Enter Derry, With All His Train

23

Enter Derry, With All His Train

    Puriri’s leading medicos were dining together. Though “dining” wasn’t exactly the word.

    “It says here,” noted Bruce Smith from the depths of the Listener, “that this Dawlish bloke is expected ‘momentarily’.”

    Keith glanced up from Catherine’s library book. “Oh—the Listener. What can you expect?”

    “Eh? No, not the Americanisms, you nong, the facts!”

    “What facts?” asked Keith wildly. “Isn’t that the Enzed Listener, or have you stuck its cover onto Webster’s Dictionary?”

    “Hah, bloody hah,” said Bruce sourly.

    Keith relented slightly. “Well, so what? You wanna pop out to the airport and hang around waiting for him? –Be cheaper than paying for a sauna, come to think of it,” he added.

    “Yeah, but ya wouldn’t get the topless mass— Oh, hello, sweetheart,” he said weakly as Sushi came into the living-room with a determined look on her face.

    Ignoring her adoptive father, Sushi said tersely to their dinner guest: “Can you do science, Keith?”

    Keith rolled his eyes at Bruce but Bruce merely poked his tongue out at him over the Listener.

    “Um—sort of,” he said weakly. “I used to help Roberta with hers.”

    “Yeah, but that was in the olden days, this is modern science. Bruce can’t do it,” she explained.

    Keith rolled his eyes again but Bruce just grinned smugly.

    “Well, let’s take a look,” he said kindly.

    Bruce retired into his Listener, grinning to himself.

    ... “Ugh,” decided Keith.

    Ariadne came in, looking efficient. “You want nutmeat, don’t you, Sushi?” she said

    “No, hamburger,” said Sushi definitely.

    “Oh. Well, that’s two hamburgers and four nutmeat patties,” said Ariadne grimly. Bruce hid behind his Listener. Keith shrank.

    “Ariadne, Keith can’t do this,” said Sushi.

    Ariadne snorted. She tore it out of Keith’s nerveless hand. There was a short silence. “What in God’s name are they making you do this muck for? How old are you, now?” she demanded.

    “Ten,” said Sushi, standing up very straight and pulling her tummy in.

    Bruce peered cautiously over his Listener at Keith. Keith’s face had brightened. They waited.

    “Well, this is rubbish. You don’t want to be bothered with this, do some real science,” said Ariadne.

    “But I’ve got to do it! It’s my homework!” wailed Sushi. “Mr White’ll murder me if I don’t do it tonight!” –A gross exaggeration, as all the adults were well aware: Dick White was well known as the most easy-going, but also the best, teacher in all of Puriri County.

    “Dick White? He ought to know better,” said Ariadne grimly. “Look, if I sort this out for you, will you come over to our place on—um, let’s see… Better make it Fridays, I’m free then; on Friday nights, and do some real science?”

    “Yeah!” cried Sushi eagerly.

    Ariadne demonstrated competently that what Dick White imagined he was on about here was the principle of leverage—see? Sushi saw.—Keith shrank into his armchair. Bruce hid behind his Listener.—Then Ariadne explained that the pretty-pretty way Dick White was explaining it was all bullshit, it was like that damn word-processing thing they had in at the Surgery with all its pathetic windows and pathetic diagrams and stupid mouse, if Sushi knew what she meant. Sushi evidently did, she said: “Yeah, it’s feeble, eh?” Very pleased with this remark, Ariadne then explained clearly the crapulous answer that Dick White evidently expected, and Sushi gave a great sigh and said: “I see! He doesn’t really want you to give the answer!”

    “Come this Friday. Tell you what, come for tea. Then we can get down to it straight after.”

    “Yeah! Ta, Ariadne!” cried Sushi.

    They marched out together, looking terrifically pleased.

    “I’m shattered,” said Bruce plaintively.

    Keith sniffed slightly. “Proves I’m stronger than you, eh? I’ve been living with it for twenty-five years,” he said tranquilly.

    Bruce’s head appeared over his Listener. “Sorry, I didn’t exactly—”

    “Yes, you did,” said Keith, unmoved.

    “Um—well, I’m sorry, anyway. –Shit, are you two coming up for your silver wedding, then?”

    “Uh—yeah. Probably,” said Keith vaguely.

    “Probably?” he croaked.

    “She’s not interested in bourgeois icons,” murmured Keith with a tiny smile.

    “Tell me that again, mate, the day after the date’s rolled round and you’ve forgotten it!” said Bruce nastily.

    Keith swallowed. He got out his pocket diary and began looking in it frantically. Bruce watched him sardonically.

    “Not for two weeks, yet,” he said finally, with some relief.

    “Two—” Bruce had to swallow. “I’d dash into town tomorrow and order a nice pair of silver candlesticks, if I was you, me old mate,” he advised.

    “What on earth for?” asked Ariadne, coming back into the room with a large bowl of salad. She set it on the coffee table. “We thought we’d eat in here, it’s cooler.” She marched over to the French doors and flung them wide on the strength of this remark.

