Best Laid Plans

16

Best Laid Plans

    The advent of Petey’s tenth birthday naturally added to the rabid excitement that now prevailed on Palmyra. Not amongst the guests, of course, but they, Peter realised with considerable amusement, were merely incidentals. He felt he should give the boy something decent but there wasn’t time, really. He asked Ken’s advice, and it as it amounted to a choice between a cricket bat and a full-size outrigger canoe, informed him he wasn’t funny, but a cricket bat’d be fine if it was possible to buy one here. Ken thought it was but warned him against a proper cricket ball. So they and the genial Josh McIntyre went over to Avarua, where Peter managed to buy a set comprising a smallish bat, stumps and bails, and a strangely-patterned blue rubber ball. The stumps were plastic but the bat wasn’t, so one had to be thankful for small mercies. Ken himself was giving him a paperback Swallows and Amazons which he’d ordered from New Zealand some months since. It was second-hand, but in good condition: he hadn’t been able to find a new edition.

    “Yeah, well, I started reading Arthur Ransome when I was about his age, but I think he’s gonna struggle with it. I know modern kids are into the Harry Potter crap but I couldn’t stomach it,” he confessed.

    “Sound man,” Peter replied drily.

    Josh sniggered. “Yeah! It’s the most incredible load of rubbish, but the kids are completely taken in by it. Every time ya turn the TV on back home they’re re-screening the whole flamin’ set of the cretinous films. The little kid next-door spends half his time running around pretending to ride his mum’s broom—don’t ask!” he adjured them with a laugh.

    “Wouldn’t dream of it,” rejoined Ken. “Well, if nothing else, Swallows and Amazons will expose him to a different culture.”

    “Along with the Inuit—yes!” said Peter with a sudden laugh. “That you’re not supposed to call Eskimos any more.”

    “Yeah. He’s bright enough, but so far there’s not much in there for anything to connect with.”

    “Never mind, he’s got plenty of time yet,” said Josh kindly.

    Peter smiled at him. “Of course. Er—does he own an atlas, Ken?”

    “No, but he can always use mine.”

    “Has it got a decent map of England? I mean, detailed enough to show the Lake District?”

    Ken looked dry. “It was published by The Times: whadda you think?”

    Peter grinned. “Good show!”

    Naturally Josh insisted on also buying a birthday present, but as Ken assured him that a model outrigger canoe would be the go, so long as it floated, one was duly acquired, the two engineers gravely consulting over its technical points and agreeing that it was the likeliest to perform to specifications—something very like that!

    All the presents were greatly appreciated, the cricket bat having to be tried out immediately with Peter himself, Ken, Josh, and his grandfather all having turns at bowling and fielding—Holcroft proving himself to be completely butter-fingered, though by this time Peter wouldn’t have expected anything else. The man had merely looked bewildered when they broke the good news to him and after a very clear explanation merely faltered, looking at his daughter, not her fiancé: “But who is he?” Peter had hissed desperately as they retreated: “Did any of it sink in?” and Lalla had replied calmly: “Yes. That carry-on was his coping mechanism. Just ignore it. Mary’ll flatten him if he overdoes it.”

    There was of course a birthday feast, Angie coming up trumps with a magnificent cake with the obligatory ten candles—set rather incongruously, to the unprejudiced eye, in a sea of blue icing tipped here and there with white crests, on which sat small facsimiles of the Palmyra Polynesia launch and amphibian.—Mighty!—The rest of the food was a huge barbecue on the grass near Ken’s hut—well out of sight of the guests—with mountains of fresh fish, grilled chicken, and huge salads of every variety. Including some very odd local offerings—several supporters having come over from the mainland in order to pitch in—of which possibly the oddest was a green thing which was apparently a puree of cooked taro leaves. Peter chickened out, but there was such a crowd there that he didn’t think anybody’d notice. Then came mountains of pudding: jellies and trifles, fruit salads galore, plus gallons of ice cream from the hotel’s kitchen. Whether Mrs Ledbetter’s continuing absence was a factor not clear. Mercifully they weren’t expected to consume this giant beanfeast in the sun: a huge awning had been set up and there was a great selection of seating, assorted. Well, they’d seen some cane suites from the staff accommodation block going down there early that morning, but some of the chairs looked suspiciously like the hotel’s patio furniture.

    “Darling,” Peter ventured cautiously, once they were back at her flat and, Master Holcroft having passed out in his little bed, he and Lalla were able to collapse onto the sofa and start to recover: “if that giant wingding was for a tenth birthday, what in God’s name is the wedding going to be like?”

    Lalla smiled. “Well, judging by Lily’s, even gianter! But a lot of people turned up today out of curiosity.”

    “I was trying not to ask that!” he admitted. “Who was the large woman who harangued me about the desirability of monogamy and fidelity?”

    “Coulda been anyone!” she choked, collapsing in giggles. “Um, no, I think it must have been dear Mrs Tangimetua. She was very relieved to learn I’d given Ken the brush-off the day she took me and Sarah out to her place to get the flowers. Oh—and that creep Oliver, too, that’s right: she got the whole story.”

    Clear as mud. He smiled at her. “Uh-huh. Dare I ask, would there be any point in drawing up a list of wedding guests?”

    “You could write down the ones you want to invite,” replied Lalla, looking dubious. “And I’ll write down the ones from New Zealand for you, if you like.”

    “Uh-huh.”

    “It might be easier just to write down the people we won’t invite,” she admitted.

    “And?” replied Peter, trying not to laugh.

    “Oliver Flaming Perkins,” replied Lalla grimly.

    “Darling, what the Hell did he do? And who is he?”

    Scowling, Lalla revealed: “He’s a racist pig.” She proceeded to explain.

    “What in God’s name made him come out here?” Peter groped at the end of it.

    “Don’t ask me! Probably fancied himself in the rôle of representative of the colonial master race!”

    Perhaps he did. “We definitely shan’t invite him, or any of his ilk.”

    “No,” she agreed, calming down. “Actually I don’t much like any of the Kiwis I’ve met here.”

    “No invitations to them, then.”

    “No.”

    “So, shall we make it a garden wedding?” he suggested, smiling.

    “We can’t, Peter. It’ll have to be in the church.”

    He goggled at her. “But we could ask the vicar—no, I suppose he’s a minister, is he? We could ask him to officiate at a garden wedding.”

    “No,” she said, shaking her head. “It isn’t a proper wedding here unless it’s in the church.”

    “Uh—oh. I see! Well, if the minister will agree to marry two unbelievers.”

    “Mm, don’t worry. I do sometimes go to church, if I’m not on duty and Mary’s going over. The singing’s usually lovely. No-one’s ever asked me if I believe it all, of course,” she said sunnily.

    “Right. Well, if you don’t object to a touch of hypocrisy, I certainly don’t mind.”

    “It’ll please people, you see,” she said with her lovely calm smile.

    Unexpectedly Peter’s eyes filled with tears. “Yes, of course it will, my darling,” he croaked.

    “What’s the matter?” replied Lalla uneasily.

    “Nothing. Just that you’re the sweetest person I’ve ever known and I can’t believe that—that you really will marry me.”

    “You could kiss me if you like,” replied Lalla kindly.

    “If!” He kissed her tenderly, and at some length.

     When he released her and sat back, sighing, she said calmly: “Wait until you see the awful frock I’ll have to wear: I think that’ll convince you that I’m marrying you.”

    “What?” he groped.

    “White lace—Lily was absolutely moulded into hers, and she’s not a small person—and completely smothering,” said Lalla with relish.

    “Surely you won’t have to—to conform to that extent?”

    “Yes. We don’t want to hurt people’s feelings.”

    “Right. It won’t be a proper wedding unless it’s in church with smothering white lace.”

    “Yep,” she replied serenely.

    “Um, will there be photographs?” he ventured with foreboding.

    “Millions! I’ve had four—no, five offers to do the wedding album for me already. And probably videos: didn’t you see Jimmy Tangianau with his video camera this afternoon?"

    “Right,” said Peter groggily: “it’ll be a genuine 21st-century South Seas experience.”

    She nodded and smiled at him, so he came over all all-overish again and had to hug her very, very tight.

    John Faraday had been the first person Peter had imparted the good news to—he felt he owed him that, after all that abortive telephoning he’d done, poor John. He tentatively broached the idea of living in Sydney and to his tremendous relief John was very pleased, it’d mean he’d be much nearer his mother, in New Zealand. Peter breathed a sigh of relief, admitted he hadn’t yet thought about Christmas but he'd discuss it with Lalla, ascertained there was nothing urgent requiring his attention, and, thanking John for all his help and patience, rang off. He then took a deep breath and rang Maman in Paris.

