said sulkily.

    “Or even that she had feelings at all,” agreed Christopher cordially. “Let alone a will of her own.”

    “No, damn you,” he muttered.

    “She’s worth fifty of you, Adam!” said his father on a bitter note.

    “I know that, thank you, Father!” he shouted.

    Christopher didn’t reply.

    “Sorry,” said Adam sulkily.

    “If you’re serious about Georgy,” said Christopher tiredly, “and God help me, I think I’d give what’s left of my allotted span to know you’re not;”—Adam went very white—“you might think about letting her know you actually care if she lives or dies.”

    “I— Yes,” said Adam with an effort.

    “Well,” said Christopher tiredly, “have you spoken to her this morning, at least?

    “No: she’s at work—in at the City Campus, she had a nine o’clock class.”

    Christopher drew a deep breath. “I see.”

    “All right, the bloody car’s still in town, I let Overdale drive her!” shouted Adam.

    “You astound me.”

    “What else could I do?” he said sulkily.

    “I can think of several things you could have done, Adam, ranging from bothering to book a taxi for her to ringing me to get me to run her in to the bus stop. But that’s hardly the point, is it? The point is, you didn’t bother to do anything. –What?” he said to someone in the background. “Yes, you’re absolutely right, Joel,” he said with feeling—Adam went very red: he’d had no idea that Joel was listening—“as per bloody usual.” He added grimly to his son: “Did you hear that?”

    “Yes. Why the Hell is he hanging around listening?” said Adam angrily before he could stop himself.

    “Possibly because both he and I care about Georgy a lot more than you apparently do, Adam!” shouted his father.

    “I do care about her, dammit!” shouted Adam.

    “Crap, Adam!” shouted Christopher.

    “Double crap,” said Joel’s voice loudly and bitterly in the background.

    “Triple crap,” agreed Melinda’s voice in the background.

    Adam slammed the phone down, rushed into the bedroom and threw himself onto the unmade bed. It smelled of Georgy. Adam sobbed bitterly into the Georgy-smelling bed for some time.

    As it turned out, Derry’s limo driver had a map, and navigated them to The Blue Heron Restaurant perfectly competently. Adam didn’t fail to tell himself sourly that he should have known, and ringing the parents had been totally unnecessary. Not to say, sheer masochism.

    Now Derry looked in a grumpy way around the restaurant’s perfectly acceptable brick terrace and said: “It’ll have to do, I suppose.”

    “Real grapevines,” pointed out Charles neutrally.

    “Real food, according to Ma,” said Adam on a tired note.

    “Real kid wig-wagging at you,” noted Charles, glancing up from his menu.

    “What?” said Adam dully. “Oh—God. Elspeth.”

    She was at a table with a number of largeish, happy-looking adults. Actually, a table that was probably in a better position than theirs, if you analysed it, even though Adam had given his own name when making the booking. It was certainly further away from the door to the restaurant proper, through which the wizened little old waitress and the maître d’ were continually coming and going. Elspeth beamed and waved frantically as Adam glanced her way.

    “Order me an Alka Seltzer, or possibly a dose of strychnine,” he groaned, getting up.

     Charles watched with a sagging jaw as he then went over to the kid’s table and apparently—though he didn’t remove the shades—allowed himself to be introduced to them all. “Gone potty,” he noted to Derry. “Too much Anty-podean sun.”

    Derry was sitting back in his chair with his eyes closed. “Who cares?” he whispered.

    Charles looked at him dubiously but at that point the maître d’, a tall, not unattractive man in perhaps his mid-forties, came up and said with a smile: “Is this summer-sickness, or merely hangover?”

    “Hangover,” replied Charles, to whom the query had been addressed. Derry’s face didn’t flicker.

    “Then we can do something about that,” he said cheerfully. “Don’t go away, will you!” He went off, grinning,

    “Humorous type,” noted Charles without hope. Derry’s face didn’t flicker.

    Charles sighed, and buried himself in his menu.

    Over at Elspeth’s table she was explaining excitedly that yes, it was a school day, and this was her school uniform (a vile blue and white checked overall-ish cotton garment) but that Dad had said she’d better come to lunch! Her handsome red-headed father, having reminded Adam that they had actually been introduced at “that bluidy garden party of Polly’s”—his expression, but Adam didn’t contradict him—admitted that they’d had a bad morning and Elspeth hadn’t got a school lunch.

    “Who’s that?” asked Charles with interest when he came back.

    “Elspeth Macdonald. Kid who lives not far from Ma and Pa,” he said glumly. “Middle name’s Ubiquitous.”