    Bruce had swallowed. He looked plaintively at Keith.

    “We’re going to light some candles so that the shadow of Adam McIntyre will pass from the land,” explained Keith, unmoved.

    “Preferably leaving that miserable Harris girl unscathed, let’s hope,” said Ariadne, terrifically grim. “Just thank your lucky stars it isn’t Roberta,” she advised her husband, going out.

    “She’s not all bad,” he remarked, smiling.

    Bruce was peering at the salad. “No. What in God’s name—?”

    “If she had a hand in it, lentils,” said Keith.

    Bruce sighed.

    “Either cooked and cold, or raw and sprouted,” added Keith heavily.

    Bruce peered again. “Both, I think. And bean sprouts. Have you ever noticed that bean sprouts don’t actually taste of anything?”

    “Frequently.”

    Bruce sighed.

    “Good for ya. Thought you were all for a healthy diet?”

    “Not a tasteless one, though,” he said sadly, as Patrick rushed in, very flushed. “Dad, I don’t have to eat nutmeat, do I?”

    “Definitely not. Most certainly not, at the prices The Deli charges for the blasted stuff.”

    “Well, you tell Ariadne, Dad, she keeps telling Mum it’s full of vitamins an’ junk!”

    “Not junk,” murmured Keith.

    “Mum says it won’t do me any harm, for once!” he wailed.

    “Oh, God,” muttered Bruce. He eyed his freckled offspring warily. “Uh—she is right, there, me old mate.”

    “But I want hamburger!” wailed Patrick. “She said I could have hamburger! She promised!”

    Bruce sighed, and got up. “I’m coming,” he said glumly.

    Patrick grabbed his hand and pulled.

    “I was gonna say,” he said as he was dragged over to the door: “that McIntyre’s sent us tickets for the— FIRST NIGHT!” he shouted as he was dragged into the passage. “DID HE SEND YOU ANY?”

    Keith got up and went over to the door. “Yes,” he admitted, watching Patrick drag Bruce along to the kitchen: “But I feel it’s only fair to warn you that Roberta tells me that Polly Carrano’s young cousins have told her that Polly reckons it’s best bib and tucker and the most uncomfortable seats the human bum has ever experienced.”

    “Too much reportage!” said Bruce with a grin as he was dragged into the kitchen.

    ... “Well, I’m certainly not going,” said Ariadne, when the controversy over Patrick’s removing all the pieces of banana from his fruit salad by hand had died down.

    “Yes, you are,” said Keith definitely.

    “What? Rubbish, Keith! It’ll be a total waste of time!”

    Keith leaned forward. “Ariadne, just listen, for once in your life. In the first place, Roberta’s friend Ginny is in it and Roberta wants us to go. In the second place, McIntyre has done us the courtesy of sending us free tickets on the strength of that bloody Opening you blackmailed him into doing for you. So we’re going.”

    Everyone looked at Ariadne with foreboding, but she merely said: “Well, all right, if Roberta wants us to go, we’ll go.” She ate some fruit salad. “You should have said so before.”

    They all looked at her weakly.

    Finally Sushi said: “You just ate a guava, Ariadne.”

    “I like guavas.”

    New Zealand guavas were minute and of a peculiar horribleness, those that were just underripe being extraordinarily sour as well as gritty and those that were just overripe being extraordinarily sicky, as well as gritty. No-one that their circle had ever met had ever claimed to have eaten an exactly ripe one. Or even seen one. There was an awed silence.

    Finally Bruce said weakly to Catherine: “I suppose we’d better go, too.”

    “Naturally.”

    “Best bib and— Does that mean black tie, Keith?” he said feebly. Keith just looked at him.

    “Yes, and Polly’s invited us all to dinner beforehand, and that’s black tie, too,” said Catherine grimly. “Yours’ll be in your box,” she added to Ariadne.

    “It’ll be in his pocket, you mean.”

    Keith felt in his pocket. Oh, yes. Heavy cream, chastely engraved... “Bit early for a flash dinner, isn’t it?”

    Ariadne leaned over and snatched it off him. “No, the show starts at eight.”

    Bruce hadn’t been granted a look at theirs. Probably because she had determined to spring it on him while they had guests. He peered over Ariadne’s shoulder. “‘To meet Derry Dawlish’,” he quoted numbly.

    “We’ve gone up in the world. I mean! He was in the Listener!” gasped Keith.

    “Only momentarily,” replied the brilliant Bruce.

    Catherine told him to shut up, but her voice was drowned by Ariadne’s, telling Keith to shut up.

    “Do you have to?” said Georgy uneasily, perched on the edge of the bed.

   Adam tied his tie rapidly. “Yes, of course: he’s one of my oldest friends. Not to say the producer-director who’s given me the best parts I’ve ever had.”

    And the most wimpish, thought Georgy, not saying it.