    Naturally he got the expected harangue. Should have found her years ago, was the gist. Subordinates, however loyal, could not be expected to do as good a job— etcetera. Also, if he’d suffered during the past ten years—he hadn’t breathed a word about suffering!—he had only himself to blame. And—steelier than ever—what about the child’s education? Feebly Peter suggested Sydney and got another harangue. Though she did eventually admit it’d be preferable to an English public school such as his father’s family had insisted on for him.—And thereby hung several very painful tales, yes.—Très bien, mon chou, and she’d see them at Christmas. At Christmas? he croaked. Naturellement he would want to bring Lalla and their son to her for Christmas! Oh, God.

    “Maman, they may prefer to stay here,” he croaked. “Lalla will probably have to work.”

    “It’ll be the middle of their hurricane season: they won’t be expecting guests,” she stated definitely.

    His jaw sagged. “I—I’ll check it out.”

    She appeared to accept that, if grimly, gave a him a further harangue, this time on the virtues of a really good sunscreen and wearing his hat at all times, even if it appeared overcast, and rang off with an injunction to remind Lalla to hand in her notice immediately, naturellement one could not leave one’s employers in the lurch, so if he was serious about the boy’s starting school in Sydney next February—he hadn’t so much as breathed the word “February”, how the Hell did she know that their term started— Forget it. One wouldn’t expect her not to know, that was Maman for you.

    —And finally rang off.

    Peter felt so limp that he had to order a whisky from the sympathetic Mata, who was in attendance for the call, having conducted him to Mac’s office in order to put it through, since his cell phone wasn’t connecting with anything.

    “So will your mum come out for Christmas?” he asked cosily, supplying this necessity. –The telephone conversation had of course taken place in French but Peter had found himself explaining whom he intended ringing. Presumably Mata had made the obvious deduction.

    “Thanks, Mata.” Peter took a swig, and sighed. “That’s better! –Well, I don’t really know about Christmas: she seems to expect that we’ll spend it with her in France.”

    “It’ll be cold,” he warned.

    “Yeah. –Oh, shit! I don’t suppose Lalla’s got a heavy coat!” he realised.

    “Nah. She doesn’t need one.”

    “Oh, Lor’: I suppose the Auckland shops—and the Sydney ones as well—will only be selling summer clothes, at this time of year.”

    “Yeah,” Mata agreed.

    Peter passed his hand over his forehead. “It’s getting more complicated by the minute.”

    “Your mum had better come out here, that’d be the best thing. Unless we get a cyclone, of course.”

    Peter winced horribly. Exactly.

    Lalla had thought she really ought to tell Jean first, but she’d rather tell nice Jan, down at Taupo. Smiling, Peter urged her to ring Jan, then, Jean would never know. But, worried Lalla, if she phoned her she might think it was an emergency, she didn’t want to alarm her: it might be better to write. “Just say straight away that it’s good news,” he suggested. “I will!” she beamed. Peter blinked slightly at this immediate compliance with his suggestion, though he did know she had nothing in common with either his mother or his ex but her gender. So Lalla rang nice Jan Harper at Taupo Shores Ecolodge.

    Jan was thrilled, agreed they’d love to come over for the wedding—the ecolodge was booked out for most of the Christmas holidays, but if Lalla thought late January, they’d ruddy well cancel those bookings!—checked that Lalla really was sure about marrying Peter, checked that Petey liked him, assured her that she’d posted Petey’s Christmas present herself this year, Pete was getting worse and worse and half the time he didn’t bother to bring the mail in, never mind if it might include bookings—well, he was a bit fed up with the ecolodge, and who could blame him, with the lot they got; and, repeating congratulations and assuring her that Pete’d be there for the wedding if she had to hogtie him, rang off.

    “Oh, dear,” said Lalla.

    She’d told Peter that of course he could stay while he made the call, so he’d stayed. “What’s the matter, darling? Isn’t she pleased?”

    “She is, but I think she’d be more pleased if she’d actually met you. It’s not that, it’s Pete: he’s getting fed up with the ecolodge. Well, I think he must be seventy by now, and they’ve been doing it since… Heck. The mid-1980s, it must’ve been, so that’s twenty years. It’s the type of guests they mainly get: the nice middle-aged retired sort with bags of super. –Sorry: superannuation; the pension, in your vernacular.”

    “At an ecolodge?” he groped.

    “Jan says it’s only a pretend ecolodge: there was a bandwaggon going, so she thought they might as well be on it!” she replied with a laugh. “They advertise bush walks and the unspoiled natural environment—well, the guests don’t know how much of the undergrowth Pete slashed back to get that view of the lake, and of course the trails are completely fake: I mean, he cut them through the bush, but no-one’s ever pointed out that that isn’t the natural environment! It’s the genuine home cooking and of course the comfy beds that pull them in: the word’s got round, you see. Jan’s a wonderful cook. And it’s not vegetarian, though they do always have one non-vegetarian choice. They get a few of the sort that wear huge tramping boots and like to hive off over National Park bent double under their giant packs, but it’s mostly retirees. It’s the niceness that Pete finds hard to take.

    “The— Oh! It sounds as if the frightful Perkins’s appalling mother’d be right at home there.”

    Lalla nodded hard. “Just don’t discuss race, politics or religion, is Jan’s credo.”

    “God.”

    “Yeah. Anyway, so long as we have it in late January they can come. I suppose we’d better decide on a date.” She counted on her fingers.

    “Er—January does still have thirty-one days, sweetheart, though I admit it feels rather as if the world’s topsy-turvy.”

    “Not that. I was just wondering if I’d have my period.”

    “Uh—is it crucial? I mean, we do have the rest of our lives. If you’re feeling grotty we don’t have to have intercourse on our actual wedding night.”

    “It’d be much nicer if we could, though. –No, that’s all right: it’s due around the tenth so, um…”

    “You’ll be right in the middle of your cycle and I’ll have to use a condom: yeah. And let’s hope this one doesn’t break or leak or whatever it did.”

    “Mm. But you do like Petey, don’t you?” she said anxiously.

    “Of course I do, you idiot!”

    “Good. But I think we’ve got enough to cope with, without pregnancy.”

    “Yes. Er—do you want another one, darling?”

    “I don’t know,” Lalla admitted. “They’re awfully tiring. And it’d be a big gap between them.”

    “Yes, and as you say, we’ve got enough to cope with. And I know Petey’s a pretty stable little character, but it’d be Hellish if we did have another and he was jealous.”

    “Mm. I don’t think he would be, but you never know. Besides… Well, what if it was a girl and it turned out to be another Candida?”

    Peter winced horribly. “Don’t! No, well, realistically a great deal of that is Monica’s fault. I really don’t think your daughter could be anything like Candida. Pity one can’t choose their sex, isn’t it? A little Lalla would be rather nice…”

    Lalla bit her lip. “But you can’t choose, Peter.” She looked at him dubiously. Oh, dear: it was impossible to put oneself in the man’s place, wasn’t it? “Um, well, say we find a nice place to live and get Petey settled in at school and you settled in your new office, and get used to life in Sydney: then maybe we could think about it again, if you’d like to?”

    He brightened, so it was obvious he would. Oh, well, thought Lalla, he couldn’t have the kid for her. And if you married a bloke it wasn’t fair to say you weren’t gonna have his kids if he wanted them. And at least there’d be plenty of money: she wouldn’t have to worry about the expense of it!

    “At least you’re rich,” she said happily.

    Peter blinked. “Uh—yeah. What brought that on?”

    “The idea of having a kid. Everyone was very kind when Petey arrived, of course, but I had to really pinch and scrape to make ends meet. They get through nappies like there’s no tomorrow, the supermarket bills were astronomical. And once they start school the blimmin’ place is always asking you to cough up for extras: school trips and special stuff for art, and of course if they have a school fair you’re expected to contribute as well as buy stuff at it.”

    “I see. Well, yes, you won’t have to worry about that sort of thing, darling.”

    “No. Good,” she said with a sigh.

    Peter got up. “Now, you ring Jean, and I’ll fetch my pocket diary and we’ll pick a tentative date and check with the minister.”

    “Okay.”

    The diary was down at Paradise Cove and they were making the calls from Lalla’s office. When he got back the phone was yacking at her. He raised his eyebrows slightly, but sat down and waited.

    Lalla made fond farewells and hung up. “That was Sherrie!” she beamed. “She’s absolutely thrilled and they’d love to come over and she’s gonna make Bob shut the blimmin’ butcher’s shop for a week!”

    “Er—right,” he said groggily. “Friends, are they?”

