A Hard Row To Hoe

25

A Hard Row To Hoe

    Lalla hadn’t expected it would be easy. And after what Marie-Louise had said about Peter’s nerves, she was monitoring him carefully. But life was life: it was impossible to shelter him from it completely. And it certainly wouldn’t have been good for him to do so.

    Looking back, Peter Sale was to decide that it was a miracle they’d survived at all. Life, in fact, was just a series of crises—minor crises, silly crises, even, that shouldn’t even have been crises—through which you stumbled as best you might. Well, setting up house had, of course, been long-drawn-out, but he’d more or less expected that—though it had certainly brought it home to him how sheltered his life had been up till then. And of course poor Lalla had borne the brunt of it. But the rest of that first year, which he’d foolishly imagined was going to be, well, frankly, halcyon, had turned out to be a jumbled whirl of stumbling blocks, minor disasters, at least one major mistake, foolish misunderstandings, unexpected decisions that had to be made without delay, and just plain hard slog. Life, in fact, which he had naïvely expected to unroll like a smooth coil of ribbon, had turned out to be more like a tangled mass of string, full of knots. Each one of which had to be undone before you could move on.

    Possibly you couldn’t count the outcome of the Ashes as a knot. But there was certainly a great deal of heartburning on the Aussie side and Peter had to conceal his glee or risk lynching. Archie rang from Rarotonga in a strange state of mixed rabid excitement and bitter disappointment that he hadn’t been at the Second Test: it was going down in history, the narrowest victory ever: for God’s sake say you taped it for me, old man! On its way? Bless you! Peter was about to ask him if he and Taggy had set the wedding date yet, but he rang off.

    Knot one for the Sales, Peter was to decide, was most definitely the question of the bloody dog’s name. Those who did not have to live in a family could shut up, thank you, John! Mr Faraday retired, grinning, though not without the remark that Diarmuid was a lovely Scottish name.

    Well, quite! The dog itself had been acquired with comparatively little effort, entailing only three abortive visits to breeders of Scotch terriers, widely scattered throughout not merely New South Wales—huge, look at the map, the British Isles could have been dropped into it and lost—but Victoria as well. Lalla didn’t like the look of the woman who ran the first establishment and Petey thought she looked “mingy”. Peter had heretofore imagined that this piece of the vernacular referred to physical size, as in helpings of pudding—however. The second establishment was smelly. The third—this was the one in Victoria—was “too clinical” (Lalla) and its dogs “not right” (Petey). When asked he could not, of course, define “not right”. They went home dogless. Someone—possibly Troy, now in possession of a brand-new Beamer, which very fortunately Fred Beattie had disclaimed all desire to drive in the frightful Sydney traffic—suggested the Internet. They tried the Internet. Plenty of dogs, even plenty of Scotch terriers, but how many of them were from reputable kennels, recognised by the Kennel Club or whatever it was here, who would have ensured that their dogs were healthy, had had all their shots and were not crippled by some genetic defect? Very well, Lalla, Peter was a killjoy. Oh, Lor’, don’t cry, darling! We’ll find a damned dog!

    Petey thought this one! He liked his face. …Queensland?

    The place’s website announced that it had all the certifications one could desire… They went up to Queensland, where the very pleasant woman admitted that he was the runt of the litter, but a very sweet-natured little fellow. Petey had fallen for him, so that was that. They paid over far too much and took him home. He was house-trained: that was, he would go over to the door when he wanted “out”.

    Unfortunately they weren’t house-trained to look out for his going over to the door, but the puddles were only on the wooden floor of the front hall and Mrs Beattie’s back door mat. After that they learned. That was not the problem. The problem was his name.

    It had to be a Scottish name. Peter suggested “Bruce” and then unfortunately went into a sniggering fit, Lalla having to explain crossly that that was a stupid English joke, Petey: ignore him. She herself suggested Ian, as she couldn’t think of anything else particularly Scotch, and was told crossly by Dog’s owner that that was a person’s name! Fred Beattie suggested “Donald”, but it didn’t suit him. Troy suggested “Scott” and was informed bitterly that he wasn’t funny. He hadn’t been trying to be, and retired hurt. Mrs Adams suggested “Angus”, which both Peter and Lalla liked, but Petey first didn’t believe that it was a name and then declared that it didn’t suit him. Miss Starkie suggested “Rabbie”, with a passing reference to the idiots that celebrated Burns Night with the traditional haggis half a world and four generations away from Scotland, but Petey had never heard of the name, the tradition or, indeed, of Robert Burns, so that was a wash-out. Frivolously Peter suggested “Donuil Dhu”, but was howled down. The misguided Addison Leman suggested “Runty”, it was a cute name, and even if the lady had said— She was persona non grata until, it would appear, the Day of Judgement. Which, certain persons were beginning to feel, was fast approaching. What had they done to deserve— YES, let him have a dog! Shut UP, Bernie! Mr Carpenter retired, laughing his socks off. Crossly Peter decided that coming into the office today to escape the atmosphere at home had been a mistake.

    Brilliantly Mrs Beattie suggested “Ceilidh”. Sounded like a girl’s name! Added to which, no-one could spell it, including its proponent. Even more brilliantly, Pop Martin suggested “Rob Roy”, which Lalla greeted with huge enthusiasm, only to find herself at loggerheads with Petey and Dean. There was a Roy Skinner in their class who was, it appeared, a rotten dobber. Once that choice piece of the vernacular had been sorted out it was agreed that no-one could possibly call a nice little Scottie dog after a horrid boy who told tales on his classmates, especially when they hadn’t done hardly anything, and relative peace reigned. Miss Starkie then turned up for afternoon tea with one of her date loaves and the suggestion that really, “Scottie” was a lovely name, and accurate— No! That was what he was, not a name! Lalla was driven at this point to ask Miss Starkie and, perforce, Pop, if they fancied a glass of sherry or something, she really needed one. They did, oddly enough. That finished Peter’s precious bottle of Amontillado and, though swearing she’d made a mental note to ring him at work so as he could buy a replacement, Lalla forgot… Tears before bedtime, apologies all over the show from Peter, and a fervent wish they had never laid eyes on the bloody creature. Resulting in a shout from Petey: “You’re horrible, Dad, and if ya don’t look out, I won’t call ya Dad any more!”

    “Fergus” (Lalla), “Malcolm” (Fred Beattie), “Robbie” (Cherry Simpson), and, for the second or third time, “Mac” (Dean Martin) had all been rejected and Lalla, for one, was feeling suicidal and about to decree that the inoffensive little animal’s name would be Dog, and that would be that, when Zoe Mason, popping in for afternoon tea and to see how they were getting on, complete with a Tupperware container of lamingtons, nothing very much but she’d been too busy to do any proper baking, came to their rescue with the suggestion, not of “Hamish”, of course that was a man’s name, but “Hamish the Second”. One of those silences described in literature as “pregnant”, though Lalla for one had never been able to figure out why, then reigned. Possibly there was some sort of Scottish deity who was smiling on them today, for Petey decided off his own bat: “Ye-ah… He could be Hamish for short, eh? Like, ‘Here, Hamish!’, but only for short.”

    “Only for short, yes, of course, Petey,” Mrs Mason agreed.

    “Hamish.” He looked hard at his little dog, who just sat there, panting slightly, dog-wise, like—well, like a short black dog, really. “Here, boy! Here, Hamish!”

    The putative Hamish got up, wagging his little tail, and came up to his knee. This possibly had something to do with the lamington clutched in his fist but nobody pointed this out, and he was Hamish the Second, Hamish for short, from then on.

    Peter and Lalla both drank far too much Scotch that night from sheer relief, and fell into bed rather drunk. As it was to turn out, this was rather a mistake…

    “You can’t be pregnant!”

    “Yes, I can, Peter. You forgot to use a thingy, and you told me not to go on the Pill because it’s too risky at my age, ’member?”

    “But I never forget!”

    “You must of, Peter. Dr Matthews says it would’ve been conceived about six weeks back.”

    Peter counted back six weeks, frowning. Lalla just waited.

    “Fuck!”

    “We’ve done that.”

    “Shut—up. It must have been the night that we drank all that Scotch because— Jesus CHRIST! It’s all the fault of that bloody DOG!” he shouted.

    Alas, far from evincing sympathy, or anything appropriately wee-wifely, Lalla felt herself losing it. She collapsed in helpless giggles, nodding in frantic agreement.

    “We’ll—have—to call it—Hamish!” she gasped.

    Peter was rendered speechless.

    Lalla wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “If it’s a girl I thought ‘Grace’ might be nice, I dunno why. Actually I feel as if it might be a girl this time.”

    He just looked at her numbly, incapable of even pointing out that they hadn’t planned to start a baby this year, they’d merely thought tentatively that later next year…

    That was that year’s major mistake. Not a mere knot in the string, more like a ruddy great snarl. Which threw everything into confusion, more or less upset any plans that might have been made for anything, from the Melbourne Cup this November—she was still throwing up at unexpected moments—to Ascot and then France next year.

    Though it did solve the problem of that undecorated spare bedroom, as Lalla pointed out brightly.

