Tropic Nights

11

Tropic Nights

    “I do like it here!” said Georgy, eyes shining.

    Adam looked at her with some amusement. It was very obvious that Georgy was getting a lot more pleasure out of the big Chinese restaurant than she had out of the Carranos’ expensive French place. He himself wasn’t expecting too much: the place was full of family groups but they were nearly all European family groups, not a good sign; and the menu was in English. Well, transliterated Chinese. But no Chinese characters. And each dish was neatly explained underneath its name.

    The restaurant was composed of two large rooms rather obviously thrown into one. Its décor was mainly dark green, but here was a lot of red and flashes of gold as well. Which didn’t improve it. Fortunately few people were smoking—it would gradually dawn on Adam that very few middle-class New Zealanders did smoke. He was glad, he hated places where people smoked all over you.

    The business of choosing what to eat took some time, what with Georgy deferring anxiously to everybody else and Bill Michaels vetoing this, that and the other because they’d had it last time, and Angie reminding him that last time— Etcetera. Into the bargain Adam had to explain to Georgy that, unlike European restaurants, the Chinese restaurant had arranged its menu, apart from its soups and starters, by main ingredient rather than course.

    Finally Bill conceded: “Righto, that makes four, eh? Sure we don’t want soup?”

    “No,” said Angie definitely.

    Bill sighed. “All right. Tell ya what, though, we gotta have wine!”

    “With Chinese?” said Adam faintly.

    “Yeah!” He opened the wine list eagerly. “Here!” he discovered. “—Yeah, too right, eh?” he said to Adam, showing it to him.

    Adam looked at it. His lips twitched. “Mm, let’s.”

    “Yep, we’ll have a bottle of number 17, ta,” said Bill to the Chinese boy who was the waiter. “And whaddabout drinks to start with, eh? ’Tis Friday, after all. Ange?”

    “Mm... I wouldn’t mind a whisky and ginger.”

    “Georgy?” murmured Adam.

    “Um…” Georgy didn’t really know any drinks, except shandy and sherry. And she didn’t like to ask for the same as Angie: she thought that whisky would be strong.

    “Rum and Coke?” suggested Bill kindly. “Babs often has that.”

    Adam knew, in the wake of the zoo visit, that Georgy didn’t really like Coke. “She doesn’t much care for Coke,” he murmured.

    “No,” agreed Georgy gratefully. “It’s too sweet.”

    “Mm,” he agreed. He touched her little hand where it lay on the cloth. Georgy went very pink. “Gin and tonic?” he suggested.

    “I’ve never had that,” she said, looking up into his face.

    “Help, how can I describe it?” he said, turning to them with a laugh.

    The Michaelses had been absorbed in the scene: they jumped and looked at him sheepishly.

    “Sweet and sour,” said Bill finally.

    “No!” cried Angie crossly.

    “Yes,” decided Adam. “You’ll love it, Georgy. I’ll have a Campari and soda, I think, Bill, I’m very thirsty.”

    “Right.” Bill ordered the drinks, plus glasses of water all round.

    “You have to ask for water?” said Adam limply.

    “You been softened up by too much California livin’, boy!” Bill informed him genially.

    Adam smiled a little. “Have you been to California, Bill?”

    “Uh—yeah. Mates at Stanford,” he admitted.

    “See? Your disguise has been penetrated, so stop doing the ignorant Kiwi bit,” said Angie sternly.

    Georgy giggled.

    Bill looked at her with affection. “All right: me an’ Georgy’ll talk Racine.”

    “I like Racine, too,” said Adam meekly.

    “You’re not allowed. You’re into this Shakespe-he-rean rag!” he grinned.

    “Lawks,” said Adam, goggling at him.

    “Now he’s going the other way,” Angie said sadly to Georgy.

    “Yes! But it’s better than a male peer-group thing!” she squeaked.

    “Eh?” replied Angie elegantly.

    “At that French restaurant we went to, Jake and Adam started almost as soon as we sat down. Me and Polly were left miles behind.”

    “That was a foodie huddle, possibly, but it was most certainly not a male peer-group thing,” said Adam with dignity.

    “Ooh, Adam!” she cried. “Of course it was! At one stage you were talking about cigars!”

    Bill and Angie choked.

    “True, at one— Well, I apologize, Georgy.”

    “That’s all right; it was very interesting. I didn’t realize you were the sort of man that would do it, too. Only of course Jake is, I saw that as soon as I met him; he’s very forceful, isn’t he?”

    “And I just let him drag me into his male peer-group in my usual spineless fashion—yes,” said Adam with a deep gloom that was not entirely assumed.

    “Let him? You plunged in eagerly!” cried Georgy.

    He gave a startled laugh.

    “Peer groups must be liquid,” noted Bill.

    “Shut up,” retorted Angie. “—They all do it, I’m afraid, Georgy,”

    “I’m not gonna dare open me mouth,” Bill complained.

    “Me neither,” agreed Adam.

    “Good!” choked Georgy. “Sorry!” she choked. “Well, it was a wonderful meal,” she explained to Angie and Bill, “but—well, at times I did want to laugh at the two of them.”

    “Thanks!” said Adam.

    “They were so serious: how can anyone be that serious about something to drink?” asked Georgy.

    Adam held his head in his hands and groaned.

    “Let alone something to eat,” agreed Angie, grinning.

    “Yes. Well, like I said, it was wonderful food. Very—very subtle. But what with Jake and the waiter and Adam—! At one stage I thought they were going to come to blows, it was only about whether to have the vegetables one way or another.”

    “Jake said—” Adam subsided.

    “See!” gasped Georgy.

    The Michaelses chuckled.

    “And I thought you were sitting there meekly, behaving yourself like a good little girl, overawed by us sophisticated gents choosing our sophisticated dinner!” said Adam indignantly.

    “I was!” gasped Georgy, laughing again. “Part of me was, truly! Only I can’t help thinking about things: you know. Well, um... Don’t you see two sides to things most of the time?” she ended in a small voice.

    “Yes. Nearly always,” he agreed, smiling at her. “I’m glad you weren’t totally overawed by our super-pseud impressions, Georgy.”

    “Well, part of me was. Only part of me wasn’t,” said Georgy with a little smile.

    “Ya gotta watch ’er,” explained Bill. “Sharp as a tack, under that sweet-wee-thing look of hers. Just tell yaself firmly there’s a chiel amang ye, takin’ notes, and yer can’t go far wrong.”

    “Mm, I suppose he’s right,” Georgy admitted.

    “Yes,” agreed Adam, smiling into her eyes. She went very pink, gave a flustered laugh, and looked away.

    Bill immediately made up his mind that him and Ange were gonna push off home  right after the Chinee tea, give the poor bastard a chance.

    … “No: I’m buggered,” he duly said firmly to his flabbergasted wife. “Been slaving over fifteen hot soldering irons all day, that bloody workshop was like a furnace. You two stay on, no need for us to drag you away,” he said firmly to them. “Have another cup of green tea.”

    “Yes, I’d like to,” agreed Adam.

    Not a flicker, Bill registered; the bloke was a pro, all right. …Pro at what? he wondered with a sort of sinking feeling as Angie suffered herself to be led away and he inevitably began to wonder if he’d done the right thing. Fortunately the minute he got out in the fresh air he had a terrific yawning fit, so that shut Her up.

    Adam looked at Georgy with a tiny smile. She was looking desperately shy and was staring determinedly away from him.

    “Aren’t they delightful?” he murmured.

    “Yes. Bill’s very clever.”

    Yes, thought Adam. Not to say very artful. And thank Christ, for some obscure reason he seems to have ranged himself on my side! “Mm, I noticed,” he murmured.

    “I wish we could do Andromaque or Phèdre. Oh, well,” she said.

    “I won’t ask what Mac’s got against the French dramatists, because I’m quite sure it’s nothing logical,” he murmured.

    “No!” agreed Georgy with a choke of laughter.

    There was a little silence.

    “I didn’t realize that you were on quite such terms with him as you appeared to be this afternoon,” said Adam, wishing he hadn’t the minute he’d uttered it.

    “Who?” replied Georgy blankly, staring at him.

   Adam felt himself redden. “Mac.”

    “I’ve known him for ages.”

    “Yes, I realize that; I’m sorry—forget it.”

   There was another short silence.

    “Do you mean— You don’t mean when he put his arm round me, do you?” said Georgy incredulously.

    “Yes,” said Adam through his teeth. His nostrils flared and he had to swallow. “Not to mention when he patted your bottom,” he said in a choked voice.

    “He sometimes does that when he’s in a very good mood,” replied Georgy uncertainly.

    “Why do you let him?” said Adam in a voice full of pain, leaning forward and looking straight into her eyes.

    Georgy blinked. He saw the emotional recoil before she sat back a little and said uncertainly: “Um ... I don’t mind. It doesn’t mean anything.”

    “To those who are well acquainted with the nature of the relationship: possibly,” he replied grimly.

    “I don’t see that it matters whether other people are well acquainted with it or not,” said Georgy, sticking out her pointed chin and glaring at him. “It’s got nothing to do with anyone but me. If I think there’s nothing in it, then there’s nothing.”

    “It’s demeaning, surely?” said Adam in a low voice.

    “No, it isn’t. Well, it might demean him to go round treating adult members of his staff like moronic little girls, but I can see him doing it and I don’t feel demeaned, I only feel a bit sorry for him, if you want to know. But after all, he’s over sixty: he’s too old to learn new tricks.”

    Adam’s Uncle Maurice was very nearly seventy and he wouldn’t have put it past him to learn any new tricks there were, the dirty old dog. For a moment he was tempted to say that Mac was as bad, but that was absurd.

    “Yes. I suppose he is. –Dirty old dog,” he muttered.

    “No, he only seduces the ones that want to,” said Georgy simply.

    “What?” he gasped.

    “I’m not stupid, Adam, and I’m not blind!” she said crossly.

    “Not quite the chiel amang us—no,” he said sourly.

    “Mac and I only have a—a working relationship: he can’t help being a chauvinist pig.”