    “No, the lovely Polynesian woman.”

    “No idea. Some damned political scientist—they all are. The kid’s father’s some relation of Polly Carrano’s.”

    “Clear,” noted Charles. “Look, Derry, isn’t that a wonderful face?”

    Adam was rubbing his fingers. “It’s a grip like a navvy, too,” he noted.

    Derry opened one eye behind his shades and squinted painfully at the other table. “Possibilities,” he admitted in a faint, faraway voice.

    “Bullshit. She’s the type that thinks we actors are kittle-cattle,” said Adam, massaging his fingers. “They all are. –They may be right, at that.”

    “The type, Adam, the type,” said Charles heavily.

    Derry shut his eyes again. “Yes.”

    Adam looked across the vine-shaded courtyard. “Yes: lovely bronze masks peering out of the foliage: tray Le Douanier. What in God’s name is this opus you’re planning, Derry: a life of Gauguin?”

    “That’d be French,” noted Charles airily. “And period.”

    “Yes: could star Lucinda,” noted Adam caustically.—Charles choked.—“Well?” Adam said loudly to Derry.

    Derry replied without opening his eyes: “Don’t be dense. Antipodean Dream.”

    Adam laughed coarsely.

    “We’ve got the backers,” said Charles brazenly.

    Adam made a rude noise.

    “Almost,” said Charles weakly.

    “Shut up,” ordered Derry, not opening his eyes.

    There was a short silence at the second-best courtyard table at The Blue Heron Restaurant, Pukeko Drive, Puriri.

    Adam sat back in his chair. He slung an arm over the back of it. He looked mockingly at Derry. Then he looked mockingly at Charles. Charles smiled weakly. Adam took off his sunglasses so that Charles could get an even better view of the fact that he was looking at him mockingly. Charles smiled weakly again.

    Adam replaced his sunglasses. “Derry, dear, if you’ve got these putative backers to ante up on the basis that I’m going to ponce round the Big Screen for you in bloody spangled tights and blue tattoos as an Anty-podean Oberon, you’ll just have to tell them it was a big fat fib, won’t you?”

    “Now, LOOK!” began Derry terribly, opening his eyes.

    “Hangover remedy. Guaranteed,” said the maître d’ briefly, putting a glass of something in front of him.

    Derry looked at it in horror.

    “Never fails. Get it down you, that face is a bad advertisement for the place,” said the maître d’ calmly.

    Derry took a deep breath but before he could actually explode, or annihilate the fellow, Charles said weakly: “Thanks, but— Um—do you know who this is?”

    “Don’t know that I do,” he said with a very slight sniff. “Know who he is, though,” he said, nodding at Adam.

   The Jack Swadling of Pukeko Drive? thought Adam, eyeing him in fascination. Better looking, though.

    “Yes, well: this is Derry Dawlish,” said Charles, very weakly.

    “That right? At the moment it looks more like a piece of the day before yesterday’s used tripe,” he returned cordially.

    Charles went very red. The redness of one trying not to explode into howls of laughter.

    “Drink it, for God’s sake: the man’s a Good Keen Kiwi comedian; I know you haven’t struck the type, Derry, but I assure you he’ll never let one of us effete Poms get the last word,” said Adam.

    “What if I chuck it up all over your lovely terrace?” said Derry, nonetheless picking the glass up.

    “No-one’s chucked up from it yet. Mind you, there’s always a first time,” the man conceded. “But don’t worry, we’ll send young Roberta out with a bucket of water and a stiff broom. Couldn’t be worse than the time old Janet dropped three kilos of cauliflower Mornay, mind you. Sticky cheese sauce an’ all,” he finished tranquilly, removing the empty glass from Derry’s palsied hand. “I’ll be back in a few ticks for your drinks orders, we’re a bit busy today,” he said unemotionally to Adam, ambling off.

    “A piece of the day before yesterday’s used tripe!” gasped Charles, finally collapsing in helpless hysterics.

    Adam grinned but said in a super-kind voice to Derry: “Feeling better, are we?”

    Derry belched tremendously and shuddered all over. “Slightly,” he admitted.

    Charles had silently thought—and even Derry, behind the hangover, had had some sort of a glimmering of a notion—that once Adam got some lunch inside him he’d cheer up and agree to do the Anty-podean Oberon for them. However, this didn’t happen. In spite of all Derry’s arguments. Not to say shouting.

    Finally Derry said on a plaintive note: “Why not?”