    Time wore on, Marie-Louise had rushed over, thrilled to the back teeth, Christmas had come and gone—as had the Cup, without the attendance of the Sales—Petey and Dean (and Addison) were now in the top form (Peter’s vernacular) or Year 6 (the rest of Australia’s) at Bells Road Primary, Marie-Louise had popped home but popped back. In March Cyclone Larry devastated homes and crops in Queensland. Lalla bawled continuously in front of the television as the bloody media showed unending shots of people’s homes under water or simply ruined, and Peter made enormous donations to the relief funds in self-defence. In April Cyclone Monica destroyed swathes of the Northern Territory, the media duly announcing that it would take several hundred years for the pristine forests to regenerate, but as if this wasn’t bad enough, then came the confirmation that Larry had wiped out the Queensland banana crop, that was, eighty percent of Australia’s production. Lalla wept buckets for the poor banana farmers, several helpful neighbours either phoned or rushed over with the intel that there’d be no bananas in the shops for the next year, so she’d have to rely on tinned baby foods, Marie-Louise, very angry, failed to rout them, and became even angrier… And finally Grace Marie Sale was born on a beautiful day in late May.

    According to bloody Dr Matthews, with remarkably little trouble and he could only wish all his mums had hips like Lalla’s! She came through it magnificently. Peter was bloody well wrung out and got very, very drunk, confiding to Pop Martin, Fred Beattie, young Troy and his dad, Ken, who were helping him do it down the local pub, that he didn’t know how the women stood it, and those who said they were the weaker sex needed their heads read. It was perhaps fortunate that Sergeant Barraclough, call him Dean, who had a flat in an apartment complex two doors along from Pop, happened to drop into the pub that evening before any of them could try to drive. Peter persuaded Dr Matthews to give him a vasectomy after that little lot. No way was he putting Lalla through it again. The bloody man made him wait a whole month in case he changed his mind, but he didn’t.

    Grace Sale was completely adorable and wonderful and it was hard to believe that anything that sweet, cuddly and rosebud-like could have been produced from the genes of a mere P. Sale. Though not hard to believe she was Lalla’s, of course! Lalla must have been just as adorable.

    Naturally friends had to be apprised of the great news and Archie rang back twice that week to reiterate congratulations and make sure that they would be able to come over to Rarotonga in July for his and Taggy’s wedding.

    Even Petey thought that a toy Panda that was about three times Grace’s height was going too far, Dad. She couldn’t even walk yet! Dean noted that he’d thought that only dumb big girls like his cousin Siobhan, who was fifteen and a dork, had huge great soft toys like that. She had a huge great Tigger on her bed as well, it was dumb. Seeing Peter’s eyes light up, Lalla was driven to shout: “You are NOT buying her a huge great Tigger!” Peter subsided, but next day, on the excuse that they needed him at the office even though it wasn’t one of his regular days, he went into town and put an extra three hundred thousand into the trust fund he’d already set up for her…

    Archie rang three times that week to make sure that they were coming over to Rarotonga in July for his and Taggy’s wedding.

    In London Vibart’s were becoming very edgy about the money markets. Peter spoke to Jeremy Beech about it, but the bank itself was solid, so no, he wouldn’t leave his wife and new baby to fly over, Jeremy.

    Petey’s and Dean’s footy team (Australian Rules, of course) lost ignominiously to another school, Bells Road Primary’s traditional rivals, and there was a huge mêlée on the ground, including, alas, a few of the dads as well, and it got into the News and his Mémé tore a strip off Petey even though he hadn’t hit anybody…

    Archie rang four more times to make sure they were coming over and Baby Grace would be able to stand the trip.

    It was almost an anticlimax by the time they did make it for the wedding, complete with Grace, a huge French shawl that she wouldn’t need in the tropical humidity, Mrs Beattie to help look after her, Fred Beattie to, um, well, he came, and of course Marie-Louise. Taggy’s younger sister Taukea and Lalla’s cousin Bernice were joint chief bridesmaids. The bride was beautiful, Archie was bursting with pride, the congregation filled the church to overflowing, and there were so many floral wreaths, both on the heads and round the necks, that it was a wonder there was a bloom left growing on the entire island of Rarotonga. The feast, of course, was—well, staggering just about hit the mark. The Beatties were completely overcome.

    Next day Bernice, in quest of snaps for the wedding album she was compiling, was horrified to learn that Lalla didn’t have an album. What had happened to all those pictures everyone had taken? Lalla didn’t know: there’d been all the upset of the tsunami and having to rush off to see Candida—who, incidentally, was now doing very well: she was occupying a very ordinary little flat in Marie-Louise’s block, with no signs of wishing to resume life as an idiot jet-setter, and was seeing a great deal of the pleasant consultant she’d met at the clinic. And, a very good sign, she’d received the news of the birth of her little half-sister positively rapturously and immediately sent flowers and, perforce by post, a large teddy.

    Grimly Bernice promised that she’d ask everybody… To reappear four days later with the result of her endeavours. Oh, God. A giant portfolio, its cover in padded white satin with a huge artificial flower affixed to it, twinkling with gold doo-dads, their entwined initials in gold and silver sequins, and inside… Lalla was so stunned she didn’t even ask where she’d found all the silver, gold and white fuzz, fluff, lacey stuff, starry stuff, twirled and curled stuff and twinkly stuff she’d stuck round the photos. It would be a wonderful family heirloom for Petey and Grace! Bernice assured them. They thanked her shakily and she departed, beaming. Lalla swallowed. “Yikes,” she said faintly. Peter nodded numbly. So it was.

    Then they had to go home because Petey’s second semester would be starting. Aw, couldn’t they just— No. And didn’t he want to see Hamish the Second again? Yeah, but Dean and Pop’d be— No!

    They went home.

    Grace continued adorable. As for when her little curls started to grow…!

    Lalla reported dazedly to Marie-Louise and Miss Starkie, who were enjoying cups of real coffee and Miss Starkie’s attempt at babas au rhum, which were perhaps a bit flat but had plenty of rum in them, that he’d gone dippy over her.

    “Dads often do,” replied Miss Starkie calmly.

    Marie-Louise nodded ratification of this statement, her mouth full of baba.

    “Oh, dear. He’s gonna spoil her rotten,” she said numbly.

    The two sages nodded sagely. Reflecting crossly that they only needed a third and it’d be a scene from Macbeth, Lalla left them.

    Dean got a cricket bat for his birthday that was much better than Petey’s cricket bat and a proper cricket ball. Petey was therefore promised a cricket bat for his birthday. And a ball! Heck, he’d be at high school next year, Dad! Okay, a cricket ball. And it’d be the Ashes soon, it was Australia’s turn to host, you said maybe we could— They’d see. The whole series? Uh—some of them were on while school was on. Only partly, see, ’cos they’d be on over the weekends! They might manage a couple of days in Brisbane—yes, Petey, he knew it was the Gabba—but the Second Test was in Adelaide, that was in South Australia, did he realise how f— Pop said it only took about three hours by plane, those jokers threw those things around like nobody’s biz, Dad! The Third Test was in mid-December, school would not have broken up by then and it’d be in Perth, in Western Australia, that was nearly four thousand kilometres away! Once they’d got there they’d have to turn round and come back, it was not worth it! They’d watch it on TV. No! They were NOT going to fly to Perth! And what about Hamish the Second? Mum could look after him, Dad, her and Grace wouldn’t want to come! Heck, there’d be nothing for them to do! Funnily enough Peter had a feeling that this attitude, realistic though it was, wouldn't be approved of by their female belongings. Sneakily he advised him to see what his Mémé thought. She was back home in France, but Petey rang her. She tore a strip off him and promised to send him some sensible French reading matter about sexism. Oh, Lor’. Maman then also tore a strip off Peter. The expressions “a reasonable life” and “teaching the child sensible habits” were used—sounding much, much worse in French.

    Okay. They would not dash up to Brizzie for the First Test in late November but would watch it sensibly from home—YES, taping the bits Petey would miss because he was at school—and they would most certainly not fly over to Adelaide for the second or to Perth for the third, and anyone who thought that dashing down to Melbourne to catch day one of the Fourth Test on BOXING DAY was a good idea needed their head read. They would attend the Fifth Test at the SCG. Starting the day after New Year’s Day. If Mum agreed!

    Rather unfortunately Archie rang the very day after the dust had settled to say he’d be over for the Ashes, bringing Taggy, if that was all right. That was of course all right and Lalla would love to see her, of course she must stay with them rather than be dragged all over the country to silly cricket matches! Oddly enough Petey didn’t point out that Archie could look after him if he went with him: possibly those scenes in the banks in London had really sunk in…

    November. Yay, Aussies! Archie returned from the Gabba with a face like a thundercloud and Lalla and Taggy broke down in giggling fits. December. Yay, Aussies! Hey, Dad, we’re gonna win the Series! Betcha! Archie returned from the Adelaide Oval with a face like… Mm. The whole thing was so dreadful that Peter hardly noticed that the news from Vibart’s was getting glummer and glummer…

    Mid-December. Pray for rain. Petey was glued to the idiot box. Whether he took in anything at school in between times was doubtful. What made it better was that, Perth being on Western Standard Time and Sydney on Eastern Daylight Saving, “they” were several hours behind “us”, and Petey didn’t have to miss hardly anything! Make that Petey, Dean, and three other little boys whose mums presumably did not wish to have their lounge-rooms occupied by cricket all afternoon. Petey’s mum didn’t, either, so Peter’s billiards room became the viewing room, Lalla having unilaterally decided that there was no way you idiots were gonna monopolise the sitting-room with your silly sports, and having bought another TV set and video/DVD recorder from the obliging Dan Mason and unilaterally installed them, Pop doing the actual “plugs”, etcetera. …HEY! YAY, Aussies! Hey, that means we’ve WON THE ASHES!! Archie was gonna be wild, eh, Dad? …He was. Some very rude words were heard. And on the media the Aussie reporters were starting to utter the prediction: “whitewash”. Which, strangely, in modern Australian sport did not mean what Peter’s Concise Oxford said it did, but a complete wiping out of the opposition.