    Happily Lalla explained. Adding the gratuitous intel that quite a lot of Bob’s customers went away during January but he still did really well with his organic chooks and his sausages, because he made his own and they were miles nicer than the supermarket ones and people had lots of barbecues over summer.

    Peter nodded groggily. “Right. And did you get on to Jean okay?”

    “Yes, she’s thrilled! And I told her what you said about sending the Lear jet for them and of course she said you mustn’t, only I explained that you really are very rich and she said that’d be lovely, it’d make it so much more comfortable for Roger, but then she asked me if I’d had my head turned! So I said only ten years nine months back when I fell for you hopelessly and she told me not to be silly, and tried to give me an awful warning about being a rich man’s wife. Only I explained that we’re gonna live in Sydney and she said that didn’t sound too bad but some of those Sydney socialites are frightful, and I wouldn’t like that lifestyle. So I said nor would you, and you’ve got beautiful taste, and she said that sounded better. And Roger must’ve been listening—he often works from home—and he said to ask me what about Petey’s schooling. So of course I said he’s only gonna go to an ordinary Sydney school and they were both relieved.”

    She paused for breath, so Peter was able to say weakly: “That’s good.”

    “Mm! And I think she’d like to be my matron of honour. Would that be all right?”

    “Er—yes!” said Peter, very startled to be consulted. “Of course, sweetheart, whatever you like.”

    “Oh, good! I did say I thought you wouldn’t mind. And Taggy’ll be chief  bridesmaid, of course.”

    “Uh-huh.”

    “And Roger was very pleased when I said that you’ve been helping Petey with that big Lego set he sent him for his birthday.”

    “Pleased or relieved?” replied Peter on a dry note before he could stop himself.

    “Both!” said Lalla with a loud giggle. “Anyway, I think I did make them understand that none of it’s your fault and you really tried to find me.”

    He nodded groggily.

    “I might just have a cuppa and then I’ll ring Tanya,” she decided happily.

    He nodded groggily.

    It was more of the same, of course. Thrilled. But would there be accommodation, at this time of year? Sunnily Lalla assured Tanya—and Ron, who apparently was home—that they didn’t need to worry about silly hotels or motels, there was stacks of room here or if they’d rather be on the mainland loads of people’d be happy to put them up.

    “Sweetheart,” Peter croaked when she hung up at last: “we will have to work out just who’s staying where, you know: we can’t just invite all these people and—and leave their accommodation up to chance.”

    By the time he’d got to the end of this speech his fiancée’s face was all twinkles. “You really don’t understand a thing about the Cooks, do you?”

    “Er—apparently not, no.”

    “It’s the same all over the Pacific—and actually, most people in New Zealand, apart from the Mrs Perkinses, are just the same!” she said with a laugh. “Anybody who’s got a spare room’ll be happy to rally round and put people up, and even if they haven’t, they’ll probably fit you in anyway!”

    “In the first place, this sounds completely apocryphal, and in the second place, how precisely will they fit one in if they have no spare room?” he returned coldly.

    Unphased, Lalla replied serenely: “You’re being silly. Most people can rustle up a stretcher or a blow-up mattress—in the sitting-room, usually; and quite a few would have a tent they could put up on the lawn.”

    “Rubbish.”

    “It isn’t rubbish: lots of people go on camping holidays. Um, New Zealand’s not like Britain: almost everyone has a fair-sized section with a lawn.”

    “And a tent.”

    “Lots of them, yes.”

    “Likewise here?”

    “It’d probably be bit of tarp, but yeah. Or the verandah.”

    Peter passed his hand over his forehead. “Right. Got it. Nevertheless we can’t really expect our guests to camp—especially if they’re not used to this climate.”

    “No. But Mac says they’re welcome to use our block: there’s two spare flats downstairs, both with two bedrooms, so that’d be four couples, and an empty bunkroom upstairs, and a nice hut available—the one that Petey’s been nagging me to move into, it’s the same size as Dad’s, it’d take two couples, as well.”

    “That’s terribly decent of Mac. But we must sort out exactly who goes where.”

    “Yes. Well, have you written your list yet?”

    Peter felt in his pocket. “For what it’s worth, yes.”

    Lalla unfolded it. Her jaw dropped. His list was composed of two lines: the first reading “Maman” and the second “John Faraday and mother.”

    “Peter, surely there’s other friends you’d like to invite?”

    He made a face. “No. Scads of business acquaintances who’d no doubt feel slighted if we were having it in England and they weren’t asked—which they wouldn’t be, by the way. No, that’s it.”

    “What about your sister?”

    Peter made a face. “Thought I mentioned it? Anne-Marie and her even pottier husband Jacques-Yves are in deepest Central America looking for Mayan ruins. Out of contact. May possibly be back some time in April.—Do not mention that or either of their names to Maman: red rag to a bull.”

    “Oh. But aren’t there other relations? Um, what about Davey White? –I mean Davey Sale!” she gasped.

    Peter grinned. “I knew that bear reminded me of someone! It’s got just that inane expression, hasn’t it? Good one, darling! Well, I suppose he’d be free: he hasn’t settled down to domesticity in the intervening ten years. Currently doing a job of which all his frightful female relatives on both sides disapprove entirely: PA to some go-getting female who runs an executive placement agency. Seems to entail making her mugs of herbal tea and occasionally using his contacts so as to spy on unwary execs she wants to headhunt. Well, he’s always up for a wing-ding, and I know he liked you very much. Okay, then.” Solemnly he wrote “Davey White” on his list.

    “Hah, hah,” said Lalla. “What about your top execs?”

    “They’re not friends,” he said heavily. “It’s not because I dislike them—well, I can’t say I like them particularly, but I don’t dislike them—but at my level one doesn’t make friends within the firm: it creates too many enemies.”

    She swallowed hard. “I see… But— Well, Sir Jake Carrano always seemed to have lots of friends from—from outside the company.”

    “Yes; I’ve met Carrano,” said Peter wryly. “Very genial fellow, isn’t he? Gregarious type.” He shrugged. “Chalk and cheese, I’m afraid, Lalla.”

    “I see. But you must have been very lonely,” she said in consternation.

    He sighed. “Only since I met you. –Oh, Christ! Don’t cry, darling!” Hurriedly he gave her his handkerchief. “I’m a naturally solitary creature, I suppose.”

    Lalla blew her nose and wiped her eyes shakily. “What about old school friends? You would’ve been incarcerated in that horrid school for years: didn’t you have a friend?”

    “I did have two I went around with. David Llewellyn—Llewellyn Minor,” he amended drily, “and Archie Foxe-Forsythe.” She was looking at him hopefully. Peter sighed. “David went into the Army and was killed in Northern Ireland.”

    She swallowed hard. “I’m awfully sorry, Peter.”

    “Thank you. It was a long time ago…”

    “And—and the other one? Archie?”

    “Er—well, I suppose I see a bit of him in town. He’s with the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. Not one of their brightest ornaments: the word is they only accepted him because of his family connections. Er, a lovely chap, if you can imagine a largeish fellow who’s rather like a friendly dog of the floppy variety, but we haven’t a thing in common, really. Well, cricket, I suppose. If I can make it to Lord’s, we usually go together.”

    “He sounds nice. I think you should invite him, Peter! Is he married?”

    “I don’t think so,” he replied cautiously.

    “You must know!”

    “No, well, at last count he’d had three divorces. The first wife thought he had lots of moolah and dumped him when she found out all the family money was tied up in trusts and wouldn’t be coming to Archie. The second—was that the model?” he asked himself. “No, don’t think he ever actually married her. Um… Oh, yes: the second worked for a modelling agency, that was it. l think they took her on partly because she had a posh accent—frightfully good school—and sounded and looked good on the front desk, and partly because her doting daddy put money into the business. She discovered Archie didn’t want to lead the sort of swinging life she fancied: partying every night, sort of thing. Archie’s idea of a good night’s fun is a few beers and a video of the Test series with his Wisden open at his side. –Cricket bible, darling. He came home late one night—they’d been having a flap at work—to find she’d gone. After that he got a dog and everyone thought that he’d settled down to a comfortable bachelor existence, but a few years later he fell for another one. This one wasn’t into the swinging scene, she fancied haute couture and the lifestyle that goes with it. A better prospect happened along about ten months into the marriage, so she told him to his face she was fond of him but he couldn’t support her in the style to which, and went off to live with some bloody Yank arms manufacturer three times her age. I’ve seen him with a fair number of bimbos at various appalling does since then—you know, darling: Ascot, that sort of thing, boring shooting parties with boring types hoping to do business or sucker one into buying their frightful country estates—but I don’t think he’s married any of them. Well, did see him at Lord’s this summer, but funnily enough we didn’t chat about our private lives.”