    Adam shrugged. “Don’t fancy the tights, don’t fancy the rôle, and frankly, I don’t much fancy the Antipodes.”

    Charles avoided Derry’s eye.

    “You’d walk it, Adam,” said Derry on a plaintive note.

    Adam got up. “No doubt. Funnily enough, that notion doesn’t appeal to me, particularly. Besides, I think I’m booked up for the next thirty months or so.” He added with complete insouciance, not to say as if Derry was the merest acquaintance: “You’d have to ask Clem, but I think that’s right.”—Derry’s jaw sagged.—“I wonder if the coffee’s totally foul here? I’ll ask the experts, shall I?” He readjusted his sunglasses and wandered over to Elspeth’s table, where he could be seen making himself charming—and, judging by the laughter, amusing, not to say entirely simpatico—to the table generally.

    “Thought he knew fuck-all about bloody politics, scientific or otherwise,” said Derry sourly.

    Charles replied drily: “He’s capable of giving a convincing facsimile of knowing something about anything, hasn’t that sunk in by now? Or at the very least, of being charmingly deprecating about his ignorance,” he added, making a face.

    “That’s more like it,” conceded Derry sourly.

    After a moment Charles said cautiously: “What the Hell’s next?”

    Derry scowled and didn’t answer.

    “Appeal to his mum?” suggested Charles with an uneasy laugh.

    Derry didn’t react.

    “Appeal to his better nature?”

    At this Derry returned with a tightening of the lips: “The words ‘emotional blackmail’ spring forcibly to mind, Charles. Or have you forgotten that time—?”

    “No,” said Charles quickly.

    Derry scowled unseeingly across the vine-draped courtyard.

    “Could get on to Clem,” said Charles, swallowing.

     Derry snorted.

    There was a short pause, punctuated by laughter from Elspeth’s table.

    “He does owe you a fair bit, Derry,” said Charles uncomfortably.

    Derry snorted richly.

    “Perhaps he needs a bit of time to think it over. Dare say he’ll come round,” ventured Charles after another pause.

    Derry didn’t reply.

    “Look,” said Charles with a sigh: “offer it to someone else, Derry. Preferably someone he hates. What about that kid that was the understudy in that last thing he did in London?”

    Derry scratched his beard. “Yes. Only two drawbacks, there. Firstly, what if the kid accepts, think of the bloody damages we’d have to pay to get out of it; and secondly, how do I explain it to the backers? Not to mention the third point, which happens to be, it—won’t—work,” he finished loudly and evilly.

    “It might,” said Charles without conviction. “Doesn’t have to be that kid, necessarily. What about one of the RSC lot that he can’t stand?”

    Derry sighed. “The same objections obtain. Besides, name one that looks half as good as him in tights. Not to say without the tights at all.”

    “Uh—”

    “See?” said Derry dully.

    Charles swallowed. “Mm.” After a moment he said cautiously: “What do you mean, without the tights at all?”

    Derry replied dully: “Did you get a load of the glitter on that green outfit of his in the play?”

    “Uh—yes.”

    “Outlining the thigh muscles and so on. My idea was that sort of thing, only on the bod. Fairies all spangles and nothing much else, you see, and humans all overdressed—stuffy-looking. I quite like that pre-Raphaelite idea of Mac’s, might go for that. Did think of making the humans all heavily Victorian,” he added, scratching the beard dubiously, “but Theseus in a frockcoat didn’t strike me as all that verisimilitudinous, on maturer reflection.”

    “No: I suppose the audience needs to be given a chance to attain some sort of suspension of disbelief,” agreed Charles drily.

    “Yes.”

    “Um—what does Roddy think?”

    “All for it. Well, naturally he would be all for Adam’s bod in nothing much but spangles, but—yes. All for it. He thinks we could have the fairies in different colours, too. –Skin colours, idiot! Black and brown and yellow!” he added loudly as Charles’s mouth opened slightly.

    “Oh,” he said weakly. “Oh, I see.”

    “Mm: all different shades. Roddy thinks blueish spangles on the brown ones: Anty-podean motif.”

    Charles swallowed. “I see. –Well, you’d better send him on up to that museum to look at the Polynesian artefacts!” he added, rallying.

    Derry replied unemotionally: “He can go tomorrow.”

    “Yes,” said Charles weakly. “Uh—this doesn’t solve the main problem, Derry.”

    “No,” agreed Derry, glaring at it.

    “Pity you told the backers—” Charles broke off. “Oh, well,” he  said lamely.

    Derry replied with some heat: “I never dreamed the bastard’d refuse to do it! Well, not seriously, Charles!”