    “No.”

    “And I know I’m not assertive enough, but actually I can’t see the point of even trying to change a person like him, he’d never understand.”

    “No.” Adam made a little rueful face.

    Georgy suddenly went very red and said: “That isn’t— I’m sorry, Adam, I was doing it to you.”

    “Doing what?”

    “Saying the easy thing. I do that,” said Georgy in a very low voice.

    Adam’s heart beat furiously. He leant forward a little. “I see. What was the hard thing, Georgy?” he said, very softly.

    Georgy pleated the edge of the tablecloth. “Well—the truth is I don’t really see that it matters.” She looked at him dubiously. “I don’t think the Women’s Libbers are right about all those things. I mean—” She hesitated. “Jill gets very cross about Mac, too. Only he is a much older man, and… Well, possibly I’ve just been indoctrinated, but I don’t feel it’s wrong or—or demeaning, or anything like that when he—when he does that sort of thing. It sort of feels, um... natural.” She hesitated. “Jill says we can’t possibly know what’s natural: what we think are feelings are just socialization; only I overheard Polly once saying that social behaviour must be natural, because nature creates society. And—well, to some extent I think she’s right, I’ve thought about it a lot. I don’t mean silly things like table manners, but—well, behaviour between the sexes. That sort of thing.” She looked at him uncertainly.

    “You feel it’s right for Mac to put his hand on your bum?” said Adam, staring at her.

    “No-o... Well, not wrong. Right in the sense that it’s natural.” She looked at him earnestly and said: “Jill would say I’ve been educated to think that women should be treated as—as pets, or underdogs, or second-class citizens. But I don’t feel it’s wrong or that he shouldn’t do it. I don’t feel it’s nasty—and I know he wouldn’t go any further, he’d never try to, um, force himself on anyone. And I honestly don’t think he’d do it if he felt inside himself that I’d think it was nasty! Do you see?”

    “I can’t credit Mac with that much delicacy of mind,” he croaked.

    “No!” cried Georgy. “It’s not a thought, it’s an instinct!”

    “An— I see.” He swallowed. “Next you’ll be telling me you enjoy it “

    “Perhaps I sort of do,” said Georgy, frowning thoughtfully. “Not because it’s a sexual come-on, that’d be silly. But it’s true that it does reaffirm the fact that he’s a male sexual being—and at the same time that he is old enough to be my father; and that I’m a female one. See? It’s natural.”

    “Very,” said Adam in a hollow voice.

    “I’m talking too much. You don’t understand: they never—” She broke off abruptly, flushing again.

    “They never do?” said Adam with a tiny smile. He laid his hand over the little one that had started to pleat the tablecloth again and said softly: “Darling, I do understand. I understand every single word and though I’d like to think about it a bit more, I’m pretty sure I agree with you. In theory, that is; but in practice—” He swallowed. “In practice I’m just so damned furious that the man dared to touch you like that, that I—” He stopped. “I’m sorry, I’ve got no right to— I’m sorry, Georgy,” he said lamely.

    “No. It was honest,” whispered Georgy.

    “Yes. It was,” said Adam painfully.

    “But there isn’t anything in it!” she said earnestly.

    “No. Only I’m a sexual being, too: I can’t help being jealous,” said Adam on a wry note.

    “Oh,” said Georgy going scarlet and trying to draw her hand away.

    Adam held on. “Don’t. Don’t you feel this is right, too?” he said in a voice that shook.

    “Um—yes, only I don’t even know you!” gasped Georgy desperately.

    “It doesn’t work like that. Nature isn’t—er—delicate-minded,” said Adam with a grimace. Georgy looked at him dubiously and he elaborated: “She turns the chemistry on without giving the two poor animals time to tell if they both enjoy”—his mouth twitched a little—“Earl Grey tea or Digestive biscuits.”

    “Did your mother tell you about the biscuits?” said Georgy in a small voice.

    “No, Dad did. He was very struck!” He gave a tiny laugh. “Oh, I’m jealous of him, too,” he assured her.

    “I like him awfully,” admitted Georgy.

    Adam’s face flushed.

    She looked at him doubtfully and said: “Only I don’t know how your mother stands him, sometimes. I mean— Wouldn’t it be very tiring, living with someone who was that—um, well, critical, I suppose?”

    Adam grimaced. “I always found it so, certainly.”

    “Yes. Like being on the top of a cliff with the wind always blowing. It’s stimulating for a bit, but I could never live with it.”

    “Exactly,” said Adam, squeezing her hand hard. “Shall we go?”

    “What? Oh! Well—um—didn’t you want more tea?” said Georgy in a panic.

    “No.”

    “Oh. Um—”

    He released her hand. “You’d better go to the Ladies’—I spotted it when we came in, it’s just over by the door.”—She looked at him nervously.—“I’ll show you where it is, and I’ll wait for you just outside it,” he said mildly.

    “Oh! How did you know I— I suppose you think I’m hopeless,” she said in a low voice.

    “No. Just very timid about some things, especially social things,” said Adam gently. Georgy’s lips trembled, and she stared at the tablecloth.

    “I’m very timid about a lot of things, myself, that’s why I can understand,” said Adam, sounding rather awkward.

    “But—”

    “Yes, I know: famous film star,” he said, pulling a face.

    “Well, at least no-one recognized you except that nice little waitress.”

    He smiled slightly. “I’m pretty sure the large family party over there did—by the pillar.”

    Georgy looked round cautiously. Adam glanced in the same direction and as if attracted by a magnet the four young heads at the table—two teenagers, two younger ones—immediately swivelled their way. Their father glanced up sharply and said something to them in a low voice and, though looking very pink and excited, they all looked back reluctantly at their plates again.

    “They must be a very nayce family,” he murmured drily.

    Georgy looked at him dubiously. “Yes.” She swallowed. “Um…”

    “No, I couldn’t go over there and be gracious to them,” he said with a sigh. “It would a signal for the whole bloody place to rise up and descend on me en bloc.”

    “Oh,” said Georgy uncertainly.

    “Or, to put it more accurately, because I’m not one for sticking me head in a noose by myself,” he added, even more drily: “to descend on us, because I’d have dragged you over there with me, believe you me.”

    “Oh,” she said in a tiny voice.

    “Quite. Unpleasant if it happens to be oneself in the middle of it,” he said acidly.

    “I’m sorry, Adam.”

    Adam gave a tiny sigh. “They do look a nice family, and I’d like to. But bitter experience has taught me never to give in to these altruistic impulses.”

    “No,” agreed Georgy faintly.

    “Added to which,” he said, getting up: “don’t kid yourself that niceness’d prevail over the baser commercial instincts of the proprietor of this establishment. He’d be on the blower to the local press in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

    “Mm. I suppose he would.”

    “I’m sure he would. And given that approximately fifteen excited little Chinese faces have appeared round that swing door to the kitchen since that little waitress spotted me, I wouldn’t be too sure that as it is we won’t emerge to find a cluster of vultures outside,” he said grimly.

    “Ooh, heck!” gasped Georgy.

    “Quite,” said Adam. “Come on,” he added, as she just sat there.

    “Oh! Sorry!” she gasped, scrambling up. “Um—maybe we’d better hurry.”

    “Nonsense. If fate has marked my card, the vultures will be there.” He took her arm and led her firmly to the Ladies’. “I shall settle our bill, and when you emerge I shall be in this very spot. All right?”

    “Um—yes. Thanks,” said Georgy, not meeting his eye.

    Adam sighed a little. He wandered over to the cashier and found to his immense embarrassment that Michaels had paid for them all.

    Outside on the footpath there were no vultures. The restaurant hadn’t been air-conditioned but it had had several large fans going. Here the air was purer but not much cooler, and Adam was rather glad he’d had no opportunity after rehearsals to change out of his open-necked cotton shirt. Sticky though it was. A tie would have been sheer Hell in this weather—and, in fact, almost no-one in the restaurant, come to think of it, had been wearing one.

    “Which way?” he said, smiling at her.

    “Um—well, where do you want to go?”

    “A snog in the park would be nice,” he said thoughtfully.

    “Don’t be silly!” she gasped.

    “Well, what about that ferry that Angie mentioned?”

     “Um...” Georgy looked about her uncertainly. “Um—we’re at the back of... Oh, yes, I know! We go down here, but they only go once an hour. Um—what is the time?”

    “Nine-twenty,” discovered Adam with a smile in his voice.

    “Oh. Well, I think they go on the hour.”

    “Then shall we walk down to the waterfront very slowly?”

    “Ye-es... We could look in the shops, I suppose.

    “Would you rather go to a nightclub?”

    “No! They’re awful places!” she gasped.

    Adam was sure they were. But he couldn’t refrain from murmuring: “You’ve been to ’em all, I suppose?”

    “No, of course not. Only they are. I mean, you see their ads in the papers. Topless girls, and things. Cheryl’s husband takes her to them,” said Georgy in a stifled voice. “You know, from the purple house.”

    “Oh, the purple man! Yes, I can see it. –Does she enjoy them?”

    “Um, I don’t honestly know, now you come to mention it. She usually tells me how much the champagne cost or, um, the amount of money he put in the—um—the lady’s pants, or something.”

    “I see.”

    “Possibly to her that does count as enjoying herself,” said Georgy, frowning thoughtfully.

    “I think you’re right!” gasped Adam delightedly. He took her hand and tucked it firmly under his arm. “They must be soul-mates, after all.” He began to stroll gently down the street.

    “Ye-es... Well, I suppose there’s not many wives that would actually be proud of their husband putting money in a—um—”

    “G-string. No, quite,” he agreed, grinning

    “No!” she gasped with a giggle.

    “Down here?” he asked. “To the main street? Wouldn’t the back streets be more fun?”

    “Not at night!” gasped Georgy in horror.

    He turned obediently towards the lighted thoroughfare but said, lips twitching: “Don’t you believe I’m capable of protecting you with me kungfu?”

    “No, Elspeth said Joel told her that all that fighting in that film was a stuntman,” replied Georgy simply.

    “Joel hath a malicious tongue,” he pointed out.