    “It sounds as if you’ve seen quite a lot of him. I think you ought to invite him.”

    “Er—Archie in a South Seas Paradise? He’s such an urban animal… Well, I could try asking him.”

    “Of course! And if he’s used to a fancy lifestyle, well, maybe they could fit him in at the hotel!”

    “Mm.”

    “You will need someone to be your best man,” she reminded him.

    “Thought I’d ask John Faraday.”

    “That’d be nice!”

    “I’m glad you think so,” he said weakly. He could not see the amiable Archie Foxe-Forsythe in the Cooks! Not even at Palmyra Polynesia: no.

    “Would it be the right time to ring Archie now?” she asked hopefully.

    Peter looked at his watch. “I don’t think so. This evening our time, okay?”

    She nodded, beaming.

    So be it. He duly rang Archie. Archie was thrilled—no other word for it. He’d be there with knobs on, old man! Anything he particularly fancied for a wedding present?

    “Er—well, she likes whisky. Nice decanter with one of those daft silver necklaces? I’ve discovered she adores them, God knows why,” he said feebly.

    “Right-ho, old man! Old Maurice Bishop’s crowd, was it, that had the snaps of her?”

    Peter couldn’t have said how that had got into the conversation. “Er—yeah.”

    Happily Archie decided he’d pop round to the club and chat up old Maurice, get a squint at them!

    “Yuh— Uh— For God’s sake don’t give him the impression that Vibart’s wants to invest in his bloody project!” said Peter in alarm.

    “Wouldn’t dream of it, old boy! Now, your chap’ll make all the arrangements, will he?”

    “Yes, definitely, Archie, and someone will collect you and put you on the plane, don’t worry,” said Peter firmly. –There had been an episode—admittedly some years in the past—when Archie Foxe-Forsythe had failed to turn up for his only sister’s wedding, and the family had never let him live it down. He hadn’t been dead drunk or anything of that sort: he’d simply forgotten about it.

    “Oh, good show!” With that he congratulated him all over again and hung up happily.

    “If he remembers to be home on the day he’s to be collected and put on the plane he’ll be here,” said Peter weakly to his fiancée.

    “Lovely! So it’s all settled!” she beamed.

    It did seem to be, yes. Well, five million odds and ends to arrange, not to mention Christmas to be got through in the interim, but yes.

    Peter’s bet would have been that Maman would have been the first to turn up for an Antipodean Christmas—she had decided that it would be sensible to come for Christmas after all, since she was coming out for the wedding—but he was wrong.

    He had merely popped along to Lalla’s office to report that he, Ken and Petey had finished their cricket game and Petey, having been foiled in an attempt to “just watch” Josh at work, was now reading his Swallows and Amazons in Ken’s hammock, and to offer his humble services if needed, when there came a tap on her half-open office door and Mac’s voice said with a laugh in it: “Oy, Lalla; I think this belongs to you!”

    And the door opened wide to reveal a grinning Jimmy Tangianau and a much shorter supporting female figure dressed in something very unlikely and with a mop of very unlikely orange-tipped brown hair—

    “Bernice!” gasped Lalla, dropping the pencil with which she’d been endeavouring to correlate the official laundry list against Ngamau Tangianau’s list of what was actually available in the cupboards in the laundry room—Mrs Ledbetter being expected in three days’ time.

    “She threw up on the boat but she’s okay now,” offered Jimmy helpfully.

    “Hullo,” said the presumed Bernice very glumly indeed.

    “Oh, good Heavens! You were seasick?” cried Lalla. “But it isn’t rough today, is it, Jimmy?”

    “Nah.”

    “It is!” gasped Bernice. Abruptly she burst into tears, gulping: “That boat was horrible!”

    “Um, might be a bit choppy, I s’pose,” offered Jimmy dubiously.

    His relative Ngamau, who was about twice his age, three times his girth and with fifty times his authority, at this stood up and ordered him to get out, he was no more use than ornament.

    “Eh?” he croaked.

    “It’s a saying,” said Lalla, now patting Bernice anxiously on the back and endeavouring to hug her—difficult, since the girl had both hands up to her face. “Your mum was complaining about your dad and Angie said it. So me and Ngamau thought it was pretty good, we’d use it in future, eh, Ngamau?”

    “Yeah,” she agreed. “Go on, get.”

    “But—”

    “It musta been rough if the poor girl was was sick, and GET OUT!” she yelled.

    Jimmy vanished.

    Looking completely calm, Ngamau sat down again. “Getting as bad as his dad,” she noted to the ambient air.

    “I’ll say!” Lalla agreed—whether meaning it or not, Peter couldn’t for the life of him tell. “Never mind, Bernice, dear, you’re here now. And we’ll make sure you have a nice travel-sickness pill if you go in a boat again.”

    “That’d be good,” Bernice allowed, sniffling horribly.

    Resignedly Peter produced the usual and proffered it.

    “Ta,” said his beloved, giving it to the girl. “You’ll be okay in no time, all you need is a nice cold drink of water and a bit of a nap.”

    Bernice blew her nose juicily. “I been on the Waiheke ferry loads of times and I wasn’t sick!” she reported soggily.

    “No, I know. But that was in the harbour.”

    She sniffed dolorously. “Yeah. And that horrible boat, it smelt of fish.”

    “Fish?” echoed Lalla feebly. No-one would have fished from the launch that did the Avarua trip: it was kept pristine for the guests.

    “It’ll of been that dumb thing of his with the blimmin’ outboard,” noted Ngamau.

    “Oh, good grief! So it wasn’t a big white launch, Bernice?”

    “Nah. A stupid little thing.”

    “Mm,” said Lalla, biting her lip. “Jimmy will of thought he was doing you a favour, that’s his own boat. It’s not for the guests.”

    “It’s horrible.”

    “Yeah: you wouldn’t get me in it for anything,” noted Ngamau. “Heck, I’d rather go with Hoppy in his canoe!”

    “Me, too,” Lalla agreed. “Peter, could you pop out and ask someone to get Bernice a glass of water?”

    “Oh—of course.” Thankfully he popped.

    It was—at least as narrated by Bernice—a long and involved story, but it amounted to the facts that the girl, who turned out to be not a cousin, as Peter had surmised, but the daughter of a cousin, had lost her job to a friend of someone at her magazine, had a row with her mother on the strength of it, and marched off and changed her airline ticket on the strength of that. Though apparently they’d been having rows all along because the mother had refused to come to the wedding. –Another long story, but in short, she hated humid weather. Oh, plus and because Bernice, who, it turned out, was twenty-six, not the eighteen or so that Peter had been assuming, had recently broken up with the boyfriend of whom her mother approved. All her fault: quite.

    However, Lalla soon had her lying down on their bed, what time she popped upstairs to make up a bunk for her in the spare dormitory, so presumably all would be well.

    And indeed it was: she surfaced around dinnertime, much brighter, allowed herself to be shown upstairs to unpack and shower, and descended again in another unlikely garment, but without the frightful black tights that had featured earlier and that must have been agony in the sticky, humid weather. And happily came with them to the staff dining-room, where admittedly she refused the beautiful fresh grilled fish with a shudder, but happily ate the alternative grilled chicken with mountains of salad and a mound of what was probably mashed taro. Followed by a large helping of fruit salad with a generous topping of whipped cream that Peter frankly couldn’t have gone near after a dose of mal de mer.

    Melanie Karati was sitting with them and the two seemed to get on very well, Melanie being very interested to hear about Bernice’s erstwhile job and very sympathetic about her losing it, and Bernice apparently just as interested in finding out what it was like doing reception work. So that was all right.

    After dinner they went back to Lalla’s flat and Bernice happily sat on the floor with Petey and helped him with his Lego until it was his bedtime. As she was yawning her head off by that time she gave in, admitted she was a bit tired, and went up to bed.

    “It occurs,” said Peter with a twinkle in his eye, “that Bernice may, at least in the short term, be much happier working here than back in Auckland; what do you think?”

    “She’d be happier anywhere out of ruddy Coralie’s orbit!” replied Lalla strongly.

    “Ouch.”

    Lalla sighed. “It isn’t that Bernice isn’t strong-minded: she is, very, and Coralie isn’t nearly as bad as Mum, but she does try to boss her around for her own good. I think you’re right, she would like it here, but she’s a bit slap-dash. Though I’m sure Mrs Ledbetter will sort her out. –Just so long as it isn’t out of the frying-pan into the fire,” she ended anxiously.

    “The other girls seem to cope,” he murmured, smiling.

    “That’s true,” Lalla agreed.