    “No-o...” said Charles slowly. Derry glared at him. “No; it is a bit odd, Derry, when you come to think of it. I mean, usually he’s only too keen to do anything for you—and especially anything smacking faintly of culcha.” He frowned thoughtfully.

    Derry also frowned. “Yeah...”

    “Is it this new girl, do you think?” ventured Charles after a period of silent thought on both parts.

    “I’ve been wondering that,” reported Derry, scratching the beard. “Only I can’t see— Well, bugger it, wouldn’t you think he’d jump at the chance?”

    “Mm. Depends how his tiny mind conceived of this thing they’re having.”

    “Eh?” replied the great director blankly.

    “Well, you know what he is: suppose he had this picture of a little Antipodean fling while the play’s on, followed closely by tearful farewells, ‘Darling it was wonderful but’—all that: short-but-sweet sort of thing, you know?”—Derry was frankly goggling at him.—“Well, wouldn’t coming back to the Anty-podes to do umpteen months’ filming be—uh—sort of an anticlimax?” finished Charles, somewhat uncomfortably.

    Derry’s eyes narrowed. “You could very well be right... By Christ, yes, Charles! –Silly bugger,” he added bitterly, glaring at Adam’s elegant back.

    Charles rubbed his nose. “Yes. Well, it would fit,” he said uncomfortably.

    “Yes,” agreed Derry, very grimly indeed.

    Silence fell in their corner of The Blue Heron’s vine-draped courtyard.

    … “What do you think?” demanded Derry with some eagerness, several hours later. He waved enthusiastically at the pillared Victorian lobby of the university’s Old Block.

    Charles sighed. “I think it’s irrelevant and immaterial, since you ask. If we can’t get Adam, the thing won’t work, you know that, Derry. Who else has got that combination of brains and beauty? Not to say legs. Not to say S.A. of the hetero variety. Not to say the ability to speak the Bard as if some of it actually makes sense. Not to say—”

    “All RIGHT!” bellowed Derry in the pillared Victorian entrance lobby of the university’s Old Block. One or two passing students glanced at him curiously but most of them were absorbed in their own little peer groups and took no notice.

    Charles was silent.

    After a little Derry said sulkily: “Anyway, look at it.”

    Charles sighed. “I am looking.” He squinted up at the domed ceiling and the first-floor balcony. “I like these pillars,” he admitted.

    “Yes. They remind me—” Derry went on at length about some ancient Italian building.

    After a while Charles said sourly: “Why not film it there, then? At least the pillars’d be genuine. And it’d be a damn sight closer to home. I might even manage to see my wife and kids over the occasional long weekend. Or at least speak to them on the phone without bloody breaking the bank.”

    Derry explained at length that he didn’t want genuine anything, he wanted the delicious Anty-podean mixture of ersatz Victoriana, ersatz Gothic, English lawns and Moreton Bay figs, tree ferns and blah, blah…

    Charles obediently got out his notebook and under the heading “Pal. of Theseus” inscribed carefully: “Entrance lobby, Old Bl., Univ.” Adding courteously: “That makes the fifth different site you’ve decided on for the Palace of Theseus, Derry. Scattered all over the city.”

    “Shut—up!” said Derry through his teeth.

    Charles raised his eyebrows slightly, but shut up.

    “Sorry to interrupt,” said Adam meekly, after Mac had bellowed: “COME IN!” in response to his timid tap.

    Mac glared. The student who was with him goggled. It was a male student, distinctly unattractive, with an unlikely-looking wispy beard (not unlike Egeus’s) so Adam didn’t bother to smile charmingly at it.

    “What the fuck do you want?” said Mac crossly.

    “I’m lost,” explained Adam meekly. “I’m looking for Georgy’s office.”

    Mac opened his mouth. He hesitated. The Sino-Egypto-Pasadenan English and Humanities building was well known as the worst rabbit-warren on campus, even more baffling than the School of Fine Arts. “Ask the secretary to take you,” he said resignedly.

    “Righto: ta,” replied Adam in the vernacular. Mac glared.

    Adam withdrew.

    “Get on with it!” said Mac crossly to his doctoral student.

    “Oh! Yeah. Um…”

     There was no objective reason why Adam should have bothered to charm Mac’s secretary since, though female, she was no more attractive to the unprejudiced eye than was Mac’s doctoral student. True, she was merely moustachioed where he was bearded. True, she turned puce and giggled when Adam addressed her, instead of merely goggling in a petrified way. But as well as the moustache she had a yellowish complexion (not unlike Amy’s), short wavy grey hair, terrifically well-regimented (the word “marcelled” came forcibly to mind, though Adam could not have explained exactly why), and a figure like a scarecrow. In spite of all these disadvantages, however, he smothered her in effortless charm and by the time she’d found Georgy’s office or him the unfortunate woman was visibly in a state of jelly-kneed adoration.

