Green Gables

20

Green Gables

    “Really?” smiled Lalla. “Let’s go and talk to her!”

    Peter grabbed her arm. “Just a moment, darling. You don’t understand. She’ll be a sitting tenant. –I presume this is the reason the place has been on your firm’s books for years, Brad?”

    “Um, yes,” he admitted agonisedly. “Sorry, Mr Sale.”

    “Peter,” Peter corrected him with a sigh. “Is she a sitting tenant?”

    Brad cast an anguished look at Troy, who merely shuffled his huge feet. “Um, not exactly.”

    Troy took a deep breath. “Mum reckons—”

    “Yeah. Shuddup, Troy, I’ll tell him. Dare say the neighbourhood gossip’s all wrong anyway. Um, well, the thing is—and this is official, Mr Hahn himself told the boss, it’s in the file,”—minatory look at Troy—“his ole grandfather, Mr Hahn’s, I mean, he put it in his will.”

    “I see!” beamed Lalla. “She’s an elderly relative! And he made it a condition that his grandson couldn’t sell the house unless she could stay! Of course she can, Brad, we don’t mind!”

    “Yeah—no—not exactly. Um, thaddis what the will said, yeah. Um, only she’s not exactly a relative.” He swallowed. “She was a friend of Mrs Hahn’s. Um, see, originally there was just ole Mr Hahn and his wife, and their kids, of course.”

    “Yeah, my Pop remembers ole Mrs Hahn, she was an artist, eh?” put in Troy.

    Brad gave him an evil look. “Somethink like that.”

    “Linocuts, Pop said. Well, don’ look at me, I wouldn’t know a linocut if I fell over it!” he added cheerfully, apparently impervious to evil looks.

    “Oh, yes,” said Lalla with interest. “Ladies of that period—it would have been the Thirties, I think, or even the Twenties—were very into linocuts. Typically the husband would be the so-called real artist and get all the adulation for his oil paintings—from what I’ve seen they were all horribly muddy post-Impressionist muck—and the wife would be less than an also-ran with her linocuts, which actually would be far, far better works of art.”

    “Darling, you are missing the point,” said Peter heavily. “Just hush for a minute, and let Brad get to it. Er—Brad, some of us won’t understand the word L,E,S,B,I—”

    “Nah!” he gasped. “Um, at least, that’s not what Chris Hahn, he told the boss.”

    Would one, if it was one’s grandmother involved? Peter let it pass. “Come on, then, out with it.”

    “Um, yes. Um, well, this ole lady, I mean, she wasn’t old then, of course, she was the wife’s friend and she come to stay, and, um, well, she ended up as the old bloke’s, um,”—wary glance at Petey—“M,I,S,T,R,E,S. Um, S,” he added.

    “Mistress. That’s not hard,” Master Holcroft announced. “Like, she was the boss of him?”

    Poor Brad just gave Peter an agonised look.

    “No,” said Lalla quickly. “You know the permaculture nuts next-door to Jan and Pete’s?”

    “Ye-ah… You said that Terry, he was drowned in the tsunami. –His kids, they never had proper clothes or shoes, and they hadda work all the time,” Petey informed the company.

    “Yes, he was a horrid man, and good riddance! Well, ’member what Jan called all those wives of his?”

    “Eh?” said Troy involuntarily.

    “Aw, yeah…” Petey replied vaguely. “Com, um, something like combines.”

    “Concubines, yes.”

    “Aw, yeah, concubines. They were dim, eh?”

    “Um, yes, they were dim, poor women, but never mind that. A mistress is like that, Petey, it’s another word for concubine.”

    “Right. So this ole man,” he concluded, “he had two, like, wives, like Terry, he had three.”

    “Cripes!” uttered Brad.

    “Yes, that’s right, Petey,” Peter agreed quickly. “Thanks, Lalla, darling. –Well, Brad, as you can see, none of us are particularly shocked by old Mr Hahn’s having two so-called wives.”

    “Nah,” he agreed limply.

    “Isn’t there a law against that in New Zealand these days?” croaked Troy.

    “No, he didn’t marry them, Troy. There’s a law against bigamy, but nothing to stop one doing the other thing,” said Lalla serenely.

    “Crikey!” He and Brad, now both very red, exchanged glances and suddenly broke down in sniggers.