    “Yes, but that doesn’t mean that it wasn’t true.”

    “I was hoping you wouldn’t pick that,” he said sadly.

    “A child of two would have picked it!” gurgled Georgy.

    “Mm,” he said, squeezing her hand into his side.

    “Besides, if anything happened to you while you were in my charge your millions of fans would probably lynch me,” she added, peeping up at him slyly.

    “Then we’ll definitely walk down the main street. –Isn’t it exciting?” he added as they waited at the traffic lights. “‘The nightlife is awakening.’”

   He hadn’t expect her to get the reference but she said immediately: “Yes, look at the lights: red, amber, green—”

    “Dad’s inflicted that ancient Peter Sellers recording on you,” he noted resignedly.

    “Yes! Isn’t it lovely?” she gasped.

    “In parts; mm.”

    “I love the one where he’s singing and then someone hammers on the door and yells—”

    “‘Come on, Dad, ’ow much longer yer goin’ to be in that barfroom?’”

    Georgy giggled ecstatically.

    “When I auditioned for RADA they told me that an ability to mimic had nothing to do with acting,” he said thoughtfully.

    “Ooh, Adam! Did they really?” she gasped.

    “Mm. As I couldn’t afford to study full-time anyway I told them where to put it.”

    Georgy gulped.

    “It wasn’t nearly as brave as it sounds: I already had a job in rep, but I’d had this mad thought that if I was really as good as I hoped I was they might—er—fall on their knees in awed admiration and offer me a scholarship,” he admitted drily.

    “How old were you?”

    Adam laughed. “You do go straight to the heart of things, don’t you? Twenty.”

    “Well, they were a pack of idiots!” said Georgy sturdily.

    He laughed again and began to lead her across the road as the lights changed. “I seem to remember Joel told me so at the time. Everyone else in the company expressed such saccharine sympathy that I knew immediately they were pleased as Hell about it.”

    “Pigs,” she said mildly.

    “Mm, absolutely.”

    “Say that again,” she demanded abruptly.

    “Uh—absolutely?”—Georgy nodded.—“Absolutely,” said Adam limply.

    “Ugh, it’s true,” she said.

    “What?”

    “What we learned in—it was First-Year English, I think. About the Standard English short I in words ending in L,Y. Everyone here says ‘lee’, so of course I ought the lecturer was potty. –He hadn’t bothered to explain that what we spoke wasn’t Standard English,” she explained.

    “Christ,” said Adam faintly.

    Georgy sighed a little. “It was nearly all like that—my B.A., I mean. Lots of unconnected facts thrown at us with absolutely no context in which to set them.”

    “But—” Adam stopped.

    “The system’s based loosely on the English one, rather than the American one. Well, I don’t really know, because I haven’t experienced either of them. But I think that’s right: they assume a certain level of general knowledge, and of background knowledge about your subject—well, certainly in English and languages; and history, come to think of it—which most seventeen- or eighteen-year-olds here just don’t have.”

    Adam raised his eyebrows. “In spite of having been exposed to the box since the day they were born?”

    “Or because of it; more than half the stuff we get’s American.”

    “Mm.” They were about to pass a jeweller’s; Adam stopped and looked in the window.

    “Pearl necklaces,” said Georgy indifferently.

    “Mm.” Adam peered. “Not very good ones.”

    “Oh,” she said blankly.

    Adam moved on a little way. He peered at the rings. “Total crap,” he muttered.

    Georgy returned simply: “How can you tell just by looking?”

    “How can you not tell?”

    She flushed. “I don’t know, and I’m not interested in finding out!”

    “Who would be, if this is the best they’ve got!” He looked at the shop dubiously. “Is it the best?”

    “Um... I think that one on the other side of the road’s supposed to be the best: Mum always looks in it if we go to afternoon tea,” said Georgy indifferently.

    Adam glanced across the road. His jaw dropped. It was the boutique in the big store where he’d found his Cheese Shop. “What?”

    “Snob,” said Georgy crossly.

    “Where does Jake shop?” he asked with a laugh.

    “Paris, I should think.”

    “Mm.” He began to stroll slowly on. “Did you notice Polly’s earrings when we dined with them last night?”

    “Um—not really. Were they pearls? They were a funny colour.”

    “Huge black pearls,” he said faintly.

    “I wouldn’t have called them black.”

   Adam replied with a naughty twinkle: “No, but then, you wouldn’t call white grapes white, would you?”

    “No, and I wouldn’t call white horses grey, either!” said Georgy crossly.

    He gave a delighted laugh. “They were black pearls,” he assured her. “Beautiful things.”

    “I think it’s terrible,” she said. “I mean!”

    “Mm. Well, she does force him to—er—endow old folks’ homes and so on,” said Adam drily. “I gather it’s the gentle art of compromise, from something Jill told Joel.”

    “What do you mean?” she asked, frowning over it.

    “It makes Jake happy to give Polly—er—conspicuous examples of conspicuous consumption. So, on condition that he endows the odd old folks’ home she accepts the odd little something from time to time. Like that bloody Lamborghini of hers—by God, if she was my wife—" He stopped.

    “It does go very fast,” said Georgy in a small voice. “But Rod says she’s a very good driver.”

    “Let’s hope this Rod is right,” he replied grimly, not unaware that it was not the first time this gentleman’s name had passed Georgy’s lips.

    “Mm.”

    They walked on in silence for a little. Adam had released her while he looked in the jeweller’s and he began to wonder whether she was keeping her distance because she didn’t want him to take her arm again or… Well, possibly it was just shyness.

     He glanced at her uncertainly as they came to another set of lights.

    “Actually, it’s green, amber, red, isn’t it?” she said.

    “The sequence, or the Peter Sellers record?” said Adam in confusion, staring at the lights.

    “Um...” Georgy stared at the lights. “The sequence is green, amber, red and back to green. There isn’t an amber after the red.”

    “Well, what about the record?”

    “Um... Now I’m muddled,” she confessed.

    “So am I,” said Adam, staring at the lights. Was it the same at home, or...?

    “Come on!” she gasped.

    Adam jumped, took her elbow in a sort of reflex, and they crossed, finding themselves on a large plaza with... Cor.

    “What is it?” he said.

    “A fountain, of course. Sometimes people put detergent in it, I suppose it’s pollution, really, but it makes the most marvellous bubbles. The students always get blamed, of course.”

    “Mm. Not the fountain, the monumental shape on the plinth.”

    “Oh! Um, it’s a Maori chief. He’s wearing a cloak, that’s why he’s... um, that shape.”

    They went up to the chief and Adam looked up at him with interest. “Is he welcoming or threatening?”

    The huge Maori chief faced the harbour. He was a sort of modernist Maori chief so his face didn’t express anything. His cloak was really rather Barbara Hepworth-ish, at least it would have been if it hadn’t been a cloak, and Adam experienced a sneaking liking for him that he wasn’t about to admit to Georgy.

    She replied thoughtfully: “I’ve often wondered that. Sometimes I think the artist made him deliberately ambivalent. He’s a nice shape, isn’t he? He always makes me think of Barbara Hepworth.”—Adam twitched sharply.—“I don’t know why, because she didn’t do representational things, did she?”

    “No. It’s the shape of the cloak,” he said weakly.

    “Yes. The art gallery’s got a sculpture by her. I like it. I wish— Oh, well. I did borrow a lovely book about her from the Art School library, only pictures aren’t quite the same, are they?”

    “No. I’m very fond of her stuff,” said Adam abruptly.

    “Are you? I thought your mother said—” Georgy broke off.

    “Betjeman-ish towers, turrets and arches?”

    “Yes!” said Georgy with a laugh.

    “I must admit they are my weakness. A sort of horrible fascination... But I love Hepworth. I thought of her, too, the minute I laid eyes on that cloak.”

    “Did you really?” said Georgy, looking up at him doubtfully.

    “Yes. Only I wasn’t about to admit it to you, snob that I am,” said Adam with a grimace.

    She looked up at him with a wondering expression.

    “Go on, say it,” he said sourly.

    She swallowed. “Well, why on earth should you care whether I think you’re a cultural moron, or not?”

    Adam shrugged. “It’s nothing personal, I assure you.”

    “I can see that,” said Georgy, goggling at him.

    “It’s like I said, I’m a snob.” He shrugged again.

    “Either that or you’re scared of being put down,” she said slowly.

    To his annoyance, Adam felt himself go very red. The plaza was not precisely floodlit, but more than bright enough for Georgy to see his flush. “Both. If that’s possible,” he said shortly, shoving his hands in his pockets.

    “Mm... Why not? People are very complex, aren’t they?” Georgy looked up at the statue again.

    “Very. On the whole, I think I prefer art,” said Adam drily.

    “I know I do, I always have.”

    “Art and Anglo-Saxon?”

    “Yes. Have you seen the Sutton Hoo treasure?” she said abruptly.

    “Uh—yes,” he replied in a shaken voice. After a moment he rallied to say: “Also the Bayeux Tapestry—or is that rather out of your period?”

    “Not exactly,” said Georgy with a smile in her voice. “It was after the Norman invasion that French began to—”

    “Pax,” he said glumly.

    Georgy giggled.

    Adam smiled and took her arm again. “I think I really was afraid you’d wither me if I said the Maori chief reminded me of Hepworth.”

    “I might not have known who she was,” Georgy pointed out calmly. “I’m really hugely ignorant. The Art School library’s full of books about artists that I’ve never heard of. You know that Italian sculptor who does the tall, skinny people? Very skinny, I mean.”

    “Giacometti?” suggested Adam.

    “Ye-es... I think so. Well, I’d never even heard of him at all, and I’d never seen a photo of any of his work until I stumbled across a whole shelf of books about him when I was looking for one on Barbara Hepworth. And actually, until a couple of years ago I’d always sort of taken Mum’s word for it that Picasso was—um—sort of an artistic poseur that only art snobs admired. I mean, she didn’t exactly put it like that, but that was the impression she’d given me—you know.”

    “I see. What made you change your mind?”

    “Pauline.”