    And so the year wore out, Petey’s and Dean’s “graduation” from Bells Road Primary the big pre-Christmas event, while in London Vibart’s were becoming edgier and edgier about the money markets…

    Right. The series was pronounced a “whitewash” and Archie returned to Palmyra Polynesia a prey to mixed gloom and thrilled nervous excitement: Taggy was pregnant.

    Huge excitement over Petey’s starting secondary school, Lalla bravely waving him off and then collapsing in floods of tears. Sorry, darling, I really have to get into town, there’s a bit of a flap over the money markets— Thanks, Miss Starkie, you’re a brick!—as that worthy took in with one grim glance the sobbing Lalla and the sniffling Mrs Beattie and stated: “Leave this to me, Peter.”

    That hurdle over, they settled down to a peaceful— Not. HSBC issued its first-ever profit warning: losses by its U.S. consumer finance arm. Jeremy Beech from Vibart’s rang to say, more or less, “I told you so.” But he didn’t think that there was anything Peter could do if he did fly over, no, and they didn’t want the City to think they were panicking. Vibart’s was sound, but if Peter would like daily reports—Peter thought every second day. Mr Beech was heard to swallow, but agreed that of course, yes. The U.S. situation was worsening, yes, Peter, no doubt of it. Peter swallowed a sigh and hung up. What else was going to drop on them from a great height?

    Quite a lot, as it happened. March that year featured a huge lahar on Mt Ruapehu in New Zealand, just at the other end of Lake Taupo from Pete’s and Jan’s place. “The stupid ABC” didn’t show “any decent pictures”: how bad was it? Lalla rang Jan at Taupo Shores Ecolodge. All was well, the boffins had made some sort of bank or something that the giant stream of boiling mud had poured down safely, nowhere near them. They’d love to come over and see Baby Grace, but things were a bit crazy at the moment, trying to work out a succession plan for the ecolodge: it looked as if Pete’s eldest daughter and her new bloke might be keen; but maybe if the Sales could come over—say for Easter? Lalla agreed eagerly to this plan and everything was rosy for about a week. Then someone rang from Taupo with a message that Jan had had a heart attack.

    No, she was fine, and their old friends Sir Jake and Lady Carrano were going to pay for a pacemaker to be put in by the best surgeon in the country: privately, up in Auckland at The Mater, Lalla mustn’t worry. She did worry, of course. Then Lady Carrano in person rang. Lalla was so taken aback she nearly dropped the receiver. Apparently she remembered who Lalla was: how was she, and how was her little boy, and yes, Jan had kept her up to date with everything, and belated congratulations on the wedding and the baby! She was only ringing to assure her that Jan was doing fine and the surgeon was an expert, there was absolutely no need to worry about anything! And she’d keep her posted. Lalla still thought she should go over there, though. Then Petey broke his leg. Doing what, never clearly explained, though by the look on Dean Martin’s face he could a tale unfold.

    Marie-Louise flew over, nonsense, mon chéri, if Lady Carrano says they have the best specialist in the country for her there’s nothing to worry about! You must just concentrate on Petey and la petite!

    Petey’s orthopaedic surgeon reported he was as fit as a flea but the leg would be in plaster for—etcetera. A compound fracture was just the technical term, nothing to worry about, Mrs Sale, but it would take time… Jan recovered well, Lady Carrano very kindly ringing half a dozen more times. Easter came and went; Jan herself rang: staying with Jake and Polly at their huge place up at Pohutukawa Bay, being spoilt rotten, stop worrying, she was fine!

    Reports of the mad machinations of the money jugglers were getting worse, but in the real world, or certainly what Peter was beginning strongly to feel was the real world, Grace’s first birthday arrived, with a lovely cakey, pink,—shut up, Petey—and One candle! “She’s too little to understand numbers, Dad.” Shut up, Petey! Just give her her present. He gave her the present. It was a small pale blue stuffed toy, a dog, the nearest he’d been able to get to a “sensible” present. She sucked one of its ears immediately, and made a cooing sound, so possibly she liked it. Then she blotted her copybook by calling Hamish “Da-da”, just when Peter had been proudly claiming that she knew him and was talking really well. Mrs Beattie protested that she was saying “Doggie” but Lalla, alas, collapsed in gales of laughter…

    Petey lost a crutch at school and was in the doghouse, no pun intended, for a week. No, he could not go with Dean to whatever horrible mishmash of a modern highly computerised fairytale was on at the flicks—and Peter did not CARE if it was a Harry Potter film, Petey, if you were that irresponsible you did not deserve treats! He went back to being “Peter” for almost a week, but as Grace was teething again and they weren’t sleeping too well, this didn’t really register.

    Life wore on. Vibart’s analysts were starting to point out in no uncertain terms—though not publicly—that they’d been right all along, Jeremy was sounding smugger and smugger about the bank itself but more and more worried about the situation in the City as a whole, and of course if the markets crashed everyone’s investments would be affected, they might have to think about some judicious refinancing…

    The price of bananas reached sixteen dollars and ninety-nine cents per kilo in the Sydney supermarkets, and Marie-Louise did her nut. Or in the vernacular, had a dummy spit. So did Grace, but this was possibly because she hated the thing, and besides, she was far too old for it now, and Lalla had asked Mrs Beattie a hundred times not to let her have it, it was so bad for their mouth architecture!

    Peter hitherto hadn’t been aware that such a phrase existed, but Petey explained  it all to him. Otherwise she’d have to wear a brace on her teeth like Darlene Cristiano, she was a dork. And it was plastic, wasn’t it, Dad, would that burn? Uh—Jesus, was Lalla— Not the fireplace, no. In Sam Andrews’s rubbish fire. Well, pollution, yes, but they had plenty of trees to absorb it.

    Winter had closed in, in NSW, but the Aussie banks were looking solid, though there had been one or two whispers—still not publicly, though—that the pension funds—superannuation funds, they were popularly called here—would inevitably be affected if the stock markets… In July, two Bear Stearns hedge funds became insolvent. The public as a whole appeared blank about this but Vibart’s certainly wasn’t. Panic phone calls, blah, blah. No, Peter would not dash back to Britain. But it might help restore commercial confidence! Yeah, that or induce further panic, the which it was now apparent the City was on the brink of.

    Uh—oh, Hell, Petey’s mid-year break, he hadn’t made any arrangements… No, Lalla, darling: you could ring Jan but it’ll be too cold at a thousand feet above sea-level in the middle of New Zealand’s North Island for Grace. Look, they’d nip over to Rarotonga.

    They did that. Taggy was now enormous, baby due any time. Peter and Petey had to get back for his term— Yes! You’re at secondary school, now, Petey, you have to take it seriously (meanly). But, Lalla decided, she and Grace would stay on until the bub arrived! Looking at his wife’s beaming face and Taggy’s equally beaming face Peter didn’t have the heart to veto this plan. Okay, then. As Mrs Beattie of course stayed on, too, Peter, Petey and Fred went home to bachelor dinners of fish and chips from the shop conveniently near Dean’s Pop’s place, chicken and chips from the Red Rooster several streets over, you hadda cross Kurrajong Grove and it was just over there, and, um, thanks very much, Miss Starkie: lovely veggie stir-fry, mm.

    Archie and Lalla rang jointly, both ecstatic. A lovely little girl, she’d be a little playmate for Grace, both doing splendidly! Archie thought “Melissa”, did Peter think it was pretty? Mrs Tangianau liked it! That was obviously that, then, and Peter agreed with a smile that “Melissa” was very pretty indeed.

    The womenfolk returned and, the menfolk having taken a vow not to let on about their diet, and Miss Starkie, bless her, keeping stumm, life resumed the even tenor of its way. Hah, hah.

    In mid-September there was a run on the Northern Rock Bank with people queuing in the street to withdraw their money—yes, in Britain! The first time for something like 150 years! Archie rang to say thank God you got me out of it, old man. Three days later the bloody ABC screened a thing called Mortgage Meltdown which explained the whole mess—very clearly, it was an excellently made programme—and Lalla burst into floods of tears in front of the telly, scaring the bejasus out of Petey, who’d got up for a drink of water. Oh, shit. No, we are not going to go broke! Vibart’s is safe, the company is safe! Look, the analysts at Vibart’s have been predicting this for the best part of three years! “Why”—sob—“didn’t you”—sob, sob—“warn us?” “Yeah, why didn’tcha, Dad?” Oh, God.

    Then Maman rang. She thought she would come out again, mon chou. No, she wasn’t panicking, but she thought per’aps… Yeah, well, if anyone could calm Lalla down and reassure Petey it’d be Maman. Petey’s latest was they’d have to sell the house and live in a horrible flat that wouldn’t let him have a dog. Peter had a suspicion he’d got that one off Gina Culthorpe, who meant well but whose jaw flapped incorrigibly, regardless of its audience.

    The RBS collapsed, Lloyds Banking Group was in trouble, Bradford & Bingley collapsed in the wake of Northern Rock… The pound sterling dropped like a stone, the mess in the U.S. was even worse, nothing was worth anything any more, even the Japanese stock market was affected… Funnily enough the Aussie dollar was riding high and the local media began to predict with glee that more and more Aussies would be taking overseas holidays next year!

    Events on the political horizon paled in comparison. Labor’s Kevin Rudd won the Australian federal elections, so that tee-shirt of Tony Simpson’s proclaiming “Kevin 07” that had been driving his spouse nuts was gonna be out of date, but although Pop Martin asked darkly did they want a button-down-collared little mean-mouthed bloke that looked like a peeled turnip for a PM, it didn’t really impinge.