    “Er—that hair…”

    “Just don’t.”

    “Okay, I won’t.”

    “It was probably meant to spite Coralie,” she admitted.

    “Uh-huh.”

    “Never mind, Mrs Ledbetter will have the solution!” she beamed.

    It was only at this point that Peter Sale completely lost it and laughed till he cried.

    “So you’re not cross that she just turned up?” Lalla concluded weakly.

    “What? No! Of course not, darling! We must see that she has a lovely time, mm? And forgets all about the horrible boat,” he ended with a smile.

    “Yes,” Lalla agreed. “You’re awfully nice, really, Peter.”

    Er… damned with faint praise? “Thanks,” he said weakly.

    Peter’s first intimation that his mother had turned up—naturally without letting them know the time of her flight so as they could arrange to pick her up, she was now and always had been fiercely independent—was a loud voice saying imperatively, in excellent if accented English, just as he was harmlessly helping old Hoppy load stuff into the launch over in Avarua: “Young man, do not lift those cartons like that! You will peut your back out! Bend your knees and peush up from the thighs!”

    He straightened, grinning, and removed his hat. “C’est pas un jeune homme, Maman, c’est moi.”

    “Peut that hat on immediately,” returned his mother in English. “Are you trying to peut your back out, you fool?”

    “Sorry,” said Peter meekly, resuming his hat. Or a hat: various persons having declared his panama wasn’t wide-brimmed enough, he was wearing a substitute today, a scraggy straw thing which featured a wide wreath of artificial flowers round the crown. True, head wreaths were traditional Cook Islander wear, though they were typically thick creamy-white blooms, always tiare maori for special occasions, but often frangipani, native or not, interspersed with spikes of green leaves, the whole effect being very pretty if rather incongruous atop such faces as, for example, Hoppy’s broad, wrinkled one—the wreaths didn’t seem to be gender-specific. But this didn’t necessarily excuse his hat, since the wreath was, or had once been, it was very faded, yellow, magenta and red.

    “Lift that carton properly,” she ordered.

    Raising his eyebrows only slightly and murmuring, à la To The Manor Born: “Bend zee knees,” Peter lifted the carton properly and dumped it in the boat with all the other cartons, that he hadn’t lifted properly but that hadn’t put his back out.

    He’d barely straightened before she snapped: “Introduce me to your friend, Peter, where are your manners?”

    “Sorry, Maman. May I introduce Hoppy Tangianau? This is my mother, Mrs Sale, Hoppy,” he said to the elderly chap, who funnily enough was now grinning all over his wrinkled face.

    “Hullo, Mrs Sale,” he acknowledged. “So ya come for Christmas, eh?”

    “Certainly. It’s very nice to meet you, Hoppy, but please,”—an evil look at her son—“call me Marie-Louise, not Mrs Sale!”

    “Righto, Marie-Louise,” he agreed, pronouncing it as “Marry-Loo-eez” which proved that he had a much better ear than the English, who usually produced something like “Murr-ee Loo-weez”, possibly having been indoctrinated at school with the idea that French always put the emphasis on the second syllable of a word. Whereas in phrases the natural rhythm of the language dictated that the emphasis be on the final syllable of the phrase, rather than those of the individual words. As to where they got the idea that all French A’s were back A’s, God only knew. The A in “Marie” was very definitely a front A. Which Hoppy had got right. Not surprisingly, Maman was now beaming at him.

    “So!” she said. “You are in sharge of the boat, Hoppy?”

    “The launch: yeah, that’s right. Peter here, he can’t steer a boat for nuts.”

    She sniffed. “I am not surprised. Also, he is a very bad driver.”

    Peter sighed. He’d been nineteen at the time, the road had been very slippery, it had been pouring with rain with almost no visibility, and he’d been crawling along at quinze kilomètres. Added to which they’d only skidded into the verge, and no-one had been hurt or even shaken. But the elephant never.

    Hoppy was returning with apparent delight: “That right? Just like my Jimmy, then.” Happily he plunged into a horror tale of Jimmy’s crash when driving a truck which didn’t belong to him laden with fresh produce intended for the hotel. It turned out, Peter gathered in between heaving the remainder of the cartons into the boat whilst bending zee knees, that Jimmy had been eighteen at the time, it had been pouring with rain with visibility almost nil and he hadn’t been speeding, added to which no-one had been hurt and nothing had fallen off the truck or even spilled out of its containers. All right, two elephants. Jesus!

    Naturally Maman was sympathising entirely and joining loudly in the disapprobation and lamentations…

    Hoppy then insouciantly lifted her bodily into the boat—true, she was a tiny woman and he was a hefty chap, but he hadn’t given her any warning. Marie-Louise Sale not only took it entirely in her stride, whereas in her time she’d been known to flatten a minor Royal for merely taking her elbow, she thanked him very nicely and sat down composedly between a carton advertising Wattie’s tinned peas, actually filled with large papayas, and a giant carton of toilet paper. And off they went: the two of them, now completely on the same wavelength, exchanging reminiscences of irresponsible relatives they had known and Peter just sitting there like a bump on a log. Wearing his hat: yes.

    The much-dreaded first meeting between Marie-Louise and Mrs Ledbetter was over at last. Peter had lost his nerve: he’d left it to Lalla. Quite some time later he crept timidly up to her office door, which as usual was slightly ajar, and tapped. Her “Come in!” sounded completely cheerful, so he peeped in cautiously.

    “Is the coast—”

    Promptly Lalla collapsed in giggles of the most agonising kind, gasping: “Yes! Chicken!”

    “I’ll say,” he agreed. Prudently closing the door behind him, he crept to a seat. He wasn’t capable of any more speech: he just looked at her meekly.

    Lalla wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Twin—souls!” she gasped, off again.

    He grinned sheepishly. “I might have known.”

    “Yeah,” she said, grabbing a handful of tissues from the box on her desk and mopping. “You might of.” Her eyes twinkled naughtily. “Naturally they perfectly sympathised with the woman’s point of view, but nevertheless they had to concede that it was very foolish and short-sighted of me not to contact you when I realised I’d have the responsibility for a child with no visible means of support. –I did have a job but they ignored that; no, I think I mean superbly ignored. Though they were right in essence, of course.”

    He nodded speechlessly, his eyes bulging.

    “You, of course, acted entirely irresponsibly throughout—I think they meant right from getting me pregnant in the first place, though they were both much too nice to say so—”

    “Maman said precisely that—no, putting it much more crudely and exactly, as a matter of fact—to me!” he gasped indignantly.

    “This was two nice ladies, ya dill,” replied his fiancée calmly.

    “Uh—oh! Right. Er—well, go on, I suppose I can stand it.”

    “There was a lot of it.”

    “There would have been,” he muttered.

    “I can’t remember it all, but your Maman came out with a great list of girlfriends that you’d done, I think she meant since, plus a scathing condemnation of their collective brainpower and personalities. I think she meant they didn’t have any—personality as well, I mean.”

    Peter nodded, swallowing.

    “Yes; and Mrs Ledbetter chimed in with some well-chosen episodes of Angie’s inglorious past—it was, I gathered, until her parents got her to admit she really wanted to be a cook, she was a great fan of Julia Child. –I’m not absolutely sure whether your mum had ever heard of Julia Child but she gave the impression she knew all about her.”

    “She would,” he said limply.

    Lalla nodded. “Then they got onto the wedding being too precipitate, which they both agreed on, and they turned round and pounced on me—I mean, they both already had, of course,”—he nodded numbly: he hadn’t been privileged to hear Ma Ledbetter’s one but Maman’s had been cringingly embarrassing, though Lalla, funnily enough, hadn’t seemed to mind, in fact she actually seemed to like her—“but this was a joint one. And then, don’t ask me how, they got all involved with the wedding dress and Mrs Ledbetter got out the album of fashion photos she’d put together in New York and they sort of dismissed me kindly.”

    Peter just gaped at her. “Eh?” he uttered after an appreciable period.

    “Yes.”

    He swallowed.

    “There is the point that the dress’ll have to comply with the local norms, and your mum actually said as much, and Mrs Ledbetter had already realised it, but that didn’t stop either of them,” said Lalla with a twinkle in her eye.

    “Uh…” He just stared dully at her.

    Shoulders shaking, Lalla picked up the phone. “Hey, Navy,” she said when someone answered, “could you send someone up to my office with a whisky for Peter, please? I’ve just been explaining that Mrs Ledbetter and his mum are getting on like a house on fire and when I left them they had their heads together over the wedding dress.”

    The noise in response to this intel was, Peter gathered dully, the sous-chef collapsing in ecstatic giggles.