    “Who’s Pauline?” said Adam rather faintly.

    “Oh! I forgot—you won’t have met her yet, of course: she’s doing the costumes for the show. She’s a lecturer at the Art School. She’s not very happy there: the rest of them despise her because she teaches illustration and most of them are only into fine arts. Capital F, capital A.”

    “I see. But—er—she is into Picasso?”

    “Yes. She made me borrow a book about him—one of her own books—because I said um, something very stupid. She said I needed to stop going about with my eyes and my mind closed,” revealed Georgy simply.

    “And have you?”

    “I’m trying,” she said earnestly, looking up at him, “only it’s awfully hard, sometimes. I think I’ve got some sort of horrible defence reaction, it makes me sort of—um—fall back on the clichés I’ve absorbed from Mum instead of—um—you know, really bothering about anything new.” She paused. “New to me, I mean.”

    “Mm. –I rather like the sound of your Pauline. Do you see much of her?”

    “Not really. During the productions I do, I suppose. Only during the term I suppose we’re both pretty busy... And she’s got lots of friends, they’re all artists, too.”

    “Fine artists, capital F, capital A?”

    “No, most of them really make a living from it!” said Georgy with a laugh. “Some of them are commercial artists, and there’s, um, well, there’s a man who’s a potter, and his wife makes leather things, and um... Another man who’s a glassblower, and he’s got a friend who does wood-turning, but I’ve never met him.”

    “I see: mostly craftspeople, then?”

    “Mm!” she squeaked, clapping a hand to her mouth.

    “What?”

    “It’s just— I don’t know—the way you said it, or— Maybe it was your accent, I suddenly thought ‘St Ives’!” choked Georgy.

    Grinning, Adam retorted: “I haven’t got a Cornish accent.”

    “Is that where it is?”

    He swallowed. “Yes. Was that a leg-pull?”

    “No; I don’t know much about British geography.”

    “Or not modern British geography—right?” he said drily.

    “Yes,” she agreed, twinkling at him.

    Suddenly Adam put his arm right round her shoulders and gave her a little squeeze. “Come on, where do we go now?”

    “What? Oh!” gasped Georgy. “Um—across there—the ferry probably won’t be in, yet.”

    “Never mind, we can sit peacefully on the wharf and wait for it. °

    “Ye-es... If there are any seats.”

    There weren’t many. Certainly not down at the end of the wharf where you got the best view. Though even that was rather restricted: the ferry wharf hunched itself between two huge dark wharves that were apparently designed for the Queen Mary. Though the rusting hulk at one of them certainly was not she.

    “Over there’s where the big passenger ships come in,” said Georgy, waving vaguely in the other direction.

    “Oh,” said Adam blankly.

    “I think there’s a restaurant there, or something, too,” she said without interest.

    “A bar?”

    “Um—I don’t know.”

    “If you had known, and if there had been, we could have gone over there and had a drink.”

    “Yes. And missed the ferry.”

    “Mm.” Adam put his arm round her shoulders again. He drew her gently towards the edge of the wharf but Georgy resisted him.

    “Scared of the drop?” he murmured.

    “Yes,” said Georgy in a cross voice.

    “In that case I won’t suggest sitting on that bollard. I don’t mind wharves so much, but I don’t care for the drop from the camel’s back!” he said with a chuckle.

    “What?” she replied blankly.

    Adam laughed. He told her all about his experiences with the dreaded camel in Morocco.

    “I saw that series. I really thought it had been made in India.”

    “You were meant to,” he said drily. “Did you enjoy it?”

    “Um, no,” admitted Georgy in a small voice. “I thought it was—um—silly.”

    “Good,” said Adam, tightening his arm on her.

    Georgy’s heart beat very fast. She waited for him to ask her why in God’s name she’d watched it, then, but to her relief he didn’t. “I used to do some swot in the evenings and then watch it as sort of light relief,” she ventured timidly.

    There was a short silence. Adam stared unseeingly at the rusting hulk that wasn’t the Queen Mary and wondered if she’d let him kiss her once they were on the boat. Georgy looked at the lights on the water and didn’t think anything, much.

    “Do you usually have a lot of work to do in the evenings?” he asked abruptly.

    “In term time? Yes. I’ve changed the whole shape of the course. I give them more tutorial exercises, so there’s marking nearly every week. But it means we can go over their mistakes and— Um, well, anyway, I suppose I am quite busy,” she ended lamely. “Sorry: it’s boring.”

    “No,” he said, squeezing her again: “go on. Tell me about it. What are the tutorials like? One-to-one basis?”

    “What? No!” gasped Georgy in horror.

    “Then it can’t be like the English system!” said Adam with a laugh in his voice.

   Georgy realized in astonishment that he’d actually listened to what she’d said, earlier. “Well, it’s not like Oxford and Cambridge. Um—well, I get nearly a third of the First-Years, they have to do First-Year Anglo-Saxon if they want to go on to Third-Year English at all, you see.”

    “Why?” said Adam faintly.

    “I’ve never been able to work that out myself,” replied Georgy calmly.

    “One of Mac’s regulations?”

    “I think it predates him. I think it’s a Mede and Persian.”

    “I get it: immutable,” he agreed. “So how many bodies is that?”

    Georgy told him.

    “What?” he gasped.

    “I suppose it is a lot...”

    “Darling, how can you possibly mark a hundred and twenty tutorial exercises every week?” he gasped.

    “I don’t do them all, I’ve got a junior tutor who takes half of the First-Year groups, he does sixty and I do sixty.”

    “He must be rueing the day he took the job on,” said Adam thoughtfully.

    “I thought that, too, but he isn’t, he’s very pleased, for one thing he gets paid by the hour and for another thing he’s always thought we needed weekly tutorials at First-Year level, too,” replied Georgy happily.

    “What’s his name?” asked Adam abruptly. His heart hammered with jealousy and terror: if it was this “Rod” again—

    But Georgy replied: “Sean. He’s quite capable. Only he’s finishing his Ph.D. this year, so he’ll be looking around for a permanent job.”

    “Oh, so he’s only a graduate student?”

    “Mm. I don’t know how he manages, he’s got a young family. Well, his wife’s got a part-time job, but— Well, anyway, they’re living on a shoe-string.”

    “Mm.” Adam wasn’t interested in married graduate students with young families. “So you have sixty First-Year exercises to mark every week, then. And what about the Second- and Third-Years?”

    “There’s only one tutorial group for each of those. Well, last year there were twenty-two in the second year, but Mac said we could stretch a point and just have one group. And there were only five Third-Years.”

    “Five?”

    “It’s optional in the second and third years.”

    “I see.”

    “This year we’ll have two Second-Year groups if we get the numbers we’re expecting, but Sean’ll do one of those, he’s very keen to. And there’ll only be four Third-Years doing Anglo-Saxon.”

    “Dr Harris having failed the remainder?” suggested Adam slyly.

    “Well... yes, they weren’t much good. I failed half of them, actually, and Mac said we’d better scale the marks, but when he saw what they were, he said all right, let them fail. They’d never been used to having to actually work in Anglo-Saxon before,” explained Georgy seriously.

    “All is explained!” declared Adam with a laugh. “And you give all these Second- and Third-Years weekly exercises, too?”

    “Not on quite the same basis. The Second-Years have a translation and we go over it in class, I don’t mark them individually. But I’ve set aside time when they can come and see me about it in small groups or individually if they want to.”

    “A rod for your own back?” he murmured.

    “Mac said that, too. But I don’t really have very many lectures. Only one a week with the First- and Second-Years.”

    “You wouldn’t need to. And do you set exercises for the Third-Years?”

    “Um... Well, officially they have a translation every week, only I do usually mark those. Well, I correct them, I don’t grade them. And I write comments: you know. At first some of them got cunning and used a printed translation—”

    “A crib,” he murmured.

    “What?” said Georgy blankly.

    Rather weakly, Adam explained. “We say that in England,” he ended, giving her another little squeeze.

    “I’ll have to remember not to get into the habit of using it: I’d hate to teach my students a foreign usage!”

    Adam smiled. “What happened when you spotted they were using the crib?”

    “What? Oh! I told them it was silly, they were wasting their time and not learning anything, so they stopped.”

    “I see,” he murmured. “Do you have any graduate students?”

    “There’ll be two starting Honours: Anglo-Saxon is just one Honours paper, it’s optional. And there’s Corinne as well, she’s in her second Honours year, this year. She’s doing her Master’s thesis on a—a grammatical topic.”

    “What?” asked Adam with interest.

    Georgy swallowed.

   “Given that I won’t understand!” he said with a laugh in his voice, “what is her topic?”

    Georgy told him.

    “A what approach?” gurgled Adam.

    “TG. You must have heard of it,” said Georgy in a small voice.

    “Will it work with Anglo-Saxon?”

    “I don’t know, I’ve never been much good at it... Polly said she’d help!” volunteered Georgy in a rush.

    “No-one thought of suggesting to this Corinne girl that she might have bitten off more than she can chew?”

    “Um—well, I don’t know enough about TG to— Well, I did sort of hint. And Mac told her she was an idiot, only that only made her more determined. She’s like that.”

    “It sounds as if she’ll be taking up a considerable amount of your time, this year,” he said on a dry note.

    “Um... Not really. Well, Polly’s Head of Department said we had to put it on an official basis, so he’s put Polly down as, um, half her official supervisor.”

    “Mm. But you’ll be on campus more than she will, or am I wrong?”

    “No, you’re right,” agreed Georgy. “But Polly’s given her lots of stuff to read up, so—um...”

    “That’ll keep her off your back for a while?”

    “Yes, thank goodness.”

    Adam smiled. “And what will you teach in the one Honours paper, Dr Harris?”

    “Um... Do you really want to know?” said Georgy gruffly.

    “Yes,”

    “Oh.” Georgy swallowed. “Well—”

    She told him in great detail about her Honours syllabus and, with very little prompting, about the Third-Year B.A. syllabus into the bargain. Adam found it quite interesting. And he could hear she was genuinely keen. But he was under no illusion as to the workload she must be giving herself.