    “It’s no good,” said Peter glumly to his spouse as Christmas approached and Grace Sale, that great big girl, unexpectedly rose to her feet and tottered right across the sitting-room into his arms: “I’ll have to go over there.”

    “Oh, Peter,” she said sadly.

    “Mm, I know.” He kissed Grace’s curls.

    “Dada!”

    “Yes, Dada loves you, my little Grace, and the machinations of the mad money manipulators are dross upon the surface of the ocean compared to the importance of little you. –But Jeremy’s heard a rumour that I’m staying out of it because the Group’s about to go under—that or I’m in a conspiracy of silence with Branson to take over the failed banks and strip their assets. One might well ask what assets, but— Yeah.”

    “Then you should go, mon chou,” said his Maman briskly. “Trois jours, d’accord?”

    Peter sighed, kissed Grace and set her down carefully on her feet. She immediately sat down, plop! but never mind, she had walked and they’d all been witnesses! “Trois jours: d’ac. –Ah: ‘Trois jours, leur dit Colombe, et je vous donne un monde’! –I will come back to my brave new world for Christmas, I promise, Lalla, darling.”

     … Yes, well. One would draw a veil over the wailings and gnashings of teeth, not to say the sackings of underlings and the recriminations going on in the City. He got back to a lovely warm Antipodean Christmas. ’Nuff said.

    Life went on, regardless. Northern Rock was nationalised as a measure of desperation, fancy that. The Aussie dollar was sky-high and the media reported gleefully on the huge numbers of Aussies heading off on overseas trips. Lalla reported, beaming, that in Taupo Pete’s elder daughter and her new bloke had taken over the ecolodge, and Jan’s and Pete’s new cabin by the lake was finished and they’d moved into it. The new stove was a breeze! And Jan was passing on all her recipes to Jayne (the said daughter). Her sister, Libby (Jayne’s, Peter worked out) was living with the lovely man who was driving the ecolodge’s tour bus these days, and she was helping out by driving Pete’s launch, the Taupo Shores Tallulah, or according to Jan, the Tallulah Tub! –Giggling fit. And, um, maybe they could pop over for Easter, Peter?

    They popped over for Easter. Jan and Pete were thrilled by “wee Grace” and Jayne was equally thrilled, in fact neglecting her duties at the ecolodge and leaving the guests to the tender mercies of the dreaded Janet Barber and her scones for afternoon tea in order to join in cooing over her. –The scones were excellent, but Janet was one of those mournful women, always prophesying gloom. Petey disgraced himself by “falling” into the lake from the Tallulah Tub, fortunately moored at the bank in three feet of water at the time. So no, he could not come out on her for a day’s fishing with Pete if he couldn’t behave responsibly on the water! At which Peter thanked the elderly Pete most sincerely. He couldn’t come out shooting, either, but that was possibly because, as Jan pointed out, it was probably illegal at this time of year—and Pete had never been known to bother with a licence for anything. His avowed aim, true, was to clobber those ruddy possums that had started sliding down the roof of their new cabin in the middle of the night, but you wait! They waited. Jan was right, Pete returned from his expedition with a brace of wild duck. Far out! Hey, wait till I tell Dean!

    And life went on. Vibart’s was sticking it out, keeping their heads well down, Barclays seemed solid, the City was in a complete mess… And Peter would not come over, no: his little daughter was about to turn two! Grace turned two with a great big cakey and two pink candles! “Look, Grace, darling: those are yours: two pink candles: you’re two!” “Me,” the little chubby ego produced. “Honestly, Dad, do ya haveta be that sickening? How’s she gonna grow up to be a sensible human being?” Lalla later revealed that this pronouncement had made her feel quite faint, and Peter nodded numb agreement…

    Hamish caught a big rat down the back of the property. He was a good dog! A good dog that had left his rat bang in the middle of their good sitting-room rug. Oh, well.

    That spring the purpose of that strange empty space on the far side of She-Oak Rise became apparent, as somewhere further up the rise, mercifully further along from them, a hitherto unmentioned “dry creek” filled with water, filled up its hitherto unmentioned culvert, and the lot flooded out, turning that expanse of scraggy grass beyond the untidy row of eucalypts into a boggy pond… Petey Sale, Dean Martin, Rustam Abbas, Mick McInnerney, Lew Jones and Aaron Schreiber got very, very wet and had to be forced to disrobe, towel off and get into some of Petey’s dry clothes. Peter, who had made the mistake of being home that day, had only encountered Masters McInnerney and Jones heretofore, apart from Dean, of course. “Lalla,” he said feebly, “do you know where Rustam’s family is from?”

    “Indonesia.”

    He swallowed. “I see. –Look,” he burst out, “you do realise that he must be a Muslim and Aaron Schreiber is almost undoubtedly Jewish?”

    “Yes. –Well,” she said, hugging Grace gently and resting her chin on the little girl’s head, “I’ve met Mrs McInnerney, her name’s Janette, her little girl’s a wee bit older than Grace, she said her husband’s family got out of Northern Ireland in the early Seventies, they’d had enough, you weren’t safe in your bed, let alone on the streets; and Lew’s grandma goes to Dr Matthews same as us and Janette McInnerney and her wee Simone, doesn’t she, Grace? She’s from Cardiff, and she gave us a lollipop, didn’t she? So there you are. –The media’s claim that Australia’s a multicultural society isn’t all bunkum, you know.”

    “Right. Well, good show,” he said groggily.

    … A huge bailout of the banks was announced, and the ruddy ABC rebroadcast Mortgage Meltdown, but this time Peter managed to leap upon the set and turn it off before Lalla could start bawling and/or panicking again. No, he didn’t need to be in the UK, darling. His money in Barclays? It was only a chequing account, but in any case the bank was sound, and the word was that they were raising some new capital from private investors, they didn’t need a government bailout. Vibart’s? Well, one or two of their investments were rocky, naturally, all the money markets were interdependent, but they were solid, they weren’t a retail bank—uh, that was, not a trading bank, Lalla. They might raise a bit from private investors, there’d been a couple of keen nibbles: there was still money out there, darling, stop worrying! No, the Group was fine. Uh—their employees’ pension fund? What had put that into your head? The ABC: right. The value of all the pension funds would have gone down, because they all invested their money in the stock markets, but they would gradually get back to their previous levels. Um, five years? No, that wasn’t too bad. Pop Martin’s pension? No, darling, you’ve got the wrong end of the stick: he was on, ah… (What the Hell did they call it out here?) On the old age pension from the central, no, the Australian federal government, Lalla. Yes, Kevin Rudd might look like a peeled turnip, as Pop claimed, but it was a Labor government: it was not going to cut the old age pension!

    There was a momentary respite as the quite stunning event of the U.S. electing a Black president was announced. Lalla burst into tears of sheer happiness over it, gasping: “I never thought I’d see the day!” Mm, well, the poor man was going to have an uphill job of it, with the whole banking sector needing to be bailed out…

    Petey then failed a maths test and an English test, both intended as pre-exam trials, so the vagaries of big money were lost sight of in the general atmosphere of recrimination. Mixed, on Peter’s part, with a strong desire to laugh, as Pop reported that Dean had failed all of his tests and Mrs Leman arrived to collect Addison the same afternoon with the stunning announcement that for the first time ever Addison and her friend Shirleen had got higher maths marks than all the boys!

    “Lalla,” he said when the dust had settled and only he, she, and Sam, with a big bunch of new carrots and some nice little new potatoes, were left in the sitting-room, Hamish and Petey having gone off to lick the latter’s wounds, and Pop having accepted Mrs Leman’s offer of a lift, “hasn’t it dawned yet? It’s puberty! Petey’s just turned fourteen, hasn’t he? All those boys’ balls are dropping, no wonder they can’t concentrate on bloody maths tests!”

    Sam at this gave a shout of laughter and Lalla went very pink, clapped her hand to her mouth, and emitted a loud giggle, gasping: “Of course! Never mind, it was a triumph for Addison and Shirleen, even if fated to be short-lived!”

    Peter got up, grinning. “Come on, let’s drink to it, eh? Scotch, Sam?”

    Sam didn’t mind if he did, so they all had a belt. Or two. The Scotch, incidentally, now resided proudly in the decanter that had been Archie’s wedding present to them, next to the sherry, on one of the two beautiful sideboards which had eventually, long, long after the date predicted, arrived from France. Sam then inspected the rug narrowly, but the place where the rat had lain was no longer evident, so he sat down again, and noted: “Well, now whatcha can look forward to is girls and motorbikes!”

    “Drop dead!” spluttered Peter.

    “I’m right, though, you’ll see.”

    … Well, yes. It wasn’t quite girls and motorbikes immediately but the sentiment wasn’t wrong. Petey’s “Year 9” at Bells Road High featured a sudden passion for a bloody daft electronic game in which he, Dean, and most of the boys in the class competed fiercely for hours on end, unless forcibly dragged off their bloody computers, for “points”. The point of the game, no pun intended, was to score points, Dad! The passion for cricket continued but alongside that was a sudden refusal to go on with Aussie Rules football, though he didn’t mind watching it with Dean and Pop, or Sam, or Mr Simpson from next-door, or whoever was going: school, state, interstate, and whatever the top level was. Perhaps that was interstate, come to think of it. But to play he opted for hockey, which, reading between the lines, the school offered reluctantly as an alternative, and which, as Dean pointed out bitterly, was a dorks’ game. Nah, it was helping him with his ball control for cricket, see! Peter had a coughing fit and Lalla had to rush from the room, but the innocent Dean appeared mollified. The two of them didn’t distinguish themselves academically during the year but at least they seemed to be passing everything.