    “Horrible Terry was hard as nails: he made them work like slaves on the permaculture place,” Lalla added.

    “That means he didn’t pay them any money,” Petey elaborated. “He didn’t, eh, Mum?”

    “No: Jan was absolutely ropeable over it.”

    “How many kids did he actually have?” asked Troy avidly. Possibly Brad wouldn’t have asked, but he also was looking avid.

    “Um, let’s see...” Lalla counted on her fingers. “Ten, if you count the youngest one, but he wasn’t really his father, his oldest son was.”

    At this unexpected piece of intel the two young men broke down in sniggers again, and Peter, alas, joined in.

    “I think,” he concluded, wiping his eyes, “we’d better go and talk to this old lady. And Petey: listen carefully. If you really want to have a dog—”

    “YES! You PROMISED!”

    “Shut up and listen. If you want to have a dog, do not say anything—anything at all—to this old lady about wives, concubines, mistresses or the permaculture nuts and their kids! Get it?”

    “Yeah, but I don’t see—”

    “I mean it, Petey,” he said grimly. “It could upset her very much.”

    “Aw. Righto, I won’t. –What about their cows?”

    “No,” said Peter grimly.

    “Aw. Or their hens an’ ducks?”

    “No!”

    “Aw.”

    Lalla took his hand firmly. “You wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings, would you?”

    “No!” he replied angrily.

    “Good. You could talk about anything else, though: dogs and cats, and anything about Palmyra Polynesia and Rarotonga. Come on then, show us where her house is.”

    “Her little house,” he corrected, leading the way.

    Peter swiped his hand across his forehead. “God! –It’s all right, Brad, it had to come out,” he said as the young fellow tried to apologise.

    “Um, thanks, Peter. Um, thing is, we got a note that she’s an awkward customer. Um, she might have a go at Lalla: see, yonks back, the boss, he brought some buyers round and she, um, made a scene.”

    “I can see that. But,” said Peter with a little smile, “this is Lalla. Come along!”

    Brad stumped along glumly at his side but Troy hung back.

    “I could keep an eye on the cars.”

    “Chicken!” returned his fellow Australian bitterly.

    “No, but— You know.”

    Brad let Peter go on ahead. A short colloquy then took place to the rear, in which the words “neighbourhood” and “flamin’ notorious” were heard. But at least the word “shotgun” wasn’t heard, and nor was the word “hysterics”. And Peter’s money, frankly, was still on Lalla.

    “There you are!” she beamed as Peter, having made his way through a fair stretch of what turned out not to be jungle, but sparsely shaded, delicate-looking undergrowth of the sort that they’d seen in the Canberra Botanic Garden—and whose looks, it turned out, belied it: tough, stringy, and bloody difficult to force one’s way through—emerged to a view of a small clearing and a little red brick cottage. Plus a small, thin, grim-faced old woman who put him forcibly in mind of Maman at her most contumacious, his son, chewing, and Lalla.

    “Yes: found you,” he agreed.

    “This is Miss Starkie!” she beamed. “This is my husband, Peter Sale, Miss Starkie.”

    “How do you do, Sir Peter?” said the little old woman grimly, coming forward and holding out her hand.

    “How do you do, Miss Starkie?” he replied limply, shaking. Surely Lalla hadn’t let on about the bloody title?

    “She knows all about you,” his wife explained tranquilly.

    “I don’t live entirely out of the world, Sir Peter,” Miss Starkie stated grimly. “It appears to have set the cat amongst the pigeons somewhat when you announced you were moving your office to QSA. –I understand you’re interested in buying the property?”

    “Yes, but we wouldn’t dream of turning you out of your home!” said Lalla quickly.

    “So you say,” she returned drily. She gave Peter a hard look.

    “No, of course we wouldn’t, Miss Starkie,” he agreed. “In fact, do please let us know if there’s anything you think the cottage needs. Well, er, central heating? Damp-proofing?”

    She sniffed slightly. “Chris Hahn, the owner, has put reverse-cycle air conditioners in the two main rooms—that’s what they’re called in Australia, Sir Peter. They have a heating cycle as well. Nothing is reversed, by the way: an air conditioner is merely a heat pump.”

    “Like a refrigerator,” said Lalla.