    “Darling, it sounds as if you’re working yourself into the ground,” he said at last.

    “No. Last year was a struggle, because I had to prepare everything from scratch. But this year I’ll be re-using nearly all of my lecture notes.”

    “I see,” he said limply.

    “Here’s the ferry!” announced Georgy happily.

    “Yes,” said Adam limply.

    Georgy added cheerfully: “Soon I’ll be just like all the rest of them. Everybody  reckons Mac’s used the same lecture notes for the last thirty years. He hardly ever glances at his notes, now: once he starts it just sort of comes out automatically.”

    “Like being in a long-run show—yes,” said Adam limply.

    “Yes, it must run in the family!” agreed Georgy.

    “Mm.”

    The ferry drew in and three people got off. There was now a little cluster of people waiting to get on: perhaps thirty bodies. Adam and Georgy followed slowly in their wake. Most of them went inside but Georgy agreed eagerly when he suggested they go outside. Adam would have gone to the front but she explained you got a better view of the city from the back, so they went to the back. There was no-one else at that end of the ferry but as it was the end which had been the bow on the inward journey it was rather well illuminated by the wharf lights and Adam, who very much wanted to kiss Georgy, had to content himself with just sitting down and putting his arm round her shoulders while they waited for the scheduled departure time.

    Finally a bell rang and the engines turned over with a horrible roaring noise and three teenage boys came racing along the wharf and hurled themselves on board without benefit of the gangway, which the ferry crew was busily raising, and the thing started up. Georgy removed herself from Adam’s grasp and twisted on the seat to stare over the side.

    “What?” he said, moving up closer and staring, too.

    “The wake,” she said in a pleased voice.

    Yes, there was a wake, all right. Georgy stared at it fixedly. Was she going to stare at it for the entire trip? Twenty minutes or so was what it would take, she had said.

    Georgy stared down at the wake. Adam got very close to her and breathed in her hair. Which smelled of shampoo and, somehow, of sunshine. Maybe it was just warm hair smell, but Adam felt it was sunshine.

    The ferry chugged slowly out into the harbour. Once away from the wharf there was very little light where they sat at the rear pointed end. Thank you, designer of New Zealand ferries, thought Adam silently. He put an arm round Georgy—she still had her back to him.

    “I love the ferry,” she said in a muffled voice.

    “Mm,” said Adam into her hair.

    “You can see the Harbour Bridge, now,” she said in a muffled voice.

    “Mm,” said Adam into her hair.

    Georgy was silent. She stared at the spreading view of the harbour lights and the wharves they were leaving behind them.

    Adam nuzzled into her hair. After a few moments he found her ear. He gave it a cautious nibble. Georgy gasped and jerked in his arm.

    “Turn round,” he murmured into the ear.

   She twisted in his grasp and looked up at him uncertainly. “That’s better,” said  Adam in a shaken voice, and put his mouth on hers. He had time for a moment’s ecstasy, and then sheer panic, because Georgy’s mouth was closed. But then she looked into his eyes and slowly parted her lips. Adam kissed her and his whole body sang with triumph.

    “God, Georgy!”  he said at long last, his face buried in the cloud of auburn hair.

    Georgy didn’t say anything but she hugged him tight.

    “You smell so good,” said Adam in a muffled voice.

    “Do I?” she replied uncertainly. “It must be that scent Ngaio gave me.”

    “Mm. That and you,” said Adam.

    “Me?” said Georgy dubiously.

    “Mm.” He drew back a little and looked at her with a smile. “Georgy smell: it’s lovely.”

    She stared at him with a tiny frown.

    “Your skin... Everybody has a smell, haven’t you noticed?”

    “No.”

    Adam pulled her against him with a little laugh. “Sniff!” he suggested.

    Georgy sniffed obediently

    “Well?” he said as his blood pounded.

    “Um... Ye-es... It isn’t just sweat, I suppose,” she said dubiously.

    “No.” He put a hand under her chin and pushed her face up gently. “Do you like it?”

    “Yes,” said Georgy as the heat flooded up into her face.

    “Good!” said Adam with a laugh. He bent his head again.

    Georgy experienced again the mixture of huge excitement and immense bewilderment she’d felt at the earlier kiss. That time when he’d just kissed her lips outside their gate hadn’t been nearly so... She hadn’t felt— Georgy shut her eyes tightly and held his body fiercely just above his waist and registered that he felt warm and very muscly and then stopped thinking at all for quite some time.

    “Um—there’s the Naval Base, we’re nearly there,” she said groggily at last, twisting in his arms to stare over the side again.

    “Mm.” Adam turned her face back to his. “I’ve been nearly there for some time, actually,” he murmured.

    “What?” said Georgy blankly.

    “Never mind!” he choked.

    “I’m sorry if that was a supposed to be a sexy remark, or something,” said Georgy politely but with a naughty twinkle in her eye.

    Adam pulled her against his chest and said into the hair: “You’re a minx, Dr Harris. I’ve never said that to anybody in my whole life before,” he added thoughtfully, “but it suits you down to the ground.”

    “Ugh,” replied Georgy into his shoulder.

    Chuckling, he held her very tight. After a few moments he said: “This is lovely, Georgy.”

    “Yes,” she agreed in a muffled voice.

    “I love you,” said Adam conversationally into the hair.

    “Don’t say that, it’s stupid,” she replied into his shoulder

    “Why?” he murmured.

    “We don’t even know each other,” said Georgy into his shoulder. “And anyway— Well, it’s silly,” she ended in a flattened tone.

    “Worlds apart? From different cultures? Ships that pass in the night?” suggested Adam, very mildly.

    Georgy sat up suddenly, very flushed and cross-looking. “Yes, you’re so smart you’ll cut yourself one of these days, Adam McIntyre! All right, you’re right, it’s all of those things, and just because they’re clichés doesn’t make them any less true in this particular instance!”

    “I thought a cliché by definition was true in the particular instance?” he said, lips twitching.

    “Yes, it’s just a joke to you, isn’t it!” declared Georgy in a hasty, shaking voice.

    “No,” said Adam firmly: “it isn’t.”

    Georgy glared at the sea.

    “It isn’t, Georgy. –I wish you’d look at me when I’m talking to you!” he added on a cross note.

    She looked at him sulkily.

    “I always want to kiss you when you pout like that, it’s irresistible,” he murmured, twinkling.

    “That’s silly, too,” she muttered.

    “Mm.” Adam put his lips very gently on hers. “I love you, darling Georgy,” he whispered, and kissed her properly

    “Don’t!” she choked, and pulling away, burst into tears.

    “Don’t cry, sweetheart, it’s nothing to cry about,” he said, pulling her against his shoulder again.

    Georgy resisted for a moment and then cried very hard into his shirt.

    “I have fallen in love with you,” said Adam in a voice that came out very low and shaken. He swallowed, and found he’d lost his nerve completely.

    “Don’t!” sobbed Georgy.

    “Please don’t cry,” he said.

    She went on crying.

    “I won’t— I won’t do anything you don’t want me to, or... Tell me what I’ve done wrong, Georgy,” he said with difficulty.

    Georgy snuffled into his shirt. “Nothing.”

    “I don’t know what you want,” said Adam into the hair.

    “...ordinary!” gasped Georgy into his shoulder.

    “What?”

    Georgy sniffed loudly and sat up. “I just wish you were someone ordinary!” she said loudly and crossly.

    “I see,” he said, his mouth tightening.

    She gulped. “I don’t want to— I mean, you’ve got your own life, and— It’d be stupid to get mixed up— I mean... Well, I don’t know what exactly you’ve got in mind, but I just think it would be stupid to get involved, see!” she ended loudly, very defiant.

    “I’m involved already,” croaked Adam.

    “Won’t it get worse if we, um, you know?”

    “Yes.” He took her hands and said with difficulty: “Look, for Christ’s sake, Georgy, can’t we give ourselves a chance? With any luck we may end up hating each other by the end of next month.”—She didn’t react.—“Or not, as the case might be,” ended Adam on an uncertain note.

    “Where would that leave me?” said Georgy in a tiny voice.

    “I don’t know. But people have been known to work these things out.”

    “I can’t see anything working out if you’re in England or Hollywood or somewhere and I’m here.”

    “No. If we wanted to go on with it, we’d have to—have to come to some arrangement,” said Adam in a voice that trembled.

    “I’ve only just got this job, I can’t give it up on a whim!” cried Georgy.

    “No.” He lifted her hands to his mouth and said against them: “It may not come to that. Though I admit that right now I’d like it to. But couldn’t we just—just take it from here and see—see how it goes?”

    Georgy looked at him uncertainly.

    “Please,” he said, as his eyes filled with tears.

    “Do you really want to?” she said in a tiny voice.

    “Yes,” Adam replied baldly, squeezing her hands very hard.

    Georgy looked into the handsome face that was looking pleadingly into hers and didn’t feel that he was famous Adam McIntyre or even notice the good looks. She did notice that he looked as if he was going to cry and as if he felt a bit sick. And that he looked very unsure of himself. And although he was a lot bigger than her, and a man, and sophisticated and everything, she had an absurd impulse to cradle him in her arms and tell him that it was going to be all right.

    “All right,” she said hoarsely.

    “Thank you,” said Adam. His lips trembled and he drew her quickly against him.

   Without really thinking about it, Georgy had expected him to suddenly get very passionate and was very surprized that he hadn’t. He didn’t move so after a while she said uncertainly: “Are you okay?”

    “Yes,” he said in a muffled voice.

    The ferry was making the sort of noises it made when it was about to park, sort of backing and filling, so Georgy said: “Um—I think the ferry’s almost stopped.”

    “Yes.” Adam released her and fumbled for his handkerchief. He blew his nose hard and gave her a shaky smile.

    Suddenly she wanted very much to tell him she loved him, too, but was much too shy of him, and indeed of the whole idea, to do so. She just touched his knee very timidly and quickly pulled her hand back. To her astonishment he immediately pulled her fiercely into his arms and said: “Darling!” And kissed her very passionately.