    And Grace had three whole pink candles on her cakey: one, two, three! “Free!” Yes, very good, Grace, darling! You’re three! “I’m free!” Lalla eyed her spouse kindly and passed him her hanky. Petey was not so tolerant: “That pink dress ya went and bought her is enough to make ya chunder, Dad: why don’tcha drop the flamin’ pink before the kid’s brainwashed?”

    Peter was driven to shout: “You bought her a fuzzy koala!”

    “Yeah, but at least it looks like a koala. That ruddy dress looks like nothing on earth.”

    Over on the far side of the world the British government might have embarked on a full-scale bailout of the banks with loans in the billions but this was ignored as the male Sales had a shouting match, ending with Petey suddenly looking down his nose and stating: “Have it your own way. She’s your kid. But you’re making a rod for your own back, that’s all,” and stalking out looking dignified.

    Lalla reported the lot with glee to Marie-Louise, who went into a helpless fit of laughter, finally gasping: “So! At last he begins to spend his time on the real things of life!”

    “Yes, he’s been a lot better this year, really.”

    “Excellent. And he is going to Petey’s ’ockey mashes?”

    “Well, yes, though he tends to giggle when they bully off; it’s the expression, I think.”

    “Never mind, mon chéri, at least ’e goes.”

    “Yeah, but afterwards they go on over to Dean’s footy match and then they all go off with him and his dad and Pop to McDonald’s and eat junk food!”

    “This is male bonding, Lalla, and never mind the junk food, it’s a good thing!”

    “Ooh, yeah: you’re right,” she discovered.

    “Naturally,” Marie-Louise replied superbly.

    So Lalla made no objections to the McDonald’s sessions, the year wore on, spring came… And the bloody media announced to the world that Sir Jake Carrano had died. The floodgates opened. But she didn’t feel she could phone Lady Carrano, she didn’t really know her personally, she’d never actually met her. Could they send a card? They sent a card and a wreath. Lalla continued gloomy and depressed. She didn’t feel like going away for Christmas, really… Peter got her along to Petey’s big end-of-year cricket match but although she applauded nicely when nudged, she was obviously miles away. Oh, Lor’. Maman came out for Christmas instead of them going to her, as had at one point been mooted. It was understandable, mon chou: she recognises the impermanence of the flesh, and she puts herself in the place of poor Lady Carrano. After a moment it sank in. “Maman, the man was in his seventies!”

    “Nevertheless.”

    “What the Hell can we do?”

    “Nothing, mon fils. We just have a nice gentle time with little Grace and go to see a little koala at the zoo, non? And maybe a picnic, and the playground for the little ones.”

    This régime seemed to work, more or less. Jeremy rang from Vibart’s: the team’s morale was rather low, so perhaps Peter could just— Peter bit his head off and had to ring back and apologise. Er—and merry Christmas, old man.

    They had a lovely tree and Grace adored it, and Petey, though waxing very lordly, obviously enjoyed it, too. Lalla had another crying jag on Christmas night but Peter just hugged her very tight until it passed. Phew. Life, huh?

    Year 10 was a serious year in the NSW school system, they had real exams to pass. This particular year was also distinguished by huge floods in Queensland during January and February and a terrible earthquake in Christchurch, New Zealand, in February. Lalla didn’t have any friends or relations in Christchurch but she bawled, nevertheless. Was there a relief fund, couldn’t they do something to help, Peter? He couldn’t find anything: the New Zealand government machine, if such there was, seemed unavailable or inept or both— He passed it to John, who eventually came up with something. Mayor’s fund or something. It was far easier to determine who would accept donations for Queensland flood relief, but that, Peter realised grimly, merely showed that Ken Tangianau’s comparison of the two countries had been spot-on, didn’t it?

    Meanwhile Petey, aged fifteen, growing like a weed, needed new school shoes, new sneakers for sports, new cricket shoes, a complete new set of cricket clothes, a complete new summer uniform… And a bike. He did not need a bike, they were within an easy walk of the school! This was true, it was just along the road from the primary school. But everybody else had a bike, Dad! Er, Peter had seen Aaron and Lew on bikes, true. But they had further to come. He should have asked for a bike for Christmas. But I needed a new bat, Dad! A decent one!

    A report from Dean’s mum seemed to indicate that Aaron, Lew and a few other undesirables had a “gang” that rode incessantly all up and down Bledisloe Avenue—no, it wasn’t near Kurrajong Grove, Peter, the opposite direction to the Red Rooster—Peter turned about as red as the rooster, presumably half the suburb knew that Pop had introduced him to this facility while his wife was away—where there were a lot of retirement units, driving the old people barmy by ringing their bells. That seemed to settle it. No bike. Um, well, maybe next Christmas…

    Grace Sale, meanwhile, was all that was sweet, good and obedient. She hadn’t even been a terrible two! She’d be FOUR this year! “Dad, if ya give her something pink I swear I’ll do ya!”

    “Um, she’s getting quite a big girl, I thought a really pretty dolly—” His son exited, tearing his hair.

    “Wouldn’t a really pretty dolly be nice?” Peter said wistfully to his spouse.

    “You’ve already given her three really pretty dollies, a sickening pink bear, no wonder Petey made spewing noises, a white Christmas bear that you got Mrs Beattie to take the tartan ribbon off and replace with a pink one, don’t try to deny it, a kanga with a pink apron, where ya found that I shudder to think, a flaming set of pink plastic cups and saucers—” Peter walked out, pouting. “Besotted,” said Lalla with a heavy sigh. “Oh, well, at least he’s taking notice of his family.”

    Sometimes—as Peter Sale would eventually admit, looking back, the snags and snarls and knots in our ball of string are put there by our stupid selves.

    For her fourth birthday he gave Grace the most adorable, cuddly little fuzzy pink coat, with a hood, and a tiny pair of pink gumboots to match.

    Lalla grabbed them and inspected their labels. “What?” she shrieked. “Harrods?”

    “Honestly, Dad!”

    “My coat! Maa-mee-ee!”

    “Yeah, give her the ruddy coat back, Mum. With any luck she’ll wear it in the garden—yeah, I tell ya what, it can be an everyday coat, she can wear it to play in her sandpit!” said Petey with an evil chuckle.

    “Um, it is an adorable coat,” said Lalla on a weak note, as Grace hugged it fiercely to her bosom.

    “Mu-um!”

    “No, well, of course it’s over the top. I wouldn’t really mind if it was from Kmart or something but you can’t get anything like it in the shops here. And especially not the boots! Really, Peter! –What’s that?” she gasped as he produced another parcel from behind his back.

    “Just—”

    Petey snatched it off him and tore it open. “I can’t even laugh,” he confessed.

    “No,” said Lalla faintly. “Look at the label, Petey, dear.”

    Petey looked at the label. “Yeah,” he said sourly.

    “It’s just—”

    “Peter, what did we say about not giving the kids presents from half a world away?”

    Peter looked sulky.

    “Um, it is very cute,” ventured Mrs Beattie.

    “Very sickening, ya mean!” retorted Petey. “Well, heck, look at it!”

    They looked. Peter’s extra present for Grace was a little pink umbrella. Ruffled. From Harrods.

    Suddenly Fred Beattie clapped his hand over his mouth and shot out of the room. Mrs Beattie let out a strangled squawk and hurried after him, her face bright purple. Petey and Lalla looked at each other. Simultaneously they uttered loud yelps of laughter and broke down entirely.

    “My coat! Look, Daddy! It’s—pret—ty!”

    “Um, yes, darling,” said Peter weakly. “Your new coat.” He gave the shaking, spluttering Lalla and Petey a defiant look. “Pink.”

    The row over the Hornblower books was the next knot to interrupt the smooth rollout of life at Number 5 She-Oak Rise. “Peter! Don’t buy him another Hornblower book! He’s got addicted to the blimmin’ things!”

    “But at least he’s reading, darling, most of the boys in his class don’t seem to open a book from one year’s end to the next.”

    “That isn’t the point: he’s spending all his time on them and not doing his swot! Year 10’s preparation for Year 11 and then the really important exams in Year 12, and if he doesn’t do well in his School Certificate in Year 10—”

    “But the books are really hard to find, darling: the local libraries are—”

    “NO! No more Hornblower books!” shouted Lalla.

    Peter desisted with the Hornblower books.

   The Ashes were on in Australia this year, and yes, they would go to the SCG for the Fifth Test, Petey.—Petey waited for his father to say something about if he did well in his Year 10 exams, but he didn’t, phew!—But before then it would be the Melbourne Cup, for which QSA had a corporate suite, and Mum deserved a bit of a treat, too, didn’t she?