    “Yes!” said Lalla, beaming. “Eh? Yeah, I think ice’d probably help; ta, Navy!” She hung up.

    Peter stared dully at her.

    “I know,” said Lalla sympathetically after this had gone on for a while.

    “My God,” he uttered shakily: “I was prepared for… Jesus, my nerves are jangling!”

    His beloved just nodded serenely.

    “Women,” said Archie Foxe-Forsythe thoughtfully over the whiskies they were absorbing in a handy bar that had accosted them on the way from the airport, “are like that. Miles tougher than us chaps, y’know.”

    “I’ll say!” agreed Davey Sale with a giggle.

    “Shut up,” sighed Peter. “Persons under the age of forty-five are not allowed to speak.”

    “Hear, hear!” agreed Archie, lifting his glass. “Aah! –Warm, isn’t it?” he noted.

    “Yes. Why did you wear a serge suit?” asked Peter clearly.

    “I told him not to,” put in Davey cheerfully.

    “Bloody parky in London, old man,” Archie explained. “I say, would they mind if I took this damn’ tie off?”

    “Mind? They think you’re barking mad to wear the thing, Archie!” replied Peter with feeling.

    “That right? Dashed easy-going sort of place, then,” he noted, wrenching the offending piece of silk off and shoving it negligently into his trouser pocket—the jacket having long since been discarded, in fact dumped on Davey. Served him right for electing to tack himself onto the party, thought Peter uncharitably.

    “I say, what happened to old John and his ma?” Archie then wondered, peering round the bar.

    Well though he thought he knew him, Peter had to swallow hard. Still, perhaps it was jet-lag. “Grabbed a taxi at the airport, took her straight down to the quay,” he reminded him.

    “Oh—right,” he agreed vaguely.

    “Gonna catch the amphibian,” added Davey.

    “Oh, yes? Not awfully sure, to tell you the truth, what that is,” he admitted. “Hullo! Barman! Pop another shot in this, would you? –Thanks awfully.”

    “Um, it’s a small plane that can land on the water as well as the land,” said Davey very, very feebly.

    “Don’t see how it can do that, old lad.”

    “It’s got floats as well as wheels.”

    “Oh, yes? Safe, is it?”

    “Just don’t try,” warned Peter as his misguided relative opened his mouth again. “It’s very, very safe, Archie: the floats are big, and it can sit happily on the sea for as long as necessary, in fact they park the thing on the sea, down at the quay.”

    “Oh, right,” he said vaguely. “Think I might have seen something of the sort in Barbados—was it?” he asked himself. “No, hang on: Guadeloupe. Went there with that ass, Jean-Xavier de la Marre. Frightful place: they all talk French.”

    Davey Sale at this point was observed to swallow—not whisky, hah, hah.

    “Yes, well, the Cook Islanders talk English, Archie, you’ll be fine here,” said Peter soothingly.

    “Noticed that, Peter. I say,” he added in what he might have believed was a lowered voice: “the girls are dashed solid, eh? Thought I was going to be meeting some curvaceous South Seas lovelies like your Lalla.”

    Davey looked at Peter in some horror but he preserved his calm. “Some of the younger ones are slimmer, and there are quite a number of mixed blood who are, too, but the Cook Islanders are a solid race.”

    Archie winked at him. “Oh, I’m not objecting to a nice chunky armful, old man! Far from it! Can’t stand a bundle of pea sticks in me bed. Now, you take my second: should never have done it,” he admitted, shaking his head. “Skinny as a rake—no, well, good boobs, I’ll grant you that—but you could count her bloody ribs!”

    “Archie,” said Peter urgently, “for God’s sake lay off the locals! They’re Christian fundamentalists—Congregationalists—and sex before marriage is still frowned upon here. Er, well, reading between the lines I gather the usual procedure is sex before marriage, and then the girl’s mum comes down heavy and the chap in question is dragged to the altar. Very probably after a harangue from the minister. And believe you me, you do not want to encounter a local mum with fire in her eye!”

    “Oh, right you are, old man. I’ll watch my step,” he said amiably.

    Peter sighed. “See you do. –And that goes for you, too,” he said heavily to his relation.

    “Right you are, Uncle Peter!”

    Peter sighed again. Incarcerate them both on Palmyra for the duration? Where the only attractions would be lovely Taggy Tangianau and the other two pretty receptionists, gorgeous little Glenda Nooroa—wasn’t she the poor kid that bloody Ken had had a go at?—cuddly Taukea Tangianau, equally cuddly June Raui plus several other waitresses, and, of course, the solider massage girls like Holly Turua, who just incidentally had one of the loveliest smiles Peter had ever seen. Christ. Okay, vigilance would be his watchword.

    As to why the two of them had opted for a Polynesian Christmas rather than just coming out for the wedding… Well, yeah, nice holiday in the sun, but if they expected it to be anything like bloody Guadeloupe, talking of which, they had another expect coming.

    “No more whisky,” he said firmly as Archie suggested another round. “We’ve got to get into town and catch the launch for the island, yet.”

    “Thought this was the island?” replied Archie foggily.

    Not trying to explain properly, Peter replied briefly: “It’s the big island, with the town and the airport.”

    “Oh, be like Hawaii, then!” said Davey brightly.

    Peter swiped his hand across his forehead. “Generically speaking, yes. But there are no shiny American facilities. Er—with the exception of bloody Palmyra Polynesia itself,” he admitted. “It’s on a little island, Archie,” he said clearly. “Offshore.”

    “Oh, jolly good,” his old school friend replied vaguely. “Lead on, MacDuff.”

    Sighing, Peter led on. “Put that hat on,” he said firmly as Archie got into the surrey with the fringe on top next to him.

    Obediently Archie assumed the hat. It was the one with the faded wreath that Peter had been wearing the day Maman arrived and in it he looked bloody silly: serve him right.

    Davey had a respectable panama, which he duly adjusted, grinning. “What is this crate of stuff?” he asked idly, propping his elbow on it.

    “No idea. I was asked to collect it; I collected it. Okay, everyone keep an eye out for extraneous livestock on the road, please.”

    They’d already encountered a goat, which in the way of goats had refused to move of its own accord, so his passengers both agreed that they would. Rather fervently: the goat had of course placed itself just on the far side of a bend that Peter had misguidedly been taking too fast.

    And off they went.

    On the way they encountered very little: two hens, both of which merely pottered off the road as they braked viciously, half a dozen kids on the verge who all waved vigorously—it was now, of course, their summer holidays—and a broken-down vehicle accompanied by a panting, cross-looking plump form whom Peter vaguely recognised from Petey’s birthday party.

    “Hullo!” he cried, pulling up beside her. “Need a lift into town?”

    “Yeah: ta, dear!” she gasped, straightening from the open bonnet. “The blimmin’ thing’s conked out: I told him it was gonna! You wait till I get hold of him!”

    Grinning, Peter said to the goggling Archie: “Hop into the back, Archie, and let the lady sit down.”

    “Oh! Right you are!” He scrambled out and politely assisted her in.

    “Ta, dear!” she gasped, collapsing onto the seat. “I’ll kill him,” she informed Peter.

    “You do that,” he agreed. “Get in, Archie!”

    “But shouldn’t we lock the little lorry?” he faltered, looking from the ute’s open door to its driver.

    “Nah,” she returned comfortably. “It doesn’t go, eh?”

    Looking stunned, Archie clambered into the back beside Davey and the large crate.

    “I know we’ve met before,” said Peter with a smile to his new passenger, “but I’m so sorry: I can’t remember your name."

    “I’m Mrs Tangimetua, dear,” she replied comfortably. “Met you at Petey’s birthday party, eh?”

    “Yes, of course, Mrs Tangimetua! That was a lovely party, wasn’t it?”

    “Yeah, pretty good. The cake was great, eh? Went down a treat with Petey. Angie, she really likes kids; she oughta have some of her own.”

    “Yes, I agree. She’s not getting any younger. But I think they’ve been concentrating on building up the business.”

    Mrs Tangimetua sniffed. “I dare say. But that’s not what’s important, is it?”

    “No, I’ve recently discovered that,” Peter admitted with a sigh.

    She patted his knee. “’Course you have, Peter, dear. You’ll be all right with Lalla. She’s a lovely girl, and what’s more she’s got her head screwed on.”

    She meant, he was quite sure, that Lalla had her priorities right.

    “Exactly,” he agreed. “Kids are what matter in the end, aren’t they?”

    Terrifically pleased, Mrs Tangimetua agreed heartily with him. Very possibly in the rear of the vehicle those two London sophisticates, Archie Foxe-Forsythe and Davey Sale, were rolling their eyes at each other, but Peter didn’t bother to look. More fools they, if so.