    Adam slipped his jacket on. “How do I look?” he said, turning to her with a smile.

    Georgy looked up at six-foot-two of male beauty in draped silver-grey silk and thought glumly: Very grown-up. Alien. Male, remote, unknowable... Very Other.

    “Very Other,” she said sourly.

    “What?” said Adam in astonishment.

    “Alien,” said Georgy sourly.

    “Georgy, darling, what are you talking about?” he said with a little laugh.

    “All right, Adam, you look stunningly beautiful in all the trappings of the male power structure, is that what you want to hear?” she shouted.

    “What in God’s name’s the matter with you?” he gasped.

    “Nothing,” said Georgy sulkily. “ Nothing you’d understand,” she muttered.

    “Not if you won’t explain it to me, I won’t,” he returned airily, but with an uneasy glance at her.

    “Explain it? I don’t need to explain it, look at you standing there towering over me smirking at your own reflection!” she cried.

    “Standing over you and smirking at my own reflection, I must a contortionist,” he said affably.

    “I’ve said you look beautiful, what more do you want?” she demanded sulkily.

    “Rather less, I think. ‘Very nice’ would have done. I’d have been satisfied with merely ‘Nice’, in fact. What the Hell’s the matter, Georgy?” he said irritably.

    Georgy drew her knees up to her chin. “Nothing.”

    Adam sighed. “Well, come along, we’ll be late.”

    “I’m not coming,” she muttered.

    “What?”

    “I said I’m NOT COMING!” shouted Georgy.

    “Darling, don’t be silly, I know there’ll be reporters and fuss, but it’ll all be over pretty soon, they’ll just want a few clichés to quote, and lots of smiles.”

    “Yes, but they won’t want them from me, and I don’t want to go, so I’m NOT!” shouted Georgy.

    Adam was very red. “Look, Georgy: this is the way I live, this is my life, I thought you said you could put up with it?”

    “Yes, but why should I have to join in?” cried Georgy. “It’s stupid and horrible!”

    “True,” said Adam, nostrils flaring with temper. “It is customary, however, or so I’ve heard.”

    “You said Derry’s wife never comes, you said she just ignores all the nonsense!” she cried angrily.

    “Yes, she ignores it by staying home and letting him fuck anything with lipstick and tits that spreads its legs for him, is that what you want?” he shouted.

    “That’s revolting!” shouted Georgy.

    “It may be revolting, but it’s true. IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT?”

    After a moment Georgy admitted sulkily: “No.”

    “Well, it’s what women who ignore their partner’s entire way of life frequently get, in my experience of the way the world wags,” he said grimly. “Don’t bother to tell me it’s all morally wrong or against your feminist principles or something: I don’t know anything about feminist principles but I do know a little bit about the way men are made, and I can tell you that in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred moral rights or wrongs don’t enter into it. And if you want an example rather closer to home, look at our charming neighbour, Sir Ralph.”

    “He’s horrible, you can’t draw any conclusions from him!” she cried.

    “He’s a man with balls and a prick whose wife consistently refused to accompany him on his skiing holidays to the most comfortable bloody resort in the entire country for twenty years on end: if he ended up doing some flaming tart of a telly actress who flung herself at him, I suppose the wife was entirely blameless in the matter?” he sneered.

    “Yes, she was!” shouted Georgy.

    “Liar,” he said conversationally.

    “All right, maybe she could have... I don’t know, and I’m not interested!” cried Georgy.

    “Evidently,” he said grimly. “Well, I’m not interested in having a relationship with a person who refuses to participate in the boring but necessary social side of my life: perhaps you’d like to think about that while I’m at the airport meeting one of my oldest friends.”

    “ALL RIGHT!” shouted Georgy. “I’ll come! But you’re a MEAN PIG!”

    “I think we’ve all got that, thank you.” He glanced out of the open bedroom window. “Me, and Sir Ralph’s medical neighbour, and the spinster lady from across the way with her dachsie, and the puce-suited lady realtor, and—”

    Georgy rushed into the ensuite and slammed the door.

    Adam sighed, and sat down on the pretty duvet. Would she eventually reappear, or not? And as to whether she meant to change out of those jeans in order to meet Derry... If he suggested it he’d only get his head bitten off, he supposed glumly.

    “You’d better stick with me,” decided Mac, taking Georgy’s arm possessively.

    “Yes,” she agreed in a small voice, as Jacky whirled Adam away for a short photo session with Livia and Joel before Derry arrived.

    ... “Boring, isn’t it?” said Mac eventually.

    “Boring and hot,” agreed Georgy. “What are those things on that tray?”

    “Plastic airport food, I think. Well, the bit of gherkin I ate was plastic and acid,” said Mac, putting a hand on his belly. “Ouch—God,” he said belching.

    “Haven’t you had any tea, either?” she asked glumly.

    “No: Cherry was in a foul mood.”

    “Oh,” she said faintly.

    “Well, so was I,” admitted Mac.