    … “Dad!” (catching him looking wistfully at a shiny catalogue from David Jones full of ladies’ clothing). “Ya can’t go and deck Mum out in ruddy pink as well!” Peter looked wistfully at the lovely pink suit. “But it’s pretty, don’t you thi—” No, it was flamin’ sickening. Peter sought refuge with Mrs B. “Don’t you think—” She thought it was a bit too much. Fred Beattie and Sam Andrews bolted down large slices of Vegemite-laden wholemeal bread (good for you), and slunk out, the rank cowards. All right, he’d wait until this afternoon and ask— It was a chilly, dank afternoon and nobody turned up except Addison. Not a school day, so… Oh. Trouble at the Home where Mum’s gran, now ninety-eight, was incarcerated, and Mum said she better not stay home by herself in case that ole pest of a Mr Pattinson came over, last time he’d eaten up the cheesecake that Mum had been saving for tea, she hadn’t been able to stop him, so would it be all right… It was of course all right, she must come into the sitting-room with Lalla, they’d light the fire and toast some English muffins! Cunningly Peter waited until Lalla had shot out to the kitchen for the plates that she’d forgotten to bring through and then— Poor Addison, who was, of course, fifteen, the same age as Petey, went about as pink as the silk suit and gulped: “I don’t think it’s Mrs Sale’s style, really! Um, she’s not that keen on pink, I don’t think, Mr Sale!” Petey, coming in presumably following his nose to the source of muffins, did not neglect to agree: “I toleja so, Dad!” Bother.

    Maman decided to come out for it, on discovering there was a French horse running. Do not worry about what to wear, Lalla, I shoose for you! Lalla hadn’t been worrying, exactly, she’d been too busy fending off Peter’s suggestions. He’d found a “silly but very pretty hat: charming, really.” Pink fluff on the head at her age? “I’m not wearing pink fluff, Peter, get that into your head. And don’t rush off and buy Grace anything pink on the strength of it!”

    So Marie-Louise turned up in full panoply. “Never mind what the weather will be, mon chéri, it will not matter if it is forty degrees or fourteen outside, we are in the corporate box! Now, I select this for you, just your colour, hein?” Well, it was better than fluff. Lalla tried it on.

    “I buy at les Galeries Lafayette; this year the prêt-à-porter collections they are so ugly, you know? Too mush black and white, and too mush—eugh—bunches, with ’orrid frills.”

    It certainly didn’t fall into any of those categories. It was a severely cut shantung suit in the deep violet which Lalla had come to realise Marie-Louise was a sucker for, the skirt coming to just above her knees, the jacket closely outlining her curves. One wore without a blouse. Yikes, what if she forgot and undid the blimmin’ buttons? But if she preferred— Sagging, she admitted she preferred. At first she thought it was just lace and had a panic, but it wasn’t, it was lined; at least, half of her boobs were covered by the lining—which was very soft and sort of clung. Peter thought the blouse was adorable! With a great effort Lalla managed not to shout at him. No, it wasn’t pale pink, it was palest lilac—couleur de lilas, oui. Peter got out the amethyst set with the pretty earrings. Non, non, mon chou, not for this suit and blouse! The yellow diamonds, they are not right—your grandmère wore it with a Norman ’Artnell suit in a soft grey with a hint of mauve, pas terrible, but…

    She produced a string of large pearls in a red case. Peter at this point bit his lip. “I decide they must be for you, Lalla, mon chéri, Richard would wish Peter’s wife to have them. And the clip, you see? It suits your style!” It was not quite a clip, but a large baroque pearl, the loveliest creamy shade, depending from a tiny gold chain, only about a centimetre long, which in turn clipped onto the necklace. “It is too long, really, for my skinny little neck,” Marie-Louise admitted with a smothered sigh.

    “Maman,” said Peter in a choked voice, “isn’t that the last present Dad gave you before he died?”

    “Yes, mon chou, but it is all a very long time ago, and I do not wear them.”

    “No,” he croaked. “Merci mille fois, Maman.” He picked them up and fastened them gently round Lalla’s neck. The effect was admittedly gorgeous: the big baroque pearl hung to just the right level above the palest lilac lace…

    “I think they’re too good for me,” said Lalla in a tiny voice, looking at the result in the mirror.

    “No!” Peter swept her into a tight embrace, his eyes full of tears. “My darling wife, nothing is too good for you! These are natural pearls, and I just wish Dad could see you wearing them!”

    “Yes, pearls are definitely your jewels, my dear,” Marie-Louise agreed. “The earrings, they are just simple bobbles: elegant, I think.”

    “I see,” said Lalla faintly. “Just make sure the catch is very safe, Peter, it’d be terrible to lose them in a big place like the racecourse.”

    Ah! Marie-Louise had thought she might worry, so she had taken them to Cartier: they were most obliging, and although their cashes did not need keepers, they had put one on for her!

    That was it, then: Lalla was fated to wear gorgeous real pearls, undoubtedly worth a king’s ransom—or as much as any of the racehorses—to the blimmin’ Melbourne Cup!

    Subsequent Internet investigation by the helpful Addison revealed that it was the richest two-mile handicap in the world. Right, well, she’d certainly match. “Never mind, Mrs Sale,” said the loyal Addison, suddenly squeezing her hand tightly. “You always look lovely!”

    Lalla sniffled slightly. “Ta, Addison, dear. –You realise I was forty-one last birthday?” she added glumly.—Addison nodded: she’d been at the birthday party. It had been a family affair, that was, practically the whole neighbourhood had attended. Mrs Beattie’s superb cake, however, had been big enough for everyone to have a piece: three tiers.—“I suppose I’m coming up for the blimmin’ menopause, no wonder I’m so moody and—and dreepy! –Ooh, sorry! I suppose I shouldn’t be talking about that sort of thing!”

    “That’s all right, we’ve done it at school. Mum says ya can have HRT but it’s really bad for you, mucking about with your oestrogen levels, it increases the risk of cancer exponentially. And what’s a hot head and a few night sweats, after all? If her head gets too hot she just puts some ice-cubes in a face washer on it. And if Dad’s home he gets her a nice cold drink of spring water!”

    Lalla nodded shakily, smiling; the scarce-seen Mr Leman was a long-distance lorry driver. He was doing all right: owned his own rig and had recently invested in another, which was entrusted to his cousin, universally known as “Spot”. The Sales had puzzled over this for some time before discovering that his real name was Xavier Leman, after some forebear who hadn’t left him anything after all. Some wag at his school had had a brainwave: X marks the spot, geddit?

    So Lalla went to the Cup in the new violet suit and pearls worth a king’s ransom, her hair up in an intricate swirl of curls under “just a little cap” made of dark violet velvet with a huge palest lilac artificial bloom on behind. Presumably a peony, it was far too big to be a rose. And clutching tightly to the famous violet handbag, which had eventually been discovered by the resourceful Petey tenderly wrapped in tissue paper and laid to rest on the top shelf of her wardrobe under an ancient battered straw sunhat from Rarotonga.

    The “corporate suite”, in the racecourse’s terms, or what the Europeans referred to as a “corporate box”, was entirely luxurious, had a superb view of the winning post, and was fully glassed in. Just as well, as it was a putrid wet day, the carpark said to be flooded, and the track heavy.

    “Ah! Splendid! The French horse, it will do well on the ’eavy track, I peut a little bet. –Peter, mon chou! We peut a little bet on Américain, d’ac?”

    This creature, relentlessly referred to by the Aussie commentators as “A Merry Cayne,” the last syllable very long-drawn-out and drawled, no other mouths in the world could have produced the sound, was not even the favourite. They put bets on it. Peter and Lalla also sneakily bet on, variously, the favourite, “So You Think” (Peter: a Kiwi horse but trained by Australia’s legendary Bart Cummings and had won the Cox Plate), and “Maluckyday” (Lalla: a Kiwi horse, and she liked its name).

    “…A Merry Cayne raced past So You Think and then Maluckyday. A Merry Cayne for France coming right away, A Merry Cayne… A Merry Cayne très bien!”

    Yeah. It won. Of course. Lalla’s choice was second, just as well Peter had put that both-ways bet on for her, eh? His and Bart’s nag was third. Oh, well.

    … The Ashes series, by contrast, was a glorious victory for England. They were neck and neck, with a win each and a draw, at the beginning of the Fourth Test, of course at the MCG. England then defeated Australia by an innings and 157 runs! Right: a two: one lead, which meant they retained the Ashes! On Aussie soil! They went on to win the series three: one, beating Australia by an innings and 83 runs at the SCG. Petey came home looking sour, said grumpily to the hovering females: “I don’t want any tea,” and went off to his room. Thereupon Archie and Peter, ably assisted by Fred Beattie, did a short war-dance of triumph and settled down to whisky and a glorious re-hashing.

    Whether it was some sort of defiant reaction to the world’s turning against them by letting England win the Ashes on Aussie soil, by such humiliating margins, too, or just the relief of passing the Year 10 exams and thus having attained their School Certificates, they could never figure out, but Petey and Dean, now both just sixteen, disgraced themselves utterly that January by being caught indulging in a not uncommon sport of bicycle owners aged between approximately ten and twenty-seven, about the same ages as those who indulged in the even more curious sport of skateboarding on public pavements, steps, monuments, and playgrounds designed for other purposes entirely. –That was, cretinous bicycle owners who deserved to lose the said mounts!

    Sergeant Dean Barraclough hauled them home in the aforesaid disgrace. “The young monkeys were tailgating a ute down Kurrajong Grove. Stupid little nongs. Mind you, that street’s full of pensioners lurking behind their front curtains ready to dob in anybody at the drop of a hat, might of known they’d be spotted.”

    “Tailgating a ute, Dean?” echoed Peter feebly, wishing strongly, coward that he was, that he’d gone in to the office today instead of doing a bit of work in his study.

    “You know, Peter,” he explained: “on their bikes, hanging onto the tray at the back of the thing while it’s doin’ sixty down Kurrajong Gr—”

    “What?”

    “Yeah,” confirmed the Sergeant, with a strong sniff. “That’s what the bloody kids call it: tailgating. Goes on all the time. Ole Green—he’s chief dobber—he caught three of them only last week. Tell ya what, ya lucky ole Ma Harrison, she’s passed on: she was a dobber, if ya like! Mind you, she was barmy at the end, her daughter hadda give up her job to look after her. The best one was next-door’s cat fouling her verge.” Sniff. “Got the Council out on that one: unchipped cats, ya see. Turned out it was all in her imagination: only cat next-door was the kid’s fluffy toy.”