    So the guests were met, the feast was set—well, it had better be, preparations had been going on for weeks. Not for the hotel’s guests, of course: they were slated for something horridly up-market and boring, but for the staff, including Lalla’s and Peter’s guests. And Christmas Day duly arrived. Rather fortunately only three suites in the main building were occupied, so the half dozen bodies belonging to them were served their ludicrous luncheon at one o’clock and informed dinner would be a buffet from seven o’clock on, and the staff retired more or less en masse, leaving only Mac, one waiter, a New Zealand boy who was here on a working holiday and had been duly stunned at the level of service and efficiency expected by the management, but was now coping fairly well, plus the determined Mrs Ledbetter herself in the main building. Old Hiram was in on the massive Christmas barbecue down near the shore, boots and all.

    It started at—very approximately, the pig had been roasting on the spit for hours—around two-thirty and went on until the stars were twinkling over the palm trees and Petey Holcroft had to be carted bodily off to bed over his father’s shoulder.

    Archie accompanied them, looking amiable, and watched interestedly as the little boy was popped into bed fast asleep. “Adorable, eh?” he breathed.

    Peter and Lalla exchanged glances, and smiled. “We think so,” Peter murmured.

    “Mm,” Lalla agreed, dropping a kiss on her son’s forehead. She straightened, took Archie’s arm, and led him out. “Not so much when he overeats and throws up all night, though!” she admitted with a laugh.

    “Christ, does that happen often?”

    “No, he’s pretty much learned to gauge his capacity, now.”

    “Oh, good show.”

    “Yeah,” Peter agreed, following them into the sitting-room and shutting its door quietly. “With any luck there’ll be a lull before we have to go through the agony of waiting for him to gauge his capacity for booze. –Of course, some never do,” he noted pointedly.

    “Hah, hah,” returned Archie without animus. “I say, though, that was some blow-out!” he concluded, sinking onto Lalla’s little sofa, his burly form in fact occupying something like two thirds of it.

    “It always is, we gather. Mrs L.’s very, very slowly making up her mind not to open for Christmas week,” replied Peter, his shoulders shaking.

    “Damn’ good idea. I say, those longish pointy things were bananas, were they?” he groped.

    “Sort of. A different variety,” Lalla explained.

    “Ri-ight. Didn’t taste much like bananas.”

    “No, they don’t. They’re just starch, really, a bit like potatoes.”

    “Oh, right. Thought you said that other stuff, the mash, was starch, though?”

    “Yes, that was taro, it’s a root vege, it’s the main source of starch in the local diet. But they eat a lot of sweet potatoes as well, they’re starchy, but much tastier.”

    “Oh, rather! I liked them! Went well with the pork. Never had it done like that: jolly tasty, eh?”

    “Yes, it’s a nice combo.”

    “I’ll say. –Funny spinach they have here, though.”

    Peter and Lalla exchanged glances and tacitly decided discretion was the better part. “Yes, it is,” she agreed.

    “And what was that fat thing that your friend Mrs Whatsit broke open with a dirty great hatchet?”

    He’d lost them, there. “Fat thing?” ventured Peter.

    Archie yawned. “Thing they cooked in the ground—never seen that before, either. Big vegetable, I think.” He demonstrated, holding his open hands about a foot apart.

    “Oh! It must have been a breadfruit!” Lalla recognised. “Kind of white and fluffy inside?”

    “Sort of, yes.”

    “Mm. They’re starchy, too. They grow on big trees. But they’re not as popular as taro.”

    “Right. –I say, talking of trees, do the chaps climb up after coconuts here?”

    “Yes; they do it quite a lot for the tourists,” Lalla explained.

    “I’d like to see that,” he said wistfully.

    “Ken’ll get you a coconut any time. We could ask him tomorrow, if you like.”

    “Oh, rather: thanks very much! –The fruit was good, too. I have had papaya before, but it was nothing like it. Wonderful, wasn’t it?”

    “Yes, it’s lovely when it’s really ripe,” she agreed.

    “Yeah. Lovely juices, too… And the fish is out of this world. I could stay here forever,” he sighed.

    “Well, not in our flat, old man,” said Peter on a firm note.

    “Eh? Oh. Don’t much like it over in the hotel,” he admitted. “Comfortable, of course. Bit soulless, though.”

    Oh, dear! Lalla looked at Peter in dismay, but he merely shrugged blankly. “I’m sorry, Archie,” she fumbled. “I thought you’d like it because it’s up-market.”

    “Kind thought, old girl, but I don’t really fancy up-market.”

    “Um, well, Peter’s mum’s got his old hut at Paradise Cove… The other huts aren’t occupied at the moment but more guests are due for New Year’s.”

    “Right. Nothing in this building, is there? Your little cousin was saying there are loads of empty bunks upstairs.”

    Peter winced. “Sorry, old man. Girls’ dorms. Off-limits to male personnel.”

    “Oh.”

    “Um, well, Ken’s got a spare bedroom. You could ask him,” said Lalla dubiously.

    Peter cleared his throat. “That’ll curtail his activities,” he noted drily.

    “Good!”

    He smiled weakly. You’d have sworn, just for a moment, it was Mrs Tangimetua or Mrs Tangianau speaking. “Right-ho, then, we’ll ask him tomorrow, Archie.”

    “Thanks awfully, old man.”

    “You might find the humidity a bit much, though,” said Lalla.

    “Oh? S’pose it is warm, yes. Don’t mind it, really, Lalla,” he replied vaguely.

    “Okay, then,” said Peter briskly. “Tomorrow we ask Ken about using his spare room and if he can climb a coconut palm for you. Now, you can have a cup of decaff coffee with us and then pop off to bed.”

    “Right you are,” he agreed meekly, not asking what the time was.

    So be it. Shoulders shaking slightly, Peter went over to the kitchenette and got on with it.

    “Peter,” said Lalla when their guest had obediently pushed off to the main building, “it’s very sad. He’s been leading the wrong sort of life all these years, poor man.”

    “Er—well, maybe. Wait and see, mm?”

    “Mm. Well,” she said, yawning, “that’s Christmas over for another year!”

    “Right. Now we can sit back for a bit until the wedding,” he agreed happily.

    “Mm, lovely,” said Lalla sleepily. “I could do with a rest.”

    She was not, alas, fated to have much of a one.

    It was on the news. Peter, Lalla, Petey, Bernice, Archie and Davey had eaten in the dining-room and had popped in to see Angie in the kitchen and thank her for the meal. She often listened to the TV news on her little set in there.

    “In breaking news: a tsunami has hit the western coast of Indonesia and some coastal areas of Thailand and Sri Lanka—”

    They listened in frozen horror: it sounded terrible. But fortunately nobody knew anyone who might be affected, so, agreeing that as soon as they heard how to contribute they’d give to any relief effort that might be organised, they headed off back to Lalla’s flat. All very subdued but thanking God that none of their friends or relations were involved.

    The shit didn’t hit the fan until later that evening, when, having dutifully played several games of Ludo and Snakes and Ladders with Petey, they were chatting in a desultory way what time Bernice sipped a rum and pineapple and the others sipped a very nice single malt donated by Mac with the remark: “What the eye doesn’t see.” Lalla’s mobile phone rang. Sarah Karati from reception.

    “Lalla, is Peter there? ’Cos it’s a man ringing from Scotland and he sounds really upset and he says it’s about his daughter.”

    Lalla swallowed hard. “We’ll be over in a minute, Sarah: can you ask him to hang on? –Ta.” She hung up and said in a firm voice: “Peter, there’s a phone call for you from Scotland about Candida. Come on, we’ll both go over.”

    Peter got up, sighing, as Davey noted sourly: “She’ll have done something stupid. Probably decided to paint the entire castle bright green, this time.”

    “Undoubtedly,” he agreed heavily.

    “I think it might be more serious than that. Come on, Peter.” With that Lalla led him out.

    Davey looked uneasily at Archie.

    “Mrs Tangianau gave me some dashed good advice the other day: ‘Never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you’,” said that gentleman firmly. “Have another.”

    “Uh—all right, I will, thanks. But, um, I’m pretty sure one of the aunts said Candida’s gone to, um, Thailand this Christmas.” He swallowed hard. “That—that’s one of the places badly affected by the tsunami, isn’t it?”

   “Ooh, heck!” gasped Bernice in horror.

    Archie’s wide mouth firmed. “Look, worst case scenario, the stupid little bitch has bought it in the bloody tsunami. That means she’s never gonna upset poor old Peter again, not to mention cost him a bloody fortune in pay-offs to fucking fortune hunters, blackmailers, and the rest. Bottoms up.”