    Georgy kissed him back in some wonder.

    “Can I call you ‘darling’ in this particular instance?” he asked with his sidelong smile.

    He seemed to be quite himself again. She looked up at him in a state of complete incomprehension and said: “Yes.” In a voice that came out very small.

    “Good. And kissing me isn’t—er—‘horrible’, it is?” he asked teasingly.

    “You know very well it isn’t!” she said crossly, going very red.

    “Yes,” he agreed with a grin. “I think that had dawned. Well, come along, this tub seems to have stopped.”

    “What? Oh—yes!’’ he gasped, scrambling up. ‘‘Quick, or the bus’ll go without us!”

    Adam took her hand and allowed himself the delicious sensation of being tugged off the ferry and along a huge covered wharf by Georgy. Without asking whether they in fact wished to catch this bus at all. Or even where it went to. Well, actually he knew where it was going to: Tropical Paradise, where else?

    Actually it went to the mysterious “Takker” of Phil and Pru fame. Takker appeared to have closed down for the weekend, but he managed to find a taxi rank and after ten minutes a taxi turned up.

    In the back of the taxi he took Georgy’s hand and smiled at her but didn’t embarrass her by attempting anything more physical. Georgy had been terrified that he would, and was extremely disconcerted to find herself disappointed when he didn’t.

    “I think Mum’s still up,” she discovered in a small voice, standing at the top of her drive.

    “It certainly looks like it,” agreed Adam on a sour note: the Harris residence was a blaze of lights. “I suppose it is only about eleven-fifteen,” he added resignedly.

    “Mm.”

    “Never mind: kiss me good-night and it may inspire me with a thought as to where in God’s name we might go to—er—further the relationship,” he said with a grin.

    “Yes,” said Georgy in a small voice.

    “Sorry; it’s my crude masculine mind,” he said, drawing her against him. Ooh, lovely Georgy all down his front: it was Paradise, all right!

    “Yes. I didn’t think you were like that, only you are,” she admitted.

    Adam shook silently. “They all are, dear!” he managed to croak.

    “Mm.”

    “Mm,” he agreed. He kissed her very thoroughly. “Mmm,” he decided.

    “Oh, Adam!” said Georgy on a little squeak, flinging an arm around his neck.

    “Darling Georgy,” said Adam, forgetting to be rather off-hand and sophisticated, and holding her very, very tight and sniffling just a little into her neck. “I was so afraid you were going to turn me down flat, earlier,” he whispered at last.

    “I was scared,” said Georgy in a muffled voice.

    “Yes, I know.”

    “No, not only of—of getting involved; of—um—the physical side,” she gulped.

    “I see,” said Adam gently.

    “I wish we could just—” Georgy swallowed.

    “Get it over with?” he murmured.

    “Mm,” she admitted, sniffing a bit.

    “Don’t cry, darling; I can promise you it won’t be horrible. In fact the minute it even starts like looking as if it might be horrible, I promise I’ll stop. ‘

    “Now you’re laughing at me again,” said Georgy resignedly.

    “Only a very little,” he murmured. “I think I’m doing it so as I won’t get carried away.”

    “Hah, hah!”

    “No: honest.” Adam kissed her again and got very excited and said into her neck: “Darling Georgy, I am getting carried away, I want you like crazy.” He had been holding her very politely but at this he put on hand on her bottom and pulled her very tightly against him and ground his cock against her belly. He heard Georgy gulp loudly. Smiling a little, he said: “That isn’t horrible from where I’m standing. How about you?”

    “No,” she croaked.

    Adam didn’t say anything but with the hand that wasn’t on her bum he took her hand and put it on his cock. Then he put his hand on her breast and squeezed it just a little. “That’s lovely, darling,” he whispered into her neck.

    “Yes,” said Georgy in the thread of a voice.

    Adam rubbed himself against her little hand and squeezed her neat breast a little more and nibbled his way across her chin to her mouth and kissed her, getting quite considerably carried away. Eventually hugged her very tight and said: “I think you’d better go inside, or I’ll be lugging you off to a convenient cave. I’ll think about somewhere nice we could go to be by ourselves. Perhaps one of the tourist traps: go off for a weekend, tell Mac to shove the bloody show for a couple of days?”

    To his astonishment she returned meekly: “That’d be nice.”

    Adam gave an amazed laugh. He kissed her quickly and said: “Go on, darling, go inside before the Inquisition comes out to see what the noise at the gate is all about.”

    “She’s not that bad,” said Georgy with a smile. “Goodnight, then.”

    “Goodnight—no, wait,” he said as she turned away.

    “What?” she said, looking up at him expectantly.

    “Don’t change your mind, will you?” he croaked.

    “No.”

    Adam swallowed. He took a step towards her and said: “Promise, Georgy?”

    Georgy’s face took on a very gentle expression that he hadn’t seen on her before. “Yes. I promise. I said I would, before. I won’t go back on it.”

    “No,” croaked Adam. “Goodnight, darling.”

    “Goodnight, Adam,” said Georgy in a little girl’s voice, and ran down her path.

    Adam waited until she’d gone inside and then walked very slowly down his parents’ drive. Never mind the strain of having been sure he’d never find a taxi in that Takker dump and they’d be stranded ignominiously and he’d have to ring up Dad and ask him to rescue them: tonight must rank—yes, it did rank—as the most perfect of his entire existence. Where could it go from here? It could only get better. Or more “horrible,” if you liked to put it like that!

    Unfortunately where it could go from there was rather rapidly downhill and he barely laid eyes on Georgy for the rest of the weekend. Let alone managing to spend both Saturday and Sunday evening with her as he’d fully intended.

    “What?” he said blankly to Melinda next morning.

    “Try some of those sultana grapes, Adam, they’re really very nice. Well, it’s a wee bit early in their season, they’ll be nicer in a couple of weeks.”

    Adam looked sulkily at the grapes.

    “I’m quite sure I mentioned it to you several days ago, dear. Deborah and Chas were planning a holiday over here anyway, so they thought they’d go round the South Island and then come on back for Maurice’s launching—”

    “‘The Man Whose Uncle Was a Ship’,” said Adam sourly.

    “Stop playing fake titles, Adam, it’s far too early. No, as I was saying, your Aunt Deborah wants to see you—though with that face I can’t imagine why,” she added acidly as Adam scowled—“and Suzanne and Maurice have invited us all to dinner.”

    “Joel too?”

    “Yes, of course,” replied Melinda mildly.

   Adam put his elbows on the table. “I suppose that’s sharing the agony, at least. -Can I bring a partner?”

    “No, you know what Suzanne is.”

    “Yes: three frozen peas and one lamb cutlet each.”

    “That’s a gross exaggeration, Adam, she’s a very capable cook.”

    “Just not inspired, mm.”

    “But she does work her menus out very carefully in advance. And I mean in advance, so don’t suggest ringing her now.”

    “Why in God’s name didn’t Uncle Maurie suggest taking us all to a decent restaurant?”

    “Possibly because this is New Zealand,” returned Melinda mildly. She scooped muesli out of a large glass jar into a pudding bowl, added a considerable quantity of small green grapes, poured milk on the result, shoved it in front of her son and said: “Eat.”

    “Is that that revolting fatty stuff?”

    “No. Skim. Eat.”

    Adam began to eat muesli and grapes sulkily.

    Melinda pointed out mildly: “You like Deborah and Chas.”

    “I like Deborah, yes. And I can put up with Chas when I’m feeling very strong. But I can’t stand bloody Suzanne, she must be the most boring woman on God’s earth.”

    “Nonsense, Adam, I know at last five other equally well qualified candidates for that position,” said Melinda calmly, sitting down with a cup of coffee.

    “Ail living within a stone’s throw of the Hibiscus Coast, no doubt,” he said acidly. “Christ, will Aunt Zorro be there?”

    “No, that treat will be denied you. However, your cousin Brett and his family—”

    “What?” howled Adam.

    “—and your cousin Tess and her boys will all definitely be there.”

    “Look, Ma!” he cried.

    “Without the frightful Norman, I’m very glad to say, they got divorced last year, did I mention it?”

    “I’ve no idea,” replied Adam with some satisfaction.

    Christopher had come into the kitchen with a bunch of beetroot in his hand during the latter part of this exchange. “And don’t suggest throwing a sickie, I’ve bagged that one.”

    “What?” said Adam faintly.

    “A choice piece of the vernacular,” Christopher explained kindly. He began to rinse the beetroot in the sink and added over his shoulder: “Persons like Georgy’s brother-in-law use it with total seriousness.”

    “Look, shut up!” replied Adam crossly. “I don’t really have to go, do I, Ma?”

    “Yes. Suzanne and Maurice are expecting you. And your Aunt Deborah’s looking forward to seeing you.”

    Adam looked sulky. After a moment, however, he said: “How’s her hip?”

    “Not good. Chas says she’s booked in for the replacement this May. Only don’t mention it, will you, dear? You know what Deborah is: she’s told him not to let on about it.”

    “No, all right. How on earth is she going to put up with jaunting round the South Island?” he added.

    Melinda sighed a little “Not very well, I don’t think. Well, they’ll be staying in motels or hotels, and they’ll do it all in short legs, but— Oh, well. Evidently she’s insisting on going, Chas says she’s got some bee in her bonnet about dying under the anaesthetic or some such thing.”

    Adam and Christopher goggled at her.

    “Has this bad hip addled her brain?” asked Deborah’s brother faintly.

    “I don’t know, Christopher, she’s your sister, not mine,” returned Melinda with the utmost placidity.

    Adam finished his muesli. “Well, it’ll be bloody,” he announced definitely.

    “Wait for it,” Christopher warned him sardonically.

    “What?”

    “Now don’t pretend you’ve forgotten about Sunday as well,” began Melinda, “because—”

    “I’ve definitely forgotten about Sunday,” said Adam.

    “Evan’s taking us all to some bloody hotel in town,” said Christopher.

    “Why?”

    “Don’t ask me. Possibly to avoid Lisbeth’s cooking.”

    “I’ll definitely throw a sickle for it,” decided Adam.