    “Oh, Lor’!” he said with a laugh when they discovered the office was locked.

    “She shouldn’t be long,” reported the secretary dubiously, looking at her watch. “Um—well, her tutorial’s due to finish any moment now... “

    “Ah; but is there any guarantee that she’ll return here as a homing pigeon to its whatsit?” returned Adam, twinkling terrifically.

    “No!” she gasped, giggling and shaking.

    “I don’t suppose,” he said with a rueful face: “you could possibly explain to this bear of very little brain where the tutorial’s being held?”

    “Um—well, it’s in the Old Block!” she gasped.

    “Ah,” said Adam profoundly.

    The secretary collapsed in giggles again.

    “I do know where the Old Block is,” he admitted when she showed signs of recovery, “but is there any guarantee that if I venture forth in that direction, Georgy won’t return via another route entirely? Given that we’ve decided she may not return at all,” he allowed courteously.

    “No! I mean, Yes! I mean— Oh, dear,” she said, looking at him distressfully.

    “Mm. Could we say,” said Adam, consulting his watch, “that it

she’s not back within half an hour it means she doesn’t intend to return?”

    “Um... No, because she might have gone to the library or the students might have had questions... You know.”

    This wasn’t getting them any forrarder, and Adam glanced at his watch again with some impatience and said: “Could you possibly let me into her office? If I promise not to touch a thing,” he added with tremendous charm.

    She agreed to this proposition with the obligatory giggles, and he went into Georgy’s horrid little shoe-box of an office and sat down to wait for her. Refusing very nicely the secretary’s offer of a cup of tea or coffee, because he was privately sure either would be vile.

    ... “What do you want?” he said grimly, glaring.

    Stephen Berry replied calmly: “Georgy. Have you been waiting long for her?”

    “Long enough,” replied Adam, tight-lipped. “If it’s about the play, perhaps I could help?”

    “It isn’t about the play,” replied Stephen simply.

    Adam didn’t ask him what it was about, because he didn’t think he’d tell him. They looked at each other with dislike.

    Finally Adam said on a weak note: “Looking forward to tonight?”

    “No,” replied Stephen calmly. “Are you?”

    Adam opened his mouth. He met Stephen’s cold eye. “Er—no,” he admitted.

    After a moment Stephen conceded generously: “You and Joel were good on Saturday.”

    “So were you and Nigel,” returned Adam courteously.

    There was a short pause. “The lighting and music went very well on the whole, too,” said Adam courteously.

    “That about sums it up,” agreed Stephen.

    This time there was quite a long pause. Adam sat on the visitor’s chair like a bump on a log and Stephen leaned in the doorway, completely at his ease.

    There was another, longer pause. Then the phone rang.

    Adam swallowed and looked at Stephen. “Should we answer that?”

    Stephen shrugged. Adam went on looking at him and the phone went on ringing, so he strode over to the desk and picked up the receiver. “Dr Harris’s office. ...No, she isn’t. ...Hang on, Adam McIntyre’s here, do you want to speak to him?”

    The caller evidently did, because Stephen then handed him the receiver. “Your neighbour,” he said illuminatingly.

    Adam took a deep breath, held the receiver in a grip of steel and said grimly: “McIntyre here,” fully prepared to cut Overdale short in whatever flight of fancy he was about to indulge in to explain away his call. “Oh,” he said in a weak voice. “Miss McLintock. How are you?”

    Eventually he put the receiver down in a state of utter anticlimax. Mixed, oddly enough, with a state of fury with himself, the world in general, the inoffensive dachshund-owner, bloody Stephen, and Georgy. Especially with the absent Georgy, actually.

    “Our neighbour,” he said shortly to Stephen, who wasn’t looking enquiring, or even slightly interested.

    “So she said,” he agreed. He wandered over to the window and looked without interest at the view of the slab of glass and concrete that was the Faculty of Languages and Linguistics building. It was as utilitarian as the building they were in was fanciful. The fact that the two styles screamed at each other was apparently immaterial. Or perhaps the university’s planning committee had simply never noticed.

    “She’s been shopping in town: she wondered if Georgy needed a ride home,” said Adam feebly.

    “Oh,” replied Stephen without interest.