    “Mm.”

    “She won’t come to the First Night, she wouldn’t come to this do, sometimes I wonder why the Christ we’re living in the same house!” he said loudly.

    “Oh,” said Georgy in a tiny voice, going very red. After a moment she added: “Um—isn’t it her bridge club tonight?”

    “No, toast-mistresses or whatever the fuck they call themselves; the principle’s the same, though. But you’d think she could have given it up for once!” he said bitterly.

    “Yes,” said Georgy in a tiny voice.

    Mac shot her a sharp glance but didn’t enquire.

    After some time she offered: “I think Adam must do quite lot of this.”

    “Looking bored with Livia gushing on his arm, or meeting Pommy drips of directors at sweltering airports?” he said heavily.

    “Um—well, both, really. Sort of—um—public socializing, I suppose.”

    “Yeah. Goes with the territory.”

    “Yes,” said Georgy gloomily.

    Silence again.

    Finally Georgy said: “I don’t think Derry Dawlish can be a drip, actually. I know his films are awfully soppy, but Adam said he was a very cheerful sort of fellow. And Joel said he was tray macho.”

    “Gawd,” said Mac simply.

    “DAR-LING!” screamed Livia. “At last!” She rushed forward and threw herself at the huge man in the crumpled black cotton shirt and trousers and short dark beard.

    “That’ll be him, then,” said Maurice to Mac and Georgy, not bothering to lower his voice. “Doesn’t look much, eh? Not the celluloid genius of the decade, I wouldn’t have said, would you?”

    “No,” agreed Georgy dubiously, watching the genial-looking large man—somehow he reminded her of one of those large singers: Placido Domingo?—one of those—pat Livia’s behind, clad for the occasion in a charming drift of pink chiffon culottes, and give her a smacking kiss. Was Livia actually sticking her behind out in a cute, pouty way, or was it just the cut of those culottes...?

    “See that trick with her bum?” said Maurice.

    She jumped, and nodded.

    “Practises that for hours. Quite fun to watch,” he said detachedly.

    Mac gave a rude guffaw. Georgy choked and turned puce. Maurice smirked.

    Since Derry was completely absorbed by Livia—or rather smothered in Livia—he couldn’t greet Adam, so Adam had gone up to the tall, handsome, grey-haired lady who was just behind Derry and was kissing her fervently.

    “Lucinda!” he cried in a voice that could certainly have been heard at the back of Wembley Stadium. “What in God’s name are you doing with this crew?”

    “It’s Lucinda Stuart,” said Georgy weakly. “She was wonderful in that comedy series, did you see it, Mac?”

    “Too right. She’s great, eh? I remember her back in—well, black and white TV!” he said with a chuckle. “She did a corker Portia, you ever see that, Maurie?”

    “Yeah, not bad,” agreed Maurice judiciously. “Saw her in something in London back around then, too. Um... Yeah, A Doll’s House, that’s right.”

    ”What? You lucky bugger!” cried Mac. “How the Christ did you get tickets for that?”

    “Eh? Oh, someone I knew at London University, if I remember rightly,” said Maurice in a very vague voice.

    “Jesus, I’d have given my right arm to see her in that!” said Mac fervently.

    Georgy sighed. “Yes.”

    They all stared at Lucinda Stuart, who was about fifty and didn’t pretend to be otherwise: her thick, straight silver hair was cut in a pageboy and she wore very little make-up, only a little pale pink lipstick. Lucinda was too young to be damed but anyone who knew anything about theatre considered it was inevitable she would be, in due course. Anyone who knew anything about Lucinda’s political beliefs sincerely doubted it, but naturally Mac, Maurice and Georgy were all unaware of this.

   Adam came over to them smiling, with his arm around Lucinda’s waist. “Darling,” he said to her, “I want you to meet—” He introduced them all smoothly.

    Mac shook her hand crushingly hard and assured her it was an honour. Lucinda laughed cheerfully, and assured him she was looking forward to the Dream, she loved outdoor Shakespeare, and in fact had once played Hermia in an outdoor show herself, back in her student days. Mac beamed.

    Maurice shook her hand much more gently, twinkled at her and said: “You won’t remember, it was years back, but we have met. Chloe Adams—”

    “Yes, I saw her a couple of days before I left, she sends you her best love. How are you, Maurice?” said Lucinda, with her lovely smile.

    Maurice beamed and assured her he was splendid. Georgy couldn’t for the life of her tell if Lucinda was lying. But why should a busy and famous actress like Lucinda Stuart remember a history professor from obscure little New Zealand?

    When Adam introduced Georgy Lucinda smiled kindly at her and said: “And are you in the show? Let me guess,” she added with a gurgle of laughter: “not Hermia?”

    “No,” replied Georgy gruffly.

    Mac put his arm round her waist and said: “Associate producer.”

    “Dogsbody,” corrected Adam with a grin.