    “No, you won’t: when Evan actually puts his hand in his pocket, no-one in this family is going to look it in the mouth,” replied Christopher.

    “Or bite it as it tries to feed us: quite,” murmured Melinda.

    “Damn. Well, who’s ‘us all’?” demanded Adam.

    “Calm down,” said his father with a dry look: “ourselves, Joel, Deborah and Chas, and Evan and Lisbeth. None of your bloody cousins.”

    “And some medical friend of Evan’s,” added Melinda. “He did ask Mac and Cherry but they can’t make it, she’s got some committee thing that she’s making Mac drive her to. And Maurie and Suzanne can’t make it, either, it’s little Maurice’s first birthday and they’re all going to Brett’s.”

    “Be thankful for small mercies,” advised Christopher.

    “I am. Which one’s little Maurice, dare I ask?”

    “He’s Maurie and Suzanne’s first great-grandchild, Adam, I have told you that before,” said Melinda definitely.

    “So even Maurie couldn’t get out of that one,” explained Christopher kindly.

    Adam sighed heavily.

    Joel had got out of the Sunday evening do by the simple expedient of declaring he had a migraine. He didn’t think any of the Blacks believed him but then he didn’t think they minded, either. The migraine miraculously disappeared in time for him to wander down to the beach at the foot of Kowhai Bay Road for a very down-market barbecue with Jill and Gretchen. Elspeth Macdonald and the black dog were also present, but Joel didn’t kid himself it was at anybody’s invitation.

    “Even if I hadn’t already had a migraine, last night’s family party would have been enough to give me one,” he explained carefully, throwing a fallen pohutukawa leaf at the fire.

    “But you just said you haven’t got one,” objected Elspeth.

    “Exactly,” agreed Joel cordially.

    Gretchen chuckled. She put another piece of driftwood carefully on the fire.

    “Ooh, highly witty,” decided Elspeth.

    “Silence, brat, that expression and that tone are forbidden to anyone under the age of forty-two,” sighed Joel.

    “Are you forty-two?” returned Elspeth keenly.

    “No, darling: figure of speech,” he sighed.

    “Oh.” After a moment she added informatively: “Aunty Polly says it a lot, too.”

    “She does?” said Jill blankly.

    “Ja: often she says Katie Maureen is a hard-as-nails exec of forty-two, haff you got cloth ears?” rejoined Gretchen cheerfully.

    “Must have,” decided Jill, grinning in the dusk. She chucked a fallen pohutukawa leaf at the fire.

    “Yes, she does,” agreed Elspeth.

    “As I was saying!” said Joel loudly.

    “Don’t bother,” advised Jill.

    “No, go on. What did you have to eat?” asked Elspeth eagerly.

    Joel groaned. “Darling, the details are lost in the general hoo-hah or mish-mash: what with Blacks all talking at the tops of their voices, Chas Thing—he’s Deborah Black’s husband—talking louder than any of ’em in a foul Australian accent, all of the Black tribe bar none being of a positively stunning beauty but all of the two younger generations being of a positively stunning thickness as well—”

    “Is this Deborah Black, the writer, that you’re talking about?” interrupted his cousin in amazement.

    “So they tell me,” he sighed.

    “She isn’t thick!” said Gretchen in amazement.

    “No,” agreed Jill weakly.

    “Darlings, if you were listening, I never said she was!” replied Joel crossly.

    “No, he didn’t,” agreed Elspeth.

    “Thank you, Elspeth, darling, at least one person present bothers to listen to me,” sighed Joel. Elspeth went into a terrifically pleased fit of the giggles.

    “The younger generation—Maurice’s offspring and their offspring—are the thick ones,” explained Joel nastily to Jill and Gretchen.

    “Oh,” they said.

    “Deborah, on the other hand, is not only a startlingly handsome woman but shatteringly bright—far brighter than dear Adam, dare one add,”—Elspeth here gave a strangled gasp—“and as far as one of my abysmal ignorance can tell, considerably brighter than Christopher in all spheres but that of physics.”

    “He is very clever at physics, he won a medal and everything. Dad says he was one of the brightest stars in the Cambridge firmament in his day,” contributed Elspeth.

    “God,” he muttered, clutching his head.

    “That’ll do,” said his cousin briskly. “Hamish is quite right, Elspeth—and before you say anything, Thring, he did his degree at Edinburgh and is considerably eminent in his own sphere, so he is likely to know.”

    “Aye, he is that. Mirry says he may be hopeless at real life but he’s a damn good scholar,” reported the Kowhai Bay town crier with satisfaction.

    Swallowing, Joel said faintly: “Er—yes. Good. –Where was I?”

    “Telling us how bright Deborah Black iss, but do not bother, ve haff read her books,” said Gretchen kindly.

    Jill lifted the grill of sausages gingerly and peered at it dubiously. “Well, go on,” she said, putting it back.

    “Aw, aren’t they done?” asked Elspeth sadly.

    “No. Go on, then, Joel!”

    “I’ve lost me thread,” he said mournfully.

    “Good,” said Gretchen simply.

    “You said Deborah Black was handsome. And had a very loud voice, I think,” contributed Elspeth.

    “Did one actually—? No, very well, Elspeth, love, you have correctly interpreted the style: Deborah had a very loud voice and talked an amazing blue streak, all about books and plays and the very intellectual sort of foreign film that one’s poor self never bothers to see, with occasional references thrown in to Australian artists and personalities of whom one had never heard.”

    “So?” said Jill.

    Joel sighed. “Well, one felt left out, dear.”

    “So?” said Jill. Elspeth giggled.

    “Traitor,” Joel said to her, pouting. Elspeth giggled again. “No, well, darlings, that was tedious enough, but what was worse was that her brothers seemed to feel it incumbent upon them to compete with her. I know this seems unlikely, but—”

    “No. Bright families are like that,” said Jill.

    “Did Melinda compete?” asked Gretchen curiously.

    “Oh, very sharp, dear. Yes, indeed she did. Interesting, no?”

    “No,” said Jill promptly. “But I can see it could well have added to the unease of the evening.”

    “Ja. Also to the loudness,” agreed Gretchen.

    “Yes!” gasped Joel.

    “And the other wives?” asked Gretchen keenly, leaning forward.

    “One guess, darling,” he sighed.

    “Off course they play Kitchen,” she said sitting back with a grin.

    “I know what that is!” cried Elspeth. “Mirry told me!”

    “Go on,” said Jill with a laugh in her voice.

    “It’s when you’re all at a party. Um—sort of,” she said uncertainly.

    “Yes, a grown-ups’ party,” agreed Jill kindly.

    “Yeah, that’s it,” said Elspeth with some relief. “And the ladies don’t try to talk to the men, they go and—um—they go into the kitchen and um—bring in the food and stuff.”

    “Ja, good, that iss right,” approved Gretchen.

    “‘That’s!’” hissed Jill crossly.

    “That’s right,” she corrected herself placidly. “It’s to avoid stretching their tiny feminine brains, no?”

    “Ye-es... Mirry says sometimes it’s because the men are male chauvinist pigs, though.”

    “She’s right!” choked Jill. She, Gretchen and Joel all broke down and laughed like drains. Elspeth looked very pleased.

    “Well, darlings, that was It, really,” said Joel weakly at last.

    “Did Adam compete, or did he play Kitchen too?” asked Jill drily, inspecting the sausages again.

    “No, but he did encourage his abysmally silly cousin Tess and his even more abysmally silly cousin-in-law Wendy to flirt outrageously with him. In spite of the fact that Wendy’s a grandmother in her own right and Tess must be pushing forty. And in spite of the fact that Wendy’s teenage daughters were there, pea-green with envy and with their eyes on stalks unable to believe the way Mum was carrying on under their very stalks.”

    Gretchen sniffed slightly but refrained from comment.

   Jill eyed Elspeth’s expression sideways and inspected the sausages.

    “Are they done yet?” asked Elspeth, immediately distracted.

    “Yes,” she decided. She began putting charred sausages onto the battered plastic plates of her down-market picnic set.

    “Well, it sounds very typical,” decided Gretchen, cheerfully. “Vhat about the other men, Joel?”

    “She’s put her finger on the nub. Or one of them,” said Joel mournfully. “It was all fairly nubbish.” He picked up a sausage, gasped: “Hot!” and dropped it back onto the plate.

    “Tigger!” said Elspeth with a giggle.

    “Yes, we’ll call him Tigger for the rest of the evening, shall we?” suggested Jill.

    Giggling ecstatically, Elspeth agreed to this.

    Gretchen passed out beers, just stopping herself in time from passing one to Elspeth.

    “Aw-wuh! Well, what c’n I have to drink?” she whinged.

    “Nothing,” said Gretchen simply. “You were not invited.”

     Elspeth subsided. Momentarily.

    “Come on, Tigger,” urged Jill.

    “Yeah! Come on, Tigger!” cried Elspeth.

    Groaning, Joel said: “Well, they were very loud and very macho, dears. What else can one say? Er—Chas has a boat. Is there a harbour in Sydney?”

    “YES!” they all screamed in astonishment.

    “Well, that’s where he sails it, then,” said Joel, unabashed. “I’m afraid one cannot report the macho comments thereon verbatim, dears. But in a nutshell, it was macho competitiveness, sort of over or under the decibels of Deborah and her lot.”

    “Plus the Kitchen lot,” agreed Jill.

    “Plus the sulking teenage daughters off this Wendy,” agreed Gretchen.

    “Yes. Oh, plus the sulking teenage sons of Tess, I forgot them.”

    “Why were they sulking?” asked Jill weakly.

    “I’m not sure. I think partly because when they asked Adam if it was true he did ballet exercises—with the obligatory hoonish guffaws, dears,” he added acidly, if unnecessarily, “Adam said of course he did, there was nothing like ballet for keeping fit. And partly because when the bigger one then demanded that he come outside and throw him across the lawn to demonstrate this fitness Adam refused point-blank on the score of not being into one-sex contact sports. Seldom have I ever seen a spotty teenage countenance turn a brighter shade of maroon,” he added thoughtfully, as Gretchen gulped and Jill gave a faint whistle. “And then, of course, when they tried to join in the macho peer group, their elders brushed them off like flies. They were allowed to hover on the fringes laughing hoarsely at macho witticisms but their poor little teenage comments were neither desired nor appreciated nor, alas, even noticed when offered.”