    Lalla gave a yelp of laughter, clapping her hand to her mouth.

    “Well, yeah,” the Sergeant acknowledged, grinning. “Doesn’t excuse this lot, though.”

    Peter passed his hand wearily over his face. “God. No, it doesn’t. Petey, that new bike is going to have to be confiscated. And I really don’t know what you can do to make up for such a stupid, dangerous stunt. –Any suggestions, Sergeant Barraclough?”

    “I thought community service? Officer Shipley, well, she gets on over to the retirement homes in Waratah Crescent every weekend—up behind the shopping centre, that is, behind the carpark. Lot of stuff to do there, rubbish chucked out of the carpark into the gardens: she’s got a squad that cleans the place up for the old people. They do a stint with the bedpans, too,” he added, eying the miscreants thoughtfully. “Collecting them—bringing them to the ones that need them, as well—then taking them to be emptied and sterilised.”

    “Heck!” spluttered Dean Martin.

    “Ya can’t make us do that!” croaked Petey.

    “I’m the law, son,” replied the Sergeant, poker-face.

    “You’ve changed Grace’s nappies when she was little, it’d be no worse than that,” noted Lalla with horrid detachment.

    Petey glared: she knew he’d hated changing nappies!

    “Well, it would, really, lot of the old folks are incontinent, but I s’pose not that much worse, no,” conceded the burly policeman.

    “That’s—that’s child cruelty!” spluttered Petey.

    “In whose book?”

    “You’d have his parents’ permission, Dean,” noted Peter—not to Master Martin.

    “Thanks, Peter. –Talking of which, don’t happen to know where this one’s parents are, do ya?” he added. “No-one at home.”

    “They’ll still be at work. You could take him round to his Pop’s,” said Lalla.

    “Nah, tried there, Pop’s out, too.”

    “He’ll of gone down the RSL,” said his grandson sulkily.

    “Yeah? In that case you better come down the station and cool yer heels in a cell till yer dad gets home.”

    “You can’t put him in a cell without charging him!” cried Petey.

    “Who says I’m not gonna charge the pair of ya? Endangering public safety, for a start.”

    “There was nothing else on the road!” cried Dean the younger.

    “Bullshit. There was Ole Man Green’s mate Barney Rubble on ’is mobility scooter.”

    “Barney Rubble?” echoed Lalla faintly.

    “It’s a nickname: his name’s Barney Jones, Mrs Sale.”

    “Lalla,” she corrected him, smiling. “I see.”

    “He’s a danger to blimmin’ public safety, if ya like!” cried Master Martin angrily.

    “Never said ’e wasn’t. ’E was there, though. Driving it. When does yer dad get home?”

    “He’s doing double shifts,” he said sulkily.

    “Right, well, I’m not dumping a great lout like you on yer poor mum. –So, whaddaya reckon, Peter? Community Service every Saturday for a couple of months?”

    “A couple of months! Heck!” cried Petey. “School will’ve started, we’ll have cricket on Saturdays!”

    “You won’t, matey,” replied the Sergeant swiftly.

    “That sounds good to me,” said Peter. “What do you think, Lalla, darling?”

    “Definitely. And confiscate their bikes, Sergeant.”

    “Yeah. –Dean,” he corrected her. “Me mother would never of called me that if she’d known it was gonna be shared by this ruddy twit,” he noted by the by. “What were the pair of ya trying to do? Commit suicide?”

    They glared.

    “I’m sure those silly backwards-pointing bike helmets wouldn’t have been any use if you’d fallen off on the road at sixty K an hour! How could you be so silly, Petey?” cried Lalla, suddenly envisaging it and bursting into tears.

    Peter put his arm around her. “All right, Petey, you’ve made your mother cry. I hope you’re thoroughly ashamed of yourself. Go up to your bedroom.”

    Petey went, very red in the face.

    Peter gave Lalla his handkerchief. “Don’t cry, darling. It didn’t happen, thank Christ. –I could phone Pop down at the RSL, if you like, Dean. He may well take a handy piece of dowel to this twerp, but—”

    “That’s child abuse!” the twerp shouted.

    “But as I was about to say, that’s his generation, and we won’t know anything about it, will we?”

    Master Martin glared, baffled.

    “Well, better than taking up space in a cell that we may well need for a drunk or a druggie. Dunno which’d be more likely to spew all over ya, really,” the Sergeant said thoughtfully. “Or piss on ya: they’ve usually lost control by the time we scoop them up, ya see.”

    Dean the younger now looked as if he might burst into tears at any moment—which was, Peter was in no doubt, the object of the exercise. No flies on the experienced Sergeant Barraclough.

    “I’ll leave it up to you,” the Sergeant decided. “Which do ya fancy?”

    “Pop,” he growled.

    “All right. –Have ya got the number?” he asked Peter. “Good: go ahead; thanks.”

    Pop was there in ten minutes flat, having doubtless broken the speed limit all the way. “Right, ya stupid little bugger! How do think ya mother woulda felt if you’da been killed? –Geddin the car!”

    He got, there were handshakes all round, assurances that someone would be round to collect them every Saturday morning for the next two months, and the Sales were finally left alone.

    “Yikes,” said Lalla faintly, sitting down.

    Peter sighed. “It’s his age.”

    “Mm. If he was a young wildebeest or something he’d be locking horns with his peers and then trying it on with the big bulls. –But I never thought he’d be so stupid!”

    “No. They probably dared each other, or some other bloody kid dared them. Never mind: emptying bedpans and no Saturday cricket for two months will be extremely salutary!” he gasped, losing it and laughing like a drain.

    “Honestly, Peter,” said Lalla limply. “—What would your father have done?

    “Mm? Well, never a well man, you know, darling. He’d have looked sad,” said Peter with a sigh, “and believe you me, that was a much worse punishment than bloody grandfather’s whippy cane!”

    “He didn’t?”

    “Yes, of course he did: old-school.”

    “Ugh!”

    “Well, you’ve said it yourself, sweetheart: they’re like young wildebeests: if they stick their necks out too far the older bulls will discipline them. And, um, part of growing up is sticking your neck out: finding out how far you can go.”

    She sighed. “Yes. I suppose Bernice was always doing that… I was always afraid of Mum, I never did anything bad.”

    “Added to which, you were a sweet, well-behaved little person like our darling Grace! Come on, let’s have high tea with her!”

    “Just an early dinner,” replied Lalla, smiling, to his relief.

    So they adjourned to the kitchen, where four-year-old Grace was placidly helping Mrs Beattie make “liddle pies.” Custard tarts, Doreen Beattie translated, smiling. And peace reigned for the rest of the evening…

    Early on the Saturday morning, Master Peter Christie Macdonald Townsend Holcroft Sale announced rebelliously that he’d seen Constable Shipley and there was no way he was gonna take any notice of her! She wasn’t even as tall as he was! Five minutes later his parents were grinning gleefully, as the caller at the front door was revealed as a six-foot-four, hugely broad-shouldered young male police officer. He looked vaguely familiar… Constable Orford. Gasp from Master Sale. “Hey, is your brother— Far—out!” Uh-huh. The “Orfie” who played for the Sydney Swans. It was very, very clear—though this had already dawned on Peter—that Sergeant Dean Barraclough more than knew his business. Peter and Lalla shut the front door upon Master Sale and his enormous escort and burst into roars of laughter.

    But the merriment alas, didn’t last long, because the New South Wales regulations, which Lalla declared angrily were MAD, said that a child must turn five before 31 July in the year in which it started school, the which helpful neighbours translated as having to start at the beginning of that school year. The regulations also said, completely confusingly, that a child must begin school by its sixth birthday. Lalla had been to see the head teacher, who’d admitted that yes, most parents whose children turned five in the first half of the year did have them start at the beginning of the year, Mrs Sale, but, uh, it was only Kindergarten, you know! Lalla replied grimly that that was what the official website called it: what did that prove? And nine to three! It was such a long day for a little kiddie! He took her along to see the class—by that time the school year was almost over, and so this was the end of their “Kindergarten” year. The class teacher came over to the door of the classroom, smiling, with a finger to her lips: they were having their afternoon “quiet time”. Each tiny tot had a little pillow and they were all obediently lying down with their heads on them and their eyes closed… Lalla retreated shakily, biting her lip.

    “Yeah,” said the head teacher with a smile. “We’re not all officialdom and websites. We concentrate on socialisation and just getting the littlies used to the idea of an organised routine, really. With a bit of elementary reading and writing. Your little girl been going to pre-school, has she?”

    “Yes, but not every day… I mean, it seemed mean to take up a pre-school place when there are lots of working mothers who need full day-care. But, um, you’re right about needing socialisation—at least with her peers. She’s surrounded by adults at our place, but there are no kids near enough to play with. It was quite difficult at first; I suppose she’d got used to being the centre of attention, though we do try not to spoil her.”

    “No, well, that’s natural. Most littlies that have been the only one at home with Mum find it a tricky adjustment,” he said, leading the way back to his office. “Hullo, Damian, are you on bell duty this arvo?” he said to a scruffy little object who was waiting outside it. Damian nodded convulsively. “Good-oh; well, come in and sit down, you’re a bit early.”

    “Mrs Bowler, she said they were playing up an’ Kai Slater, he could lose his turn!” he suddenly divulged.