    By this time Adam didn’t think Georgy was coming back to her office at all: possibly she’d gone straight off to the bus terminus after her class—but he was damned if was going to let bloody Quince outstay him. He continued to sit there like a bump on a log. Stephen continued to lounge at Georgy’s window.

    ... “Oh. Hullo,” said a blank voice.

    Adam was now looking at a journal. There was an article about Henry V in it. It should have been crystal-clear to him, he knew the play like the back of his hand, but it wasn’t. The more so since the author did not actually cite a single line of the play in support of his closely argued position. Actually, he didn’t mention the name “Shakespeare”, either. The characters seemed to exist autonomously. He had glanced through the rest of the journal: it was all like that, though it wasn’t all on Shakespeare, by any means. Must be the house style. Ugh. These observations, while comforting him to some extent, hadn’t helped him to grasp the author’s point, and he was now in a worse mood than ever. He duly jumped, and put the journal down with a scowl.

    “Hi, Stephen,” she added before Adam could utter.

    “Hullo, Georgy,” replied Stephen, smiling warmly at her.

    Georgy put a pile of books and papers down on her desk and smiled back at him.

    Stephen immediately plunged into an involved statement about tutorial rooms and times. Georgy seemed to grasp his meaning with ease. He produced a much-folded timetable from his hip pocket and they consulted over it with their heads very close together.—Adam scowled.—Georgy then rang someone in another department—or possibly the same department, who cared? She and Stephen both consulted with this person, severally and in consort.—Adam’s scowl grew.—Finally the matter seemed to be resolved and Stephen, saying cheerfully he’d see her tonight, ambled out, apparently remembering at the last minute to bid Adam a careless “See ya”.

    Adam got up and closed the door after him.

    “I wasn’t expecting you,” said Georgy in an uncertain voice.

    “That is blindingly evident,” agreed Adam coldly. The journal he’d been reading had fallen to the floor. He picked it up and added coldly, putting it on the desk: “Is this tripe, or is it just my limited mind?”

    “Um, well, within its own tradition it isn’t tripe,” said Georgy cautiously.

    “Oh?”

    “Um—well, it’s the English critical style. Um, well, you know, Adam, it’s the ‘How many children had Lady Macbeth?’ thing,” said Georgy, writhing.

    “Not actually, no. Pardon my ignorance,” said Adam arctically.

    “Well, I don’t go so far as to support the opposite stance, either,” said Georgy faintly. “Um—well, either of the opposite stances, I suppose.”

    “Very clear.”

    She licked her lips. “Some of them ignore all—um—historical or cultural influences and maintain that—um—there’s nothing but language; and some of them maintain that all art is merely a reflection of its—um—historical and cultural—um—circumstances.” She swallowed loudly.

    “Thank you, Dr Harris, that puts it simply enough even for my tiny uncultured mind,” he noted dourly.

    Georgy swallowed again. “I didn’t mean—” she said faintly.

    Adam flicked the journal with one finger. “And then there’s the school that maintains Hal was a real person, am I wrong or am I wrong?”

    “Yes. I mean, no, you’re right. I mean... Well, that is the English critical tradition. Largely,” she said faintly.

    “Ignoring both the linguistic facts on the one hand and the historical or cultural ones on the other,” agreed Adam with a certain grim satisfaction.

    “Yes.”

    Adam now saw what she’d meant by the reference to Lady Macbeth but he wasn’t about to admit it, or the fact that now he came to think of it the phrase did seem oddly familiar. “Which of these schools of thought does New Zealand scholarship lean towards, may I ask?” he asked nastily.

    Georgy swallowed. “Um—mostly the traditional English one, I must admit,” she admitted faintly. “Um—some of the people in the French Department are a bit more enlightened,” she added weakly.

    “Jill Davis,” noted Adam.

    “Mm.”

    “The beauteous Rod Thing?”

    “Um—well... He did his thesis on the vocabulary of the roman policier,” said Georgy feebly.

    “Ah.” Adam picked up the journal again. “You mean he couldn’t analyse the promptings of Hal’s psyche to save his life?” He chucked it back onto the desk.

    “No.” There was a short pause. “Well, I suppose he would be more interested in the language,” she said feebly.

    “Ah.”

    “I think it’s all a synthesis, myself,” said Georgy faintly.—Adam pretended he wasn’t really paying attention, but actually he was listening avidly.—“Um— Well, I don’t think creative writing can be reduced to mere linguistic structures. It’s naïve to claim that literature can exist, or be analysed, independently of culture... Or that the cultural factors are necessarily more important than... Well, that idiot there certainly hasn’t got the psychological background to analyse a fraction of what makes Henry V tick, for a start!” she said vigorously. “Let alone the background in history or sociology to explain what social and cultural assumptions underly the whole conception of his character, not to say of the entire play!”