    “Uh—yes,” he agreed. “Well, I’m glad to hear it. When our agent told us the terms of Mr Hahn’s grandfather’s will, I was afraid that he might be finding ways to force you out.”

    “Well, if you count continual offers to put me in a nice retirement home with all the other mental defectives,” she replied, horribly dry.

    “Troy said Mr Hahn put his mum in one, that’s right!” Lalla recalled.

    “Quite,” Miss Starkie agreed. “The woman’s brainless, of course: one of those fluffy women with nothing on their minds but their damned insides and their grandkids: been happily glued to their kitchen sinks for most of their lives. She’s only in her sixties but she was happy to move to a retirement complex. And join a scrapbooking club,” she ended drily.

    “Scrapbooking?” said Lalla in bewilderment.

    “Filling staple-bound, folio-size volumes of cheap blank paper with cuttings and bits of blasted ribbon, and similar crap,” replied Miss Starkie with horrid precision.

    “You mean they actually make scrapbooks, like little kids? Grown women?” she groped.

    “Yes,” the old woman replied flatly.

    “Yikes,” she muttered.

    Miss Starkie’s lips were actually seen to twitch. “Yikes, indeed. –But to return to our muttons, Sir Peter,”—he jumped—“a damp-proof course would be much appreciated, thanks.” She grimaced. “My arthritis is starting to get to me.”

    “Right: I’ll see to it, Miss Starkie.”

    “Provided Chris accepts your offer,” she noted.

    “Just give him whatever he wants, Peter, you can afford it,” prompted Lalla.

    “Look, if the bloody man realises who you are—and he will, no flies on him—he’ll hold out for megabucks,” warned Miss Starkie grimly.

    “We’ll point out to him that there have been no other takers for years—won’t we, Brad?” said Peter sweetly as he emerged from the undergrowth, panting slightly.

    “Um—yeah!” he agreed with a silly laugh. “Um, gidday,” he added awkwardly.

    “Good afternoon, young man,” replied Miss Starkie. “With Hays Lowe, are you?”

    “Um, yeah!” he gasped.

    She sniffed. “Old Melvin Hays still with the firm?”

    “Um, no, he’s retired. He does, um, keep an eye on things, though.”

    “So I should imagine: that son of his is weak as water. Well, it looks as if Sir Peter is going to take this white elephant off your hands at last, so if you want your commission, you’d better persuade your seller to accept his offer, hadn’t you? Or would you prefer the place to hang fire for another ten years or so?”

    “Um, no!” he gasped. “I mean, of course I will. Um, Mr Hahn’s asking a very fair price, sir! There is a good bit of land attached.”

    “Five acres,” said Miss Starkie. “I have no idea what that is in hectares—and please don’t tell me,” she added drily. “Well, you’d all better come in and have a cuppa— Good grief, there’s another one!”—as Troy emerged from the bushes looking cautious. “Are you hunting in pairs now, young man?”

    “No,” said Peter quickly, trying his damnedest not to laugh: “that’s Troy Adams, our driver, and this is Brad O’Donnell, Miss Starkie.”

    She eyed Brad mockingly. “Hmf. There’s a glass ceiling at Hays Lowe, you know. Don’t hope for a partnership one day—unless you marry a Hays or Lowe daughter, of course.”

    “There aren’t any. I mean, no, I know; I mean, that’s what Dad said,” he admitted sadly.

    “He’s got a bit of nous, then. Well, come along, everyone!” And she shepherded them all inside.