    “I’ll know who to blame when things go wrong, then, won’t I?” said Lucinda with a twinkle.

    “Yes!” gasped Georgy, laughing suddenly.

    “Here,” said Mac, still with his arm round Georgy’s waist: “can I ask you if it’s true you’re going to do Madame de Sévigné for Dawlish?”

    “Madame de— How?” gasped Georgy, taken unawares.

    “You’d be surprized,” said Lucinda with a twinkle. “Well—keep it under your hat, Mac, won’t you? He is thinking about it, yes. And I’d love to, it’s a fascinating period. Delicious head-dresses, what’s more!” she added with a laugh.

    Georgy gulped. “Yes, but— I mean!”

    “I know she was the soul of rectitude,” said Lucinda, smiling, “but I think that’ll make it more of a challenge. And she knew everybody who was anybody, of course.”

    “Who’ll be Bussy?” she asked eagerly.

    Lucinda laughed. “Ah, that would be telling! –No, to tell you the truth, he hasn’t decided yet. And don’t even hope, Adam,” she added with a grin.

    “Black curls, I see it in black curls,” he said, pouting.

    “Horribly pretty,” said Maurice, shuddering.

    “Yeah, just be content with playing Horner,” advised Mac meanly.

    “Really?” gasped Georgy.

     Adam shrugged. “I’d like to. Don’t know if Derry’s serious about that, or not.”

    “I think he is—if he can find the right actress for Mrs Margery,” murmured Lucinda.

    “Well, do you think he’ll let me do Horner in black curls?” he said.

    “He has to be!” cried Georgy in astonishment. They smiled at her and she went very pink, but said: “But he does.”

    “Yeah,” agreed Mac, squeezing her waist a bit. “And Mrs Margery’s blonde, eh?”

    “Yes,” said Georgy definitely.

    “Or reddish,” murmured Lucinda. She raised her eyebrows slightly at Adam. He made a tiny face.

    Then Derry, Livia, the dark-curled, lipsticked young lady who was with Derry but whom Livia had successfully pushed to the background, the two men who were with Derry but who visibly considered themselves to be a part of the background, plus Jacky and Joel—the latter looking as if he wished he were only part of the background—descended upon them in a rush, and nobody really registered anything specific at all for quite some time.

    Except possibly Derry Dawlish, who, after all, was used to this sort of kerfuffle at airports, and who gave Georgy a very sharp look indeed—he had already given Adam one—but didn’t say anything much directly to her, except a conventional greeting.

    “Phew!” said Maurice, when, after more of the same in the hotel lobby only worse, there being even more reporters and cameramen, they were at last in Derry’s suite at The Royal. Minus the two male hangers-on and the black-haired girl who had all, yawning terrifically, crawled off to their own rooms. What, if anything, that indicated about the great producer-director’s relationship with the girl, no-one had cared to speculate. Not aloud, that was.

    Derry collapsed onto a large sofa with a sigh. “Have a drink, Maurice, for God’s sake. You, too, Mac.” He yawned widely. “Why the Christ didn’t someone tell me how far it was?” he grumbled loudly

    “What, the trek across the puce carpets to the lifts?” asked Maurice with a grin, heading for the bar.

    “What? No!” he said with a laugh. “To New Zealand!”

    “Yes, well, some of us did try to tell you,” said Adam. “Over and over and over again, as I recall,”

    Derry groaned. “It can’t have sunk in.”

    “No,” he agreed: “just floated on the scum on that syrup you’ve got between the ears. What in God’s name’s all this about Madame de Sévigné? She’s possibly the most boring dame in literature; even darling Lucinda won’t be able to bring her off!”

    “Thanks,” said Lucinda drily. “—No, just a mineral water, thanks, Maurice,” she said to him.

    “Queen Victoria’s worse. Though I don’t know if you can call her letters literature,” said Georgy. “Mum was reading that book for ages. You know, her letters to one of her daughters, I think.”

    They looked at her kindly.

    Finally Joel said: “Darling, one hates to do this to you, but Lucinda had quayte a little critical success as Our Beloved Queen on the stage in London a couple of years back.”

    “One of those awful one-women shows. Never again!” said Lucinda with a shudder to the glowingly crimson Georgy.

    “Why ever not? I think it would be a marvellous opportunity!” squeaked Livia.

    “On stage for two hours? Having to remember all those lines?” gasped Joel . “It’s bad enough having to mug up the lines merely to be Piggy-Whiskers’s feed for two hours, let me tell you!”

    “That would be bad,” Lucinda admitted. “I did a guest thing in that bloody series of his once.”

    “Why?” gasped Adam.

    “He offered me twice what the part was worth. I bumped him up to three times, and accepted,” she said tranquilly.

    “Prostituting the art, Lucinda!” he gasped.

    “Adam, you hypocrite!” cried Georgy loudly.

    There was a short silence.

    “Mea culpa,” said Adam, pulling an awful face. “Birches and hair shirts, Lucinda darling.”