    “Mm. Let alone the capacity to analyse the language in which Shakespeare presents these social and cultural assumptions. Not to say the literary ones. Well, he might know a little about those, but can that be meaningful in isolation?”

    “I don’t think so.”

    “No. If that’s the way you feel, what in God’s name are you doing in this lit. crit. racket?” he said on a tired note.

    “Um—well, I suppose it’s all I know how to do,” said Georgy faintly.

    Adam sniffed.

    “If we all scratch away at our own tiny patch of ground,” said Georgy in a voice that trembled, “mightn’t we eventually—if you put it all together—reveal something meaningful about the—the nature of artistic creativity?”

    “And thence about the nature of the human spirit? Oh, quite. Or not, of course.”

    Georgy looked at him uncertainly.

    Adam made a sour face. “Which of the human spirit and—er—the creative impulse is the cart and which is the horse, oh literary one? –Leaving aside the point of who is to perform the eventual synthesis, of course.”

    Georgy’s lower lip trembled. She didn’t reply.

    “Sorry,” he said on a tired note. “You’re as bound by environmental and genetic factors as we all are, I grant you that. Nature plus rather than versus nurture; or something to that effect.”

    “Adam,” said Georgy in a trembling voice: “why do you pretend to be such an ignoramus, when you’re not?”

    Polly’s words at the disastrous garden party came back forcibly to Adam. He shrugged, and said lightly: “Possibly because I am an ignoramus, compared to such as you and—uh—our mutual friend Quince, or the author of this thing.” He flicked the journal again. “I know a very little about a variety of things, and absolutely nothing at all in depth about anything. I’m your original picker-up of unconsidered trifles, in fact.”

    After a moment Georgy said: “Being Christopher’s son has really given you an inferiority complex, hasn’t it?”

    Adam was very red. “Thank you for that in-depth psychological analysis, Dr Harris.”

    “I’d have said it was glaringly obvious; no in-depth analysis was required at all,” replied Georgy on an annoyed note.

    He grimaced. “True.”

     There was a short silence.

    “Knowing a small amount about lots of things isn’t intrinsically less meritorious than knowing about one thing in depth, you know,” said Georgy, rather hoarse. Adam didn’t reply. “In the eighteenth century, your sort of knowledge would have been considered that of the—the complete man,” she added, sounding rather uncertain of her facts.

    “Master Quince told you that, no doubt,” he noted detachedly.

    “Don’t be silly.”

    “Wasn’t it in the eighteenth century that the Renaissance notion of the complete man in fact began to be replaced by more—er—Johnsonian notions of—”

    “Or even Linnaean, why don’t you DROP DEAD, Adam McIntyre!” shouted Georgy.

    Adam might have replied, only at this moment the door opened and a plaintive voice said: “C’n I come in? I can’t hear the row properly from out there.”

    “Be my guest,” said Adam limply.

    Bill Michaels came in, looking very meek. “Angie says do you types wanna come home and have tea with us before the show?” he said to Georgy. “Being as how it won’t take two and half hours there and back,” he added apologetically.

    Georgy bit her lip and looked at Adam.

    Adam passed a hand over his forehead. Both Bill and Georgy had seen this gesture innumerable times in his performances and they both experienced a very odd sensation of unease at it. “Yes—thanks very much, Bill,” he said weakly. “If you can stand us, that is.”

    “Yes. Thanks, Bill,” said Georgy faintly.

    Bill just grinned, and bore them off.

    … “What in God’s name’s up with those two?” said Angie numbly, when they were in the privacy of their bedroom, her on the excuse of having to do something to her face before they took off for town again and Bill on no excuse whatsoever.

    Bill rubbed his chin. “Dunno. Well, they were shouting at each other about Linnaeus when I interrupted ’em this arvo.”

    “What?” she said faintly.

    “Dare say a few less scientific references mighta been in there, too, but none that a simple Tech Boy like me would recker—”

    “That’ll do,” she said dangerously.

    “Uh—well, I dunno, Ange,” he said weakly.

    “Oh, help. Poor little Georgy. And what’ll the show be like?” said Angie feebly.

    “Bloody. But then it would, anyway,” replied Bill cheerfully.