    The cottage was so tiny that they barely fitted into the main room, which was rather like the one in Lalla’s Palmyra flat: sitting-room with a kitchenette to its rear. The furnishings, however, were very different. Brad and Troy sat together on a small wooden settle that looked and probably was twice their combined ages, Peter and Lalla were the two persons allotted a charming little two-person reproduction Queen Anne sofa that almost undoubtedly dated from the Thirties, and Petey sat on a large pouffe. The latter was covered in worn tapestry in subdued hues, but the sofa, surprisingly, featured a modern design of brightly coloured scattered blooms, possibly primulas or auriculas, on a navy background, and the mat on the polished dark wooden floorboards was, Peter would have taken his oath, a genuine Persian, glowing dark crimson. It was a wainscoted room, the upper walls simply washed a very pale blue, and dotted here and there with bright linocuts of stylised flowers—possibly the work of the late Mrs Hahn, Senior?—plus a few reproductions, largely abstract works, including a Klee and a Mondrian. The fireplace was occupied by a large modern coiled pot in a pale fawnish shade, filled with a mixture of foliage, presumably from the property, and flowers from Miss Starkie’s front garden (which Peter would have called a herbaceous border had it bordered anything, and had it not included some flourishing tomato plants and a putative aubergine). There were spikes of yellow possible lilies, more spikes of larger flowerheads composed of small pink blooms on long thin stalks, not grouped tightly together as in, say, hydrangeas, but in a loose configuration that was quite charming, a couple of large pink roses, some spires of blue things that looked vaguely familiar but that he couldn’t identify, some small, fuzzy, paler blue round, bud-like things on long stalks, and some other bud-like things, very, very odd, slightly fuzzy, and variously dark red and a pastel green touched with black, also on long stalks.

    Miss Starkie had bustled over to the kitchenette, on the way ordering them all sternly to go to the toilet. Petey had immediately declared: “I been!”

    “Good show—thanks for letting him, Miss Starkie,” said Peter. “Ladies first, Lalla, darling.”

    Lalla got up, smiling. “Righto; unless anyone’s bursting?”

    The two red-faced young men denied being bursting and she ordered Petey to show her the way. It was simple, Mum! But he complied.

    “Look,” said Peter feebly, “this is going to sound damn’ stupid, but what on earth are those fuzzy green and red things in that bunch of flowers? Er—green or red.”

    They looked. They appeared uncertain. Finally Troy said: “Ya don’t mean the kangaroo paws, do ya?”

    Petey returned from the nether regions. “Ooh! Kangaroo paws! Where?”

    Troy pointed. “There.”

    Petey’s face fell.

    “He means those funny-looking flowers, Petey. The pale green and dark red ones that, er, look like fuzzy buds,” Peter finished weakly.

    “Those are plants, Peter!”

    “Yeah—no, but they’re called kangaroo paws,” said Troy. “Eh, Brad?”

    “Yes, ’course. Dad put some in, only Mum said ’e was mad, they’re too scraggy to make a nice border, so he said what about some nice black mondo grass instead and she threw a spoon at ’im. –Haven’tcha ever seen them before, Peter?” he added as an addendum to this fascinating side-line on the O’Donnell ménage—not to say tastes: the boy must be deaf and blind if it hadn’t dawned that “mondo” grass, contrary to those fearsome anti-gardens he’d proudly shown them, was not adored by all the world!

    “No,” was all Peter produced—very limply.

    “They’re native to Australia, you pair of parochial closed minds,” said Miss Starkie heavily, emerging from the kitchenette. She picked up a pale green one and brought it to show Peter—and incidentally Petey. “See? The closed flower heads are said to look like kangaroos’ paws, the black tips being the claws.”

    “Ooh, yeah,” said Petey in awe. “I seen the kangaroos at the zoo, Miss Starkie!”

    “‘I saw’, not ‘I seen’,” she replied sternly. “I’m glad to hear that, Petey: at least you’re getting to know our native fauna.”

    “Ye-es… I seen—I mean I saw your native animals,” he replied dubiously.

    “Fauna is the technical term for all the animals, birds, insects and fish together.”

    “I getcha. We saw lots of birds! Cockatoos, an’ everything! No fish, though: Mrs Shaw, she said maybe we could go to the aquarium another day.”

    “Yeah, that’s really cool!” beamed Troy.

    “Have you been?”

    “Yeah, loads of times. –You wanna go, Peter, it’s ace. They got this, like, tunnel, see, and ya walk down it and ya see the fish swimming right overhead.”

    “Glass, or possibly plastic in the 21st century,” noted Miss Starkie. “It is quite an experience, if you don’t suffer from claustrophobia.”

    “It sounds good,” said Lalla, reappearing. “They’ve got one in Auckland, now, but I’ve never seen it. –It’s your turn, Peter.”

    “Wait until ya see the toilet, Peter!” beamed Petey. “It’s—what was the word, Miss Starkie?”

    “Antediluvian,” she replied drily.