    “Goddit,” replied the headmaster calmly. “Have a seat, Mrs Sale. Now, your problem isn’t unique, you know. The thing is, if their birthday’s in the middle of the year, they will be a little younger than many in their class, but if they don’t start until the following year they’ll be a bit older, and slightly behind their peer group.”

    “Mm,” said Lalla, chewing on her lip. “Grace is starting to read a bit already. It was her own idea, we didn’t force her, but we do all read to her a fair bit and one day she suddenly grabbed the book and said: ‘I know words!’ Um, it was a Christopher Robin book, she’s very fond of them, and she wasn’t lying, she identified ‘Pooh’ and ‘Piglet’ and ‘Kanga’ on the spot. –Help, I suppose you don’t know what I’m talking about! They were my husband’s books when he was a little boy, but the kids these days don’t seem to read them.”

    “Or anything, much,” he replied drily. “No, most of them think those horrible coloured Disney cartoon versions are the real Pooh Bear and friends.” He grinned at her. “I was brought up on my granddad’s ancient copies, with the genuine Ernest Shepard illustrations, Mrs Sale!”

    After that, somehow it sort of seemed to settle itself that Grace Sale would start school this year instead of waiting until she was five and nine months…

    Lalla, though accompanying her bravely on the day, collapsed in tears once she and Peter were back in the car. That was, back with Troy, driving, Fred, beside him, and Mrs B., in the back. Oh, well. Don’t cry, darling, this afternoon we’ll stroll down and collect— Make her walk back on her first day? She’d be tuckered out! Peter replied mildly that in that case he’d carry her.

    “Peter, it’s the 21st century, we won’t be the only ones collecting their kids in the car—”

    Yeah, well, while this was generally true of Australia—there were streets in Sydney where you literally couldn’t move for forty-five minutes mid-afternoon because all the mums considered that they had a God-given right to collect their offspring in the giant four-by-fours—their own suburb wasn’t a particularly affluent one, a lot of the mums would be at work, and the motorised contingent was definitely in the minority. “The car can be used if it’s raining, or over thirty-five degrees. Or do you want her to start behaving like a little Lady Muck in front of her peers, being collected by a chauffeured Beamer every day?”

    Lalla subsided, frowning.

    When they got home Mrs Beattie prescribed a nice cup of tea with maybe just a drop to cheer it up?

    They did that. Phew. Talk about giant hurdles to be overcome! Peter was completely wrung out.

    “It was almost as bad as when she was born!” he confided down the pub that evening to Pop, Mr Martin, Junior (Garrett: he’d finished those double shifts down at Emco’s: nah, not in town where the offices were, the warehouses, on the forklifts, Peter), and Dean Barraclough, just as burly and imperturbable in his off-duty gear of light blue tee and dark jeans as in his summer uniform of crisp light blue shirt and navy slacks. If not quite as intimidating without the hardware at the waist.

    “Yeah. Christine bawled ’er eyes out on our Dean’s first day,” confided Dean Martin’s male parent. “Ya’d wonder why, to look at ’im now, eh? –Boy, that community service was the way to go, Dean! Been a changed kid since ’e started it! –Yours?” he asked Peter.

    “Mm, absolutely, Garrett! Don’t think he had a notion what old folks’ homes are really like, even the decent ones.”

    “Well, yes,” Sergeant Barraclough allowed. “It’s all right, mind you: not one of those privately-owned places that are only in it for the bucks. Run by a charity: well, they’re taxed as a charity, but they’re okay as these organisations go. They do genuinely put most of their dough into the homes and the old folks aren’t neglected. But yeah; can be a shock to the system, coming up against the reality of Alzheimer’s.” He looked wry.

    “That’d be it,” acknowledged Garrett.

    “Yes,” Peter agreed. “It’s really shaken Petey. Well, never saw anything like it in the Cooks: old people are typically cared for at home, and then, on the whole I don’t think many reach their late eighties or nineties. He hasn’t said very much to us but evidently he asked his little friend Addison if her, uh, great-grandmother, I think it is, is like that.”

    “Aw, yeah,” Mr Martin Junior replied. “She’s pretty bad, eh?”

    “Mad as a meat-axe,” his father confirmed.

    “Yeah. Dunno if the kids told ya the latest, Peter: the window do?”

    “Er—no-o…”

    “Frank Leman told me down the bowling club: he’s pretty fed-up. See, Janelle’s the one that always has to rush off when the old bat has a dummy spit: her bloody parents washed their hands of the old dame, shoved ’er in the home and pushed off to the Gold Coast. Anyway, this time, it wasn’t just chucking things, they were wheeling ’er down the corridor, dunno why, and she suddenly hurls ’erself outa the wheelchair right at the bloody window! Pity she didn’t go through it and cut ’er throat, if you ask me. Only they got safety bars across them all and anyway it’s safety glass, it would only of shattered. None of them thought she had that much left in ’er. But Dad’s right: mad as a meat-axe, it can take them that way, see?”

    Peter nodded dazedly.

    “Yeah,” said Garrett sourly into his beer. “See, Janelle Leman, she’s too soft-hearted for ’er own good.”

    “I see,” said Peter with a smile. “Well, she’s not the only one. I mean, okay, bawling when your kid starts school’s one thing, but throughout Petey’s years at primary, I swear little Addison was at our place more afternoons than she was at home!”

    “Yeah, the old bat was bad back then,” confirmed Dean stolidly. “Ambulatory: made it worse.”

    “That the time she—?” asked Pop, wincing.

    “Yeah,” he said with a grimace.

    “Aw!” realised Garrett. “Yeah: Helluvan embarrassing, eh? Frank, he got home from a long haul to WA just in time to be dragged into it.”

    “What on earth?” said Peter blankly

    “Ya don’t wanna know!” Mr Martin Junior assured him.

    “Let’s just say,” said the Sergeant stolidly, though with a twinkle in his eye, “that it included taking the pants down, and a local councillor’s front lawn.”

    Peter gulped. “Got it.”

    “How the Hell didja put it, in the official report, Dean?” asked Pop, with what some felt was misplaced curiosity.

    “Used all the jaw-cracking words in the book, mate: whaddaya think?”

    “Aw. Yeah, ya would, eh? Good on ya.”

    Abruptly Peter broke down in splutters.

    The Australians eyed him tolerantly, Dean acknowledging when he was over it: “Yeah, well, not that funny at the time, though the look on Councillor the Great I-Am’s face was, I grant you. Mindjew, then ’e slid off on Council business, leaving the wife to it.”

    “What?” said Peter.

    He sniffed. “Yeah. There’s a fair bit of it about, mate.”

    “Yeah,” the other two confirmed.

    “’Specially,” Pop noted, draining his glass, “in them white-collar echelons what you were on about the other day. Don’t think ole Fred Beattie understood one word in twenny of what you was saying. Though ’e did say to me afterwards, kind of proud, like: ‘Talks like a book, dunn’e?’”

    The audience choked.

    “I was only— Er, yeah,” said Peter with a silly grin. “Well, ’nother round? Shorts, this time?”

    Everyone fancied shorts, even Dean. So they had them. With beer chasers, why not? And some potato crisps, well known to induce thirst…

    “How much beer have you drunk?” croaked Lalla as he staggered into the sitting-room. And attempted to embrace her.

    “A lot. And I’m gonna breathe beer fumes all over you. Come here!” He pulled her to him and breathed beer fumes whilst squashing her tits to his manly chest. Ooh-er.

    “I think,” he said at last, reluctantly letting her breathe, “that I’ve almost been accepted—not quite, but almost—into the male peer group, at last! Still an odd Pommy that rates kindly tolerance from time to time, of course, but it’s pretty close. They certainly gave me all the dirt tonight!” He laughed.

    “On what?” said Lalla in amazement. “I thought you were just going down there to celebrate Grace’s big event?”

    “I was. I did. That was part of it. Er, well, local gossip, darling. Um… vaguely related to Petey’s and Dean’s shellshock at the realisation of what old age and Alzheimer’s really are. Well, um, extrapolated therefrom, I s’pose.”

    “Therefrom! Ya won’t hear that down the average Aussie pub too often!”

    “No…” said Peter dreamily, hugging her.

    Lalla sighed. “Your hair even smells of beer, I swear it!”

    “Mm…”

    “I think we’d better go to bed before you fall asleep standing up.”

    “Mm… Did you know that this bloody man, a local councillor, Dean said— No, well, never mind. But they said there’s a lot of it about.”

    “Eh?”

    “Um, went off and left his wife in the p—” Peter broke off, coughing. “Um, to cope with a nasty situation, darling, instead of sticking it out beside her. They concluded —Garrett Martin was there as well as Pop, he’s off double shifts—they concluded—and Sergeant Dean, too, did I say? They concluded that it’s particularly common amongst the white-collar set. So I’ve decided never to be one of them.”

    “Well, you and the beer have, yeah,” replied his wife supportively. “For Heaven’s sake come up to bed while you can still walk!”

    What? What an insult! He wasn’t drunk, just a few beers…

    “Out like a light!” discerned Lalla with a smothered giggle. “Oh, dear! I wonder what they did talk about? –Well, a male peer group: I suppose I’ll never know! But at least he’s in one and at least it’s a normal one! I must tell Marie-Louise!”

    And on this optimistic note, she went happily to bed.

    Her mother-in-law’s conclusion was: “Congratulations, mon chéri! I knew you could do it! You ’ave ’umanised him, at last!”

Next chapter:

https://thelallaeffect.blogspot.com/2024/01/summer-breeze-makes-me-feel-fine.html