    “Poor little sods!” choked Jill.

    “Ja. Stop laughing, you heartless woman, you shock Elspeth,” ordered Gretchen.

    “I’m not shocked!” squeaked Elspeth, in ecstasy. “Stupid—boys!”

    “Watch out, dear, you’ll be choking on your sausage,” warned Joel.

    Elspeth immediately did.

    When she’d been banged on the back and had recovered Jill adjusted a second round of sausages on the grill and offered sliced bread.

    “Vhy didn’t you produce this bread before, if you haff brought it?” demanded Gretchen.

    “Forgot. There’s some butter somewhere, I think,” she added graciously. “So a good time was had by all?”

    “Yes,” Joel agreed drily. “I’ve remembered what the food was, Elspeth, love, if you’re still interested?”—Elspeth nodded eagerly with her mouth full of bread and butter.—“First there was a piece of melon each, with ginger,” said Joel dreamily. “Maurice refused to eat his because he loathes melon, which according to him Suzanne knows. Then both the teenage boys refused to eat theirs, apparently labouring under the misapprehension that Maurice would support them in this stand. –He’s their grandfather, Elspeth, I don’t know if you’ve picked this essential fact.”

    “No. Ooh, I see what you mean!” she gasped.

    “Yes. Their grandmother got extremely annoyed and so did their mother. So Adam pointed out that melon was delicious but not terribly macho—his very words, darlings, I swear!” he added hurriedly.

    “That must have pleased Lady Black,” noted Jill.

    “Yes, it did, she told him not to be silly. He retaliated by offering to eat Maurice’s bit of melon if no-one else wanted it.”

    Gretchen gave a shout of laughter.

    “Good, good, very good,” said Jill, rubbing her hands.

    “Adam’s mother kept trying to give him a glare but he kept avoiding her eye.”

    “Tell us about the rest of the food!” urged Elspeth.

    Joel rubbed his nose. “Let me see. Well, after the melon—some on us was wondering was it typical Anty-podean cuisine—Suzanne and her helpers brought in the main course.”

    “Roast lamb,” said Gretchen in a bored voice.

    “You like roast lamb!” said Jill in amazement.

    “Ja, but in summer it’s too hot for it. Also it’s a New Zealand cliché: always they trot out the roast lamb for the visiting fireman or the poor foreigner.”

    “Well, for once it wasn’t roast lamb,” said Joel weakly. “It was large and roast, though.”

    “Roast pork,” said Gretchen immediately.

    “Ugh! In this weather?” cried Jill in revulsion.

    “I like roast pork,” said Elspeth in amazement.

    “Yes, but does Mirry serve it in midsummer?” demanded Jill.

    “Um... No. She never cooks it anyway, Dad cooks it. But he only cooks it in winter. Well, not in summer,” she conceded.

    “Must have been roast beef,” decided Jill.

    “No,” said Joel smugly.

    “Look, Joel, if you say hogget I’ll ram this here grill, minus the sausages, down your—”

    “No!” he protested in tones of hugely injured innocence.

    “Did you say it was big?” asked Elspeth keenly.

    “See? I said she was the only one who listens to me! Yes, Elspeth, love: big and roast and not pork or beef or lamb. Or hogget or mutton!” he added loudly, glaring at his cousin.

    “Turkey,” said Elspeth smugly.

    “Clever girl!” he beamed.

    Jill gave a hollow groan. “Tell me there was gravy, for God’s sake, Joel, I can’t stand the agony.”

    “Gravy? Darling, it must have been twenty-six degrees yesterday evening, and the humidity was eighty percent or so! Yes, of course there was gravy,” he said with a grin.

    “Gott,” muttered Gretchen.

    “I like gravy,” said Elspeth in surprize.

    “Darling, those of us with weak constitutions can barely face food in these tropic nights of yours, let alone steaming hot greasy midwinter provender of the cold northern climes,” he groaned.

    “It’s not that tropical.”

    “Elspeth, I’m sitting here in me shirt and shorts at nine o’clock in the evening and I’m still warm, of course it’s tropical!” he gasped.

    Elspeth immediately looked at her watch and informed him it was only eight forty-seven point four, no, five.

    “Quite. Er—pardon me if one is being tactless, dear, but shouldn’t you be home and in bed?”

    “Nah! Dad knows I’m here!” she returned in astonishment.

    “Does Mirry?” asked Gretchen.

    There was a short silence.

    “He said I could come,” Elspeth pointed out.

    “Oh, well, on his head be it!” decided Jill. “Come on, Joel, what else was served with this bloody bird?”

    “Cranberry sauce, and Maurice informed his wife that eating fruit with meat was a filthy American habit that should never have left its native shores.”

    “Ooh!” gasped Elspeth in horror.

    “Roast potatoes?” suggested Gretchen.

    “Yes, definitely. Tess’s boys had a fight over who was going to eat the odd one that was left over, but Adam settled that by giving one of them his one.”

    “That would have pleased Suzanne, too,” noted Jill.

    “Oh, it did,” Joel assured her.

    When they were all well into the second round of sausages and Elspeth, who had actually had her dinner some time back, was stealthily giving Puppy the burnt end of hers, Jill said: “Am I wrong or was Adam in a foul mood at this shindig of Maurice’s?”

    “’Esh,” said Joel thickly. He swallowed bread and sausage and clarified: “Yes. Had barely laid eyes on Georgy all day, had evidently wanted to spirit her off for a gla-more-ous evening—don’t ask me where, darlings, I can’t imagine anywhere being gla-more-ous in this humidity—and the nose was thoroughly out of joint.”

    “Why didn’t he drag her along too?” asked Jill idly, poking the fire.

    “It would put her off for life, it’s like vhen Klaus drags Brigitte to meet his family, she comes home in tears and says she vill not effen live with him, let alone—”

    “Cease this unnecessary Aryan reportage,” ordered Jill sternly.

    “—let alone marry him,” finished Gretchen inexorably, quite unmoved.

    “I thought that, too,” admitted Joel. “But I think it was more because there wouldn’t have been enough pieces of melon to go round.”

    “So vhy does he not take Georgy tonight?” demanded Gretchen.

    Joel replied simply: “Have you met Evan Black?”

    “No-o... This is the ENT man, ja?”

    “Yes. Personality as lively as pease pudding in the pot, nine days old.”

    “Ja: the Klaus syndrome... No, but listen, Joel: Georgy’s family isn’t exciting either, Adam must know this!”

    “He has met her mother,” agreed Jill. Elspeth sniggered.

    “Yes!” agreed Joel, also sniggering. “Well, I don’t know, darlings: I think he was just so peeved at the whole thing that he was determined to suffer.”

    “Well, let’s hope he is,” said Jill in a hard voice.

    “Jill!” cried Elspeth indignantly. “That’s mean!”

    “Yes. And talking of mean, don’t give that pooch any more to eat unless you want him to burst.”

    “He won’t burst!” she returned scornfully.

    “No, but what if he throws up in Hamish’s slipper?” returned Jill evilly.

    Elspeth went into a paroxysm.

    “It iss far more likely he puts on too much weight and becomes one off those disgusting old Labradors that can hardly walk and die off a heart attack before their time iss up,” said Gretchen clinically.

    Elspeth was about to refute this angrily but at that moment Puppy gave an almighty belch, so she merely said in a subdued voice: “All right: I won’t give him any more. Anyway, he hasn’t had much.”

    “Take him for a run, all the same: work it off,” said Jill.

    “Ja, it strengthens the heart,” agreed Gretchen.

    “All right, but you come, too!”

    Gretchen groaned loudly but got up. They wandered off down the dark beach with Puppy.

    “Joel, what in God’s name happened on Friday night?” said Jill immediately.

    Joel groaned and lay flat on his back. “One has no details, I’m afraid, dear.”

    “Bugger.”

    “No, I’m quite sure that didn’t happen.”

    “Well, what did?”

    “All I know is that Georgy reported to me over the Blacks’ back fence that they came home on the ferry. After that a bus and then a taxi.”

    “Thrilling,” she said blankly.

    “Apparently, yes.”

    Jill groaned.

    “There was nothing we could have done, Jill,” he pointed out. “Not without standing up your nice Babs and Hans.”

    Jill replied fiercely: “I’ll scrag that bloody Angie Michaels next time I see her!”

    “Do that, dear. It may make you feel better. But it won’t accomplish anything in the direction of the starry-eyed pair in question.”

    “Are they?” she asked in a doomed voice.

    “Oh, absolutely. Both of them. He spent an hour this morning leaning on the fence looking goopily at her: first while she fed the hens and then while she hung their washing out.”

    “Was Georgy—?”

    “Even starrier.”

    Jill groaned.

    “I don’t say he’s actually been and gorn and put it in there, mind you—well, hard to see how he could, with all these ferries and buses and taxis—but it won’t be long now.”

    “Thank you for spelling it out so clearly, Joel,” said Jill acidly.

    “Don’t blame me! I’m not responsible for all these yere tropic nights of yours that bring on yer great roh-mances like forcing-houses!” said Joel crossly.

    “No,” she agreed glumly.

    There was a short silence.

    Then Jill gave Joel a terrific slap on his bare left calf.

    “OW!” he screamed, sitting bolt upright. “What in Christ was that in aid of?”

    “Mozzie. These tropic nights bring them on, too. Haven’t you ever heard of Dimp?”

    “No,” said Joel in confusion.

    “Christ!” Jill scrabbled fiercely in her hamper. She produced a stick of something and rubbed it fiercely on all his exposed parts.

    Joel just lay there and let her, reflecting gloomily that it was undoubtedly far too late for that. Far too late. In fact it was far too late for any sort of evasive action, it was all these yere bloody tropic nights.