    Bill was right. It was pretty bloody. In spite of the fact that Livia was in glowing spirits and actually managed to let a certain amount of animation filter through into her part, more or less in the right places. However, the audience appeared to enjoy the whole thing tremendously.

    Mac debated calling a rehearsal for tomorrow morning but decided it was probably only second-night syndrome. Only if it was this bad tomorrow, they’d be in at varsity at crack of dawn on Wednesday! The lot of ’em! Well, not the fairies or rustics. But in the meantime—

    He marched into the male dressing-room and wrenched Joel’s silver bladder off him.

    “If I see you with one of these in your hands for the rest of the play, Thring, I’ll STUFF IT DOWN YOUR THROAT!” he bellowed.

    “Darling Big Mac, was it one’s fault if a naughty fairy did Things to one with a bladder during Adam and Livia’s dialogue? One had to retaliate, could one let oneself be upstaged by a mere—”

    “YES!” roared Mac terribly. “And which fairy was it?”

    Everyone claimed total ignorance on this point.

    Mac glared in baffled rage.

    “I shall have to re-think all my business!” pouted Joel.

    “GOOD!” he shouted. “And by God, you’d better be better tomorrow, the lot of you!”

    He marched out, fuming.

    “Why am I thinking ‘I’ll weather the weather whatever the weather’?” demanded Joel plaintively.

    The entire male dressing-room, with the rather noticeable exceptions of Adam and Stephen, collapsed in sniggers.

    Adam then offered Joel a lift, in a very grim voice, but Joel pointed out meekly he had Christopher’s car, and escaped rather quickly.

    Going home Georgy yawned a lot, and didn’t say anything at all. So Adam didn’t say anything, either.

    When they got home he said, stopping at the foot of the steps: “I’ll put the car away. You can use the bathroom first.”

    “Thanks,” said Georgy in a small voice, avoiding his eye. She got out and hurried indoors.

    Adam put the car away very, very slowly. Then he went upstairs slowly and found some milk tokens and put them out, also slowly.

    When he finally went into the bedroom only the lamp on his side was on and all that was visible of Georgy was a tangled heap of auburn on the pillow. He went silently into the ensuite.

    She was pretending to be asleep when he came back. Adam got silently into bed and turned the lamp out. She went on pretending to be asleep, he could feel it. He turned on his side with his back to her and pretended to be asleep, too. For hours. It must have been nearly four when he did finally get off and by that time Georgy had been genuinely asleep for quite some time.

    As she had another nine o’clock class on the Tuesday Georgy had set the alarm. Adam woke up when it rang but pretended he hadn’t. She turned the alarm off, got very quietly out of bed and vanished into the ensuite. Adam lay there with his eyes closed. He heard her return, also very quietly, but he kept his eyes shut. She tiptoed out of the bedroom. He didn’t open his eyes. Then he heard the front door close very, very quietly.

    Adam turned his face into his dull-rose and pillow and bit it very hard. When he heard Ralph Overdale’s BMW purr down the drive very shortly thereafter he began to cry. He was barely over it when he heard the front door open: his heart gave a terrific leap, and he sat up, all expectant.

    “Um—are you awake?” said a cautious voice that wasn’t Georgy’s.

    Adam’s heart immediately sank right into his boots. “Yes; it’s all right, Roberta: come in.” Her head popped round the door and he said: “You can do the vacuuming, or whatever it is you’ve got scheduled for this morning.”

    “It is the vacuuming. And I thought I’d wash those sheets.”

    “What? Oh, God. All right,” said Adam weakly, “I’ll get up. –Look, I know it’s outside the terms of our contract, but could you possibly make a pot of coffee?” he added plaintively.

    The obliging Roberta replied cheerfully—and loudly: “Roger, Wilco!” and marched off to do so.

    Adam groped for his watch. Jesus Christ Almighty, ten past eight in the middle of the bloody night!

    He had been experiencing a certain weakness in regard to Derry’s Anty-podean Nightmare, but as he stared at his watch his resolve suddenly stiffened and he decided grimly he wouldn’t do the bloody thing. Not for anything. Not if Derry crawled. Sod him. Sod the lot of them. And sod the bloody Antipodes!

    He got out of bed and had a rapid shower in order not to appear before the obliging Roberta, a kid whom he barely knew and was entirely uninterested in, sexually or otherwise, in a sticky and unwashed state. He swathed himself in his nice silk dressing-gown and over the coffee exerted himself to charm the unimpressionable Roberta into a state of helplessly laughing chumminess.

    He knew he was doing it, of course. That didn’t mean he could stop. Or even that he particularly wanted to.