    “I should think so,” she returned. “Thanks, Georgy, you saved me the trouble, that was going to be my next line,” she added with her lovely smile.

    Georgy was already so pink she could hardly go pinker. She looked at her uncertainly.

    “Truly!” said Lucinda with a laugh. She drained her mineral water and got up. “I think I’ll go and sleep off the jet-lag. God knows what time it must be back home, but it feels like about half-past fourteen.”

    Maurice got up, too. “Yeah, come on, Livia, let’s get ourselves round some nosh, my stomach’s rumbling.”

    Livia gave a trill of silver laughter and rose gracefully. “Isn’t he macho?” she said proudly. She bade them all lavish farewells, kissing both Derry, who returned the kiss absently, automatically patting her bum, and Lucinda, who merely sustained it with fortitude.

    “It’s all right, you can sit down again,” said Derry with a grin to Lucinda when they’d gone.

    “No, I really am bushed,” she said, twinkling. “Am I imagining things or is she more—um—”

    “The word you’re looking for’s ‘worse’, dear,” said Joel kindly.

    Lucinda bit her lip. “Don’t be horrid. No, more brittle, I think is what I mean.”

    “Crossed in love,” said Adam with a grimace. “Oh, not me, God forbid!” he said with a shudder as Lucinda goggled at him. –At this Joel, used though he was to him, barely repressed a gasp. He sat very still, aware that Derry’s shrewd eye was on him.

    “No,” continued Adam cheerfully: “some damned lawyer fellow, a local. Couldn’t stand the heat in that particular kitchen, one gathers.” He shrugged.

    “Poor little Livia,” said Lucinda slowly.

    “Yes. I think so, too,” agreed Georgy hoarsely.

    Lucinda looked at her kindly. “Mm. It’s a bit pathetic, that frantic—er—keeping the end up, don’t you think?”

    “No, Maurie reckons she practises that for hours,” said Mac in surprize. He and Adam collapsed in dirty sniggers.

    “Shut up!” cried Georgy angrily. “I think she’s very—very gallant! I bet she never had idiots falling all over their feet to catch her stupidest utterance when she was your age, you stuck-up thing, Adam McIntyre!”

    “Sorry—darling: the bum!” he gasped, in agony.

    “Ignore him, Georgy, love, it’s one of those rude male things these rude males out here indulge in,” said Joel. “Recollect,” he added darkly, “that Mac and Adam share the same blood.”

    “Ugh!” said Georgy with a squeak. She clapped her hand over her mouth.

    Adam let out another howl and Derry also gave a rumble of laughter. “Got him, there, eh, Georgy?” he grinned. “Well done, Joel!”

    “Yes!” gasped Georgy through the hand.

    Joel got up to go to the bar. “See?” he said pointedly in Derry’s ear from behind the back of his sofa.

    “Mm,” conceded Derry, rubbing the ear. “I think possibly I do.”

    “That was the most unkindest cut of all, Joel,” said Adam weakly, recovering. “In fact the unkindest thing anyone’s ever said about me.”

    Lucinda went over to the door. “Rot, Adam, what about that rag that said you’d had all your front teeth capped?” She went out before he could reply.

    Mac chuckled richly. “Betcha bawled yer eyes out over that one!” he said to his nephew.

    “Oh, for a week,” agreed Joel.

    “They aren’t capped, they’re straightened: his mother and father spent a fortune on the orthodontist when he was about twelve. –Would the English Sunday papers be interested in that, do you think?” said Georgy to Derry, eyes sparkling.

    “They’d pay you—cash—money—sweetness!” he gasped.

    She went very pink but smiled at him.

    Adam got up. “Come on, you, I’ll tell you about me op, and you can retire on the proceeds.”

    “I thought you wanted to talk to Derry?” she replied in surprise.

    “That can wait, I think he’s just about dead on his feet,” he murmured.

    Georgy went very red and got up. “Sorry. We’ll go,” she said gruffly to Derry.

    He hauled himself up, yawning. “Yes. I’ll see you tomorrow, Georgy,” he said with a smile.

    “Um—it’s dress rehearsal,” said Georgy, looking up at his bulk uncertainly.

    “I know. Don’t worry, I’m used to them, I started my career in the theatre.”

    “It’s got Livia in it!” warned Mac with a chuckle.

    “I’ll bring me paperback,” he promised.

    “We say ‘Wilbur Smith’ now, Derry, darling,” said Joel.

    “That’s a good one, I’ll use that,” replied Derry promptly. “Royalties?”

    “I’m the agent, dear,” said Joel earnestly.

    Grinning, Derry said: “Go on: get out. And just remember: I want to see a good Puck.” He paused. “Not necessarily a decent Puck, a young Puck or even a merry Puck. A good Puck.”

    “That lets out Thring of the Silver Bladder!” said Mac cheerfully.

    Georgy gave an explosive giggle.

    Grinning, Adam put his arm round her. “Come on.”