    Davey smiled weakly. “Bottoms up.”

    Lalla and Sarah both watched anxiously as Peter went very pale. “I see. Thanks, Jimmy,” he said tightly. “Mm? –No, don’t let it worry you: in your shoes anyone else would have filed for divorce long since. –I grant you it doesn’t sound too good, but we’ll just have to wait and see. –No, I suppose the FCO’s been inundated with calls, and realistically they won’t be getting anything out of the Thais yet. But Archie F.-F.’s staying here with us, I’ll get him to phone his pals tomorrow—no, their private numbers, Jimmy. Yes, okay, old man: just stop blaming yourself. No-one’s ever been able to stop her doing exactly what she wants. Have a belt of whisky and turn in. –Oh, is it? Never mind, have a belt anyway. –What? I doubt very much if Monica will give a damn, but by all means ring her if you feel you should. –Yes, okay, Jimmy. Thanks for letting me know. ’Bye.”

    He hung up and said bleakly: “Bloody Candida’s in Thailand. Some island beach resort. Told poor old Scotch Jimmy she hated him and she’s filed for divorce, and took off with some damned Swede that’s been hanging round her for months.”

    Lalla bit her lip. “That’s his daughter, Sarah. We can’t know whether she was caught in the tsunami or not, we’ll just have to wait and see, Peter.”

    “The news did say the coast of Thailand had been badly affected, didn’t it?”

    Sarah was looking from one to the other of them in consternation. “But—but what is it? What’s she been caught in?”

    Lalla took a deep breath. “We saw it on Angie’s TV a bit earlier. It’s a tsunami, a big tidal wave, Sarah, over in the Indian Ocean.”

    Sarah’s hands had gone to her face in horror. “I’ve heard of them!” she gasped. “Like, you can get them when there’s a cyclone!”

    “Yes. I think this one was caused by a huge earthquake under the sea.”

    “Is—is there another TV set?” asked Peter shakily.

    Lalla and Sarah exchanged glances. “Yeah, there’s one in the lounge,” Sarah admitted. “The staff aren’t supposed to watch it. Oh, blow it! Who cares! Come on!” She came out from behind her reception desk and marched firmly over to the far side of the big lounge, where she slid back the doors of what looked like a wall cabinet to reveal a TV screen, and turned the set on.

    But no news was being broadcast. “You could try the radio,” said Sarah doubtfully. “Only they don't have much overseas news.”

    “No, but we’ll try. Thanks, Sarah, dear,” said Lalla. “Come on, Peter. We can’t do anything tonight. We’ll check the radio and then we’ll go to bed.” He was looking very shell-shocked. She took his hand firmly and led him off.

    Back at the flat Archie was washing up the whisky glasses. “Bernice has turned in: yawning her head off. And I sent Davey off, too,” he reported. “He started predicting doom and gloom.”

    “With good reason,” said Peter, sitting down heavily.

    “I’ll make a pot of tea,” said Archie mildly.

    “Thanks, Archie,” replied Lalla. “It sounds as if Candida is in Thailand, but there’s no firm news yet. Except that she’s filed for divorce from that poor Scotch man.”

    “Scotch Jimmy. Glad to hear it. Been making his life a misery ever since she took up with him. Well, we’ll just have to wait and see.”

    “Yes.” Lalla turned the radio on but it wasn’t broadcasting news, so she turned it off again.

    “Uh—Archie,” said Peter with an effort, “do you think you could get onto some of your FCO pals tomorrow? Jimmy doesn’t seem to have been able to get through on the official line.”

    “Huh! You surprise me! –No, ’course I will, old lad. Who’s on that desk?” he asked himself. “Southeast Asia, would it be? Don’t worry, I’ll get onto someone.”

    “Thanks.”

    “Er—you might have to tell me the best time to ring.”

    “Yes, of course, Archie,” said Lalla quickly. “It’s kind of the opposite here to what it is in England.”

    This statement apparently struck the right note: he nodded pleasedly. “Got it!”

    Peter tried to smile but found he couldn’t. Jesus. Poor stupid brat, intent on ruining her life—and what a life! And now…

    Lalla was pushing something into his hand. He looked at it in dull surprise. A large handkerchief.

    “It’s clean: it’s from that pile of laundry I forgot to put away,” she said, nodding at where it sat on her little dining table. “Wipe your eyes.”

    Shakily Peter wiped his eyes.

    “Shove up,” she said.

    “What? Oh.” He moved up on the little sofa and Lalla squeezed in beside him and put both arms round him.

    “You can cry if you like. It’s only us,” she said kindly.

    Peter sniffled miserably. “I’m okay; I just keep thinking— Well, poor stupid kid. She’s never had much of a life, and now—!”

    “That isn’t true, really. She’s done exactly what she wanted all her life, you know that, Peter,” she returned steadily.

    Archie came over with the tea. “That’s right: good for you, Lalla. No sense in blaming yourself, Peter, old man. If anyone’s to blame, it’s bloody Monica. But Candida’s always been bright enough to know what she’s doing, y’know.”

    Peter blew his nose shakily. “Yes, you’re right.”

    “Mm,” Lalla agreed, hugging him and releasing him. “Thanks, Archie. Drink your tea, Peter. It’s very sad, but you’ve always done your best for her. It’s not your fault if she fought you every inch of the way.”

    “No,” he said wryly, sipping over-sugared tea. “It merely feels like it.”

    Archie and Lalla exchanged glances, but neither said anything. There wasn’t, really, anything more to say.

    It did get worse, but no-one had really expected it wouldn’t. Mrs Ledbetter rallied round magnificently. She was extremely annoyed that there was no cable here, but she competently got onto a friend in New York via Skype—it wasn’t yet in general use in the Cooks and Lalla had never heard of it—and got her to switch on CNN in front of her computer, so at least they got the current news bulletins, never mind that they were horribly blurred. If anyone wondered what this connection must be costing both the hotel and the kind friend, no-one voiced the thought. Peter, Archie and Davey spent most of the next three days crouched over the laptop screen in the Ledbetters’ little-used office. Lalla had to work, not to say keep an eye on Petey, though both Ken and Marie-Louise were on the job there, but she kept popping in to check up on developments and remind them to eat their meals and get some fresh air, as the news got steadily grimmer and grimmer.

    The New Year had just ticked over, no-one feeling in the mood to celebrate the fact, when Jan Harper rang from Taupo.

    “I’m terribly sorry, Lalla, but Pete and I won’t be able to make it over for the wedding after all. You remember the permaculture nuts next-door, of course.”

    “Yes, that awful man Terry and his concubines, and all the poor little kids,” Lalla agreed.

    “Yeah. Well, bloody Terry and the second concubine, plus her sister that he was apparently doing as well, were caught in the tsunami in Thailand. Staying on Phuket in its direct path, so there’s not much hope they’ll have survived. The two young blokes have shaken the dust, the pair of spineless little hangers-on that they were. Poor old Sabrina’s gone to pieces, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

    Sabrina was the oldest of the awful Terry’s three “wives”, rightly referred to by Jan as concubines. “I see. So—so who does that leave?”

    “Old Tim, and he’s psychologically incapable of taking any responsibility, he’s just burying himself in his gardening. The youngest concubine’s gone: she got the sack from Terry just before he took off: he found out that youngest kid of hers isn’t his. Pete got onto her parents and they’ve taken her back, plus her three. That leaves Sabrina’s two and the middle concubine’s four: they’re eleven, ten, eight and six, now.”

    “I see,” said Lalla with tears in her eyes. “Poor little things.”

    “Yeah,” said Jan with a sigh. “There’s no-one but me and Pete, really, to help out. I think we’ll have our hands full for at least the next three months.”

    “Yes, of course, Jan, dear; I understand. I’ll miss you, but it can’t be helped. Everyone here’s been very kind, but there’s nothing anyone can do, of course.”

    “No news about Peter’s bloody daughter, I suppose?” said Jan grimly.

    “No, nothing’s changed since my last email.”

    “Right. Well, keep on hanging on, Lalla, my dear. I’d better get back to it.”

    “Yes, of course. You take care of yourself, Jan.”

    “You, too. Pete sends his love. Bye-bye.”

    “Love to him, too. Bye-bye, Jan,” said Lalla sadly, hanging up. A tear ran down her cheek. “Blow!” she said, wiping it away savagely. “It won’t seem real without Jan.” She took a deep breath. “Oh, well. It can’t be helped,” she said firmly.

Next chapter:

https://thelallaeffect.blogspot.com/2024/01/one-wedding-two-news-items-and-departure.html