    “Yeah. That means very old, like, really it means before Noah had his ark in the great flood, but you can just say it to mean very old and old-fashioned.”

    “Yes!” said Lalla with a giggle. “Hurry up, don’t keep the boys waiting!”

    Peter duly hurried up.

    … Er, yes. The lavatory bowl itself was possibly Edwardian. Floral. The cistern lurked high, high above, with a huge chain to which was affixed a wooden handle of the horizontal or traditional sort. Fair warning. He duly hauled on it.

    “Antediluvian is the word, but it’s a wonderful artefact, Miss Starkie,” he said, returning. “Edwardian, would it be?”

    “We’d say Federation—the federation of the Australian states, or colonies as they were back then, having taken place in 1901—but yes, that’s about right.”

    “Mm. Pity the house hasn’t still got its original bathroom porcelain, too. Er, Petey, old man, I’m sorry, but I have to ask this: how on earth did you manage to work that chain?”

    Petey turned red, glared, and looked at Miss Starkie.

    “I warned him about it, and then helped him to pull it, of course: as I should have thought you would have worked out.”

    “Er—had nightmare visions of his balancing on the lavatory rim, as a matter of fact. –Yes, go on, Brad,” he said, as he was hesitating.

    “Don’t forget to put the seat back down,” added Miss Starkie, as he disappeared.

    Troy looked at Petey in bewilderment as he promptly collapsed in giggles. “It wasn’t that funny.”

    Peter and Lalla exchanged glances. Abruptly they also collapsed in giggles. “You’ll—see!” she gasped.

    Poor Troy was very red. When it was his turn he didn’t say anything, but just hurried out.

    “Hey,” began Brad, “it was a joke, eh, when Miss Starkie said—”

    “Yes!” squeaked Lalla, collapsing in further giggles. “Edwardian toilets don’t have seats! Wait till Troy comes back!”

    They waited.

    “Put the seat back down, did you?” asked Peter airily as he returned.

    “Hah, hah, very funny!” he returned over the company’s renewed giggles. “Gee, it’s weird, eh? How old is it, do ya reckon?”

    “At least a hundred years old, according to Miss Starkie.”

    He nodded numbly. “Flowers! I mean—! Mum and Dad’ll never believe it, he’s gonna have a go at me for pulling their legs.”

    “Tell them to ring the Powerhouse Museum: they’ll be able to tell them about old bathroom porcelain,” advised Miss Starkie, coming over with a tray of tea and biscuits.

    Petey’s eyes lit up. “Ooh! Biscuits!”

    “Adults first,” she replied repressively.

    Smiling, his parents prepared to take the biscuits first. Was Miss Starkie good value or was she good value? Not only more than capable of handling Master Holcroft but bright as Hell and, clearly, completely literate!

    … “Imagine anyone not wanting her!” said Lalla fervently as they returned to the cars laden with pots of homemade jam (Lalla, Troy and Brad), a bag of biscuits (Petey), and a bunch of identified native foliage including kangaroo paws (Peter).

    Peter could imagine it only too vividly. He just grinned and agreed: “Exactly! We’re in luck today, darling!”

    Five days later, Mrs Adams poured tea, looking dubious. “Yes, well, they’ll do a good job for you, no question, but how long will it take them to get round to it, that’s the point.”

    “Oh, Hell,” said Peter, his face falling.

    “I did warn you it’s the Antipodes,” said Lalla tranquilly.

    “Yes, but— Both Hahn and Grant Lowe guaranteed the bloody firm, darling!” –The sale of the renamed Green Gables had gone through with remarkably rapidity, Mr Hahn, Q.C., having accepted Peter’s first offer, which, on Bernie Carpenter’s advice, was just sufficiently under his asking price to make the bugger realise he meant business. Both the Q.C. and the senior real estate agent had been happy to warmly recommend a firm to pave the driveway, which Peter had decided was, really, the first priority, although Lalla had thought that maybe getting the floors sanded first would be better. She hated concrete drives, and had revealed that the only nice thing about some of those awful houses was their cream pavers, so cream pavers it would be. The pavers themselves, that was, the physical paving stones, had arrived. The human bodies to do the job and their presumed machinery hadn’t.

    “They both said those people would do a good job, that was all,” Lalla returned to his heartfelt cry with the utmost placidity. “They didn’t give you an actual written guarantee, signed and duly notarised, that the job would be done within a specified time. Or even up to a specified standard.”