    “Good-night, Derry,” she said politely.

    “Good-night, Georgy, I’m very glad to have met you,” he replied seriously.

    Georgy looked up at him with an uncertain smile and he said a little wryly: “I’m not all bad, whatever this beauteous idiot might have told you.”

    “No!” she gasped, turning scarlet.

    “God, let’s go: what with me orthodontal secrets, and now me deepest confidences about me oldest friends,” groaned Adam.

    “Nice, isn’t it?” said Derry, grinning. “She can blush, too.”

    “Not to order, though,” said Adam firmly. He propelled her out. “Come on, it may be possible to find actual food in this city, you realize?”

    “Ooh, yes! Are you coming, Joel? We’ll have a nice big tea, somewhere not too fancy.”

    Joel joined them eagerly, merely remarking: “Ah de-mang, Derry, dear.”

    “Come on, Mac!” cried Georgy from the corridor. “You can have tea with us!”

    “Better than a medal,” noted Derry, as Mac stuck his hand out, grinning. He shook it hard. “See you tomorrow, mm?”

    “Yeah. Maybe you can show me how to make Livia turn up on time,” said Mac glumly. “Oh, well—see ya.” He ambled out.

    “Thring of the Silver Bladder! Here!” shouted Derry, poking his head out into the corridor.

    “Pray wait for me in the puce lobby, darlings,” said Joel. He sprinted back. “What, what?” he panted.

    Derry pulled him into the suite and closed the door. “Look, I nearly let it out about the bloody film just then, do you think he twigged?”

    “No, dear,” said Joel with a sigh: “he was looking drippily at Georgy.” He paused. “That is, if you do mean Adam?” he said delicately.

    “Get out of here,” said Derry with a grin.

    “I will, but may I ask,” said Joel delicately, “do you really require me for Puck, and are you serious about a film?”

    “Yes, and yes. I’ve got the backers.”

    “Ooh, goody! Admittedly the Piggy-Whiskers thing paid my fares, but—” He grimaced.

    “See Charles about an advance,” groaned Derry.

    “One is not entirely feckless, dear, just a bit anxious about being stranded in the wilds of Aws-troy-lia if Piggy-Whiskers is booed out of town.”

    “He won’t be, the whole of the bloody British Empire is lapping up that telly crap of his!” said Derry in astonishment.

    “Oh. I suppose one was living in the Dark Ages, dear, one sort of envisioned—er—diggers’ hats and dust.”

    “Air conditioning and lunch clubs, more like.”

    “Ooh, what a relief!” He paused. “No, well, one can tell Piggy-Whiskers where to put the Canadian tour,” he said, eyeing him out of the corner of his eye, “if the fil-lum is assured.”

    “It is. But it won’t be till next year, I’ve got that thing in Italy with Adam first.”

    “And Canada is a big place, true. But can one stomach Piggy-Whiskers all the way across it?”

    “No idea, it’s your stomach. And what’s all this about your silver bladder, have you had an op I haven’t heard about?”

    “No!” choked Joel. “Er—no, you’ll see tomorrow, dear, piece of business.”

    “Sounds dire.”

    “The whole thing’s dire, do not expect to be inspired,” warned Joel. “Well, apart from yours truly and Adam. And the Bottom’s good. Needs polishing, but good. Only very brown, dear.”

    “Brown?” said Derry confusedly. “Oh, the head?”

    “No!” choked Joel ecstatically. “You’ll see tomorrow! Was that all?”

    “No. Can she act?” demanded Derry tensely, grabbing his arm.

    “Ow! Yes, you’d be surprized. But don’t expect to get the chance to see her, because you won’t. –She’s not a professional, of course,” he added seriously.

    “I’m not looking for a professional.”

    Joel swallowed a sigh. That’s what he’d said about that lovely Scottish girl. She was now working in an American daytime soapie, made up and hairsprayed and eyebrow-trimmed out of all recognition. But trying to stop Derry was like holding back the whatsisname. Others might be capable of it—though Joel had yet to meet them—but he certainly wasn’t.

    “I’ll see you tomorrow, Derry,” he said weakly.

    Derry opened the door. “Yeah. Or ere the leviathan can swim a league,” he replied with a grin.

    Joel down jigged the corridor, crying: “I’ll put a girdle round the earth In forty minutes!” Phew! At least Derry had read the bloody play, he must be serious, then! Ooh, what a relief, no Canadian tour listening to Piggy-Whiskers tell jokes that were neither funny nor vulgar and Piggy-Whiskers’s eternal complaints about his stomach—put too much in it, that was all that was wrong with it—and smelling the eternal liniment that Piggy-Whiskers rubbed on his chest in the colder months!

    He was so relieved about this that he did a cartwheel in the pale puce corridor, and a waiter rounding a corner with a tray gave a scream and hurled the tray into the air, glasses and all.

    “Terribly sorry, dear, put the damage on Mr Dawlish’s bill,” said Joel airily, hurrying for the lift before the man could get a good look at his face.

    “Righto, Mr Thring,” the waiter agreed.

    Joel didn’t know whether to cringe at being thus recognized, or stick out his chest at being thus recognized. He must be getting really famous in the Anty-podes!

    ... Yes, it did give you pause to Think, rather, didn’t it?

    “Well, was that too bad?” said Adam with a smile in his voice as, having dropped off Joel, who was staying with the Carranos in Pohutukawa Bay this week, they slowly wended their way back to the junction of Elizabeth Road with the main north highway.

    “No... Be careful turning across the highway, Adam,” said Georgy nervously, peering up and down the perfectly empty road.

    “Mm,” he said, turning carefully.

    “The road’s gradually getting nearer, have you noticed?” she said happily.

    “What? Oh, the good surface! Yes, at about the rate of an inch a day. Sir Ralph tells me he’s had a word with Jake, so possibly things will suddenly improve.”

    “But I thought the roads were done by the government, or the County Council, or something?” said Georgy in confusion.

    “Strings will no doubt be pulled.”

    “Oh, dear.” After a moment she said: “It is awfully hard to live up to your principles when your comfort’s involved, isn’t it?”

    “Absolutely!” gasped Adam. He glanced at her and could see she was smiling in the dark.

    “Hold onto your door,” he warned as they passed the dairy factory: “the bumpy bit’s coming up.”

    “I am.”

    Adam smiled. She always did—no matter who was driving, it was nothing personal.

    They bumped slowly along Elizabeth Road towards the intersection with Blossom Avenue, where Tom and Jemima lived, and he said cautiously: “Georgy, I’m sorry I behaved like a pig, earlier.”

    “What? Oh, that’s all right,” said Georgy. “I’ve been thinking about it: you were nervous about seeing Derry again, weren’t you?”

    “I—” Adam stopped. “Yes, I was,” he admitted.

    “Yes. I didn’t understand at the time, I was angry because I thought you were forcing me into some silly rôle... I’m sorry I shouted at you, and—and everything,” said Georgy in a voice that shook.

    “Mm.” Adam touched her denim knee gently. “You were nervous, too.”

    “Yes, very,” she said glumly.

    “You withstood it all with fortitude, though, darling,” he said with a smile.

    “What? Oh, the reporters and stuff! Yes, that’s just... silly. A stupid charade. I suppose we just have to put up with it,” she said, sounding glum but determined.

    Adam couldn’t help wondering if she’d still feel like that when the occasion of the next charade rolled round, but all the same he was very glad to hear her say it. He touched her knee again. “Mm. Thanks for coming. It’s easier with moral support.”

    “Yes,” said Georgy in a small voice.

     They passed Blossom Avenue, and he asked: “What did you think of Derry?”

    “Um... Well, it’s hard to tell when a person’s jet-lagged... I quite liked him, on first impression.”

    “Good. I could tell he liked you, too,” said Adam with a smile in his voice.

    “Could you?” she said dubiously.

    “Yes. He didn’t bully you, patronize you, or flirt with you. On the other hand he didn’t ignore you totally. He’s quite capable of the lot, in case you were wondering.”

    “Ye-es... Would he do that to someone you’d brought, though, Adam?”

    “Oh, God, yes!”

    “Oh.” Georgy lapsed into thought. Adam didn’t quite dare to ask her what about, precisely.

    Derry had gone determinedly to bed to sleep off the jet-lag. He slept for about eight hours but had very jumbled dreams in which Georgy was immured in a tower and he was fighting off assorted Adams and Macs and a fat dragon that suddenly turned into Piggy-Whiskers—

    “God,” he said, waking up all sweaty, and drinking off the glass of Évian on his bedside cabinet: “must have been that bloody pill back in LA. Maybe it was an upper, not a downer.”

    ... She was lovely, though: lovely. So fresh. Dewy. If she really could act and bloody Joel Thring hadn’t just been having him on... After a while he got up, padded silently over the pale puce carpet and opened the pale puce Venetians. It was very early morning— Good God!

    Derry watched entranced as a huge yellow sun came up in a huge pink and pale yellow sky behind an enormous navy blue volcanic island set in a silver sea. His brain whirled in series of exotic pictures: a south-seas Dream? Shakespeare’s fairies against palm trees and volcanic cones? Mixed Gauguin and Le Douanier? Why not, the thing was set in fucking Greece, that was exotic enough, wasn’t it...

    He eventually went back to bed, but the unexpected view of sunrise over the Waitemata Harbour from The Royal’s top floor was to remain with him, and influence his visual approach, for quite some time to come.

    Those who deplored the demolishing of the nice old Edwardian hotel that had stood on the site now desecrated by the glass-sided slab that was The Royal might have been led to conclude from this that the sacrifice was worth it. Always supposing that their group was at all coterminous with that of those who admired what would come to be known as the films of Derry Dawlish’s middle period.