    “Go on, rub it in,” he croaked, goggling at her.

    “I just did. –These are gorgeous scones, Helen!”

    Beaming, Mrs Adams accepted this tribute and explained they were just a basic sweet scone mix: flour, butter, milk and sugar, with a pinch of salt, of course; these days she always used self-raising flour, her mum had always preferred plain flour and added the baking powder herself, but really, they didn’t turn out any different and it was getting harder and harder to find plain flour these days…

    Peter ate a scone half with real butter—well, rather salty butter, it was presumably the Antipodean norm—and some of the homemade jam from Miss Starkie, and sighed happily.

    Troy, having driven them, was of course present, and was currently occupied in eating. Having swallowed, he remarked: “Dunno what this jam is, but it’s ace, eh? I’d give them a couple more days and then sack them, Peter. Uncle Bob’ll do the job for ya, no sweat. Ya shoulda asked him in the first place.”

    “You could of suggested it!” retorted his mother swiftly. “He’s Ken’s younger brother, Peter. He works for himself: he does a lot of paving jobs. He doesn’t sell the pavers, of course, the big firms have got that all sewn up. But he can give you lots of references.”

    With the mental reservation that he’d have to, Peter thanked her very much, got his details, and allowed Troy to ring him at once to see if he’d be available. Why not?

    The big firm having duly failed to appear or even to phone to explain why the Hell they weren’t appearing, they were sacked—though naturally Peter paid them for the pavers—and the amiable Bob Adams got the job. He and three hefty helpers, with the aid of a certain number of large ingins and a load of gravel for the foundations, or underlay, whatever, that the large Sydney firm had not coughed up, were on the job immediately, and looked like completing it in about a week. Which considering its size was bloody good going.

    Mrs Simpson poured tea, looking dubious. “No, well, men are like that, Lalla. Let me think about it.” She handed her a mug of tea.

    “Thanks, Cherry,” said Lalla shakily, blowing her nose. “I know it sounds as if I’m making a mountain out of a molehill but he—he won’t take it seriously! And Petey’s so much behind his age-group already— Well, they do their best in the Cooks, but they’re so used to kids wagging it…” She sighed and sipped tea.

    The paving was nearly done, and on the Adamses’ recommendation a very nice man had been hired to sand and varnish the floors. Peter, who had had to go into the office that day, had warned Lalla that it was Lombard Street to a China Orange he would not turn up when stated, but she had gone over there to receive him anyway. Joe Franchini had arrived upon his hour, complete with two sanders, a ute, a helper, and lengths and lengths of heavy-duty electrical cords, plus a very young-looking possible apprentice whose job entailed making mugs of instant coffee for the workers. And who had been very disappointed to find the house empty and no cosy housewife in residence ready to supply the milk. “Whaddareya? Get down the deli, Useless!” Poor Useless, having asked if he could take the ute, had received a harried clutching of the brow and: “Yes! That or fly. Come on, we’re parched!” and had got. –The “deli”, Lalla had now determined, was what in New Zealand was called a “dairy”: a small shop of the corner-shop variety which sold milk and huge quantities of coloured dye and sugar in water, including many labelled “energy” drinks, didn’t Australia have laws about that sort of thing? And also anything else you could imagine, from tinned foods, frozen foods and bread, to toilet paper, hot pies, tin openers, and stationery items. And of course ice creams, in this case all the packaged sort, largely on sticks, and choc-coated, but definite ice creams. Petey had spotted it the minute they drove through that street.

    One might have said it was all going swimmingly at Green Gables, and certainly, with the help of nice Sharon Shaw, they’d found a lovely antique bedstead for their room and a set of bunk beds for Petey’s room—“Mighty! Bunks!”—and someone high up at QSA had put Peter onto the right shop for genuine Persian rugs, but the fly in the ointment was, as Lalla had just revealed to their pleasant neighbour, Petey’s schooling. Today he was at the aquarium with Mrs Shaw, though the latter had remarked dubiously—unfortunately only to Lalla—“He should really be at school, dear”, and since Peter was at work, Lalla had quietly got herself out to the house in a taxi. Cherry Simpson had observed her arrival and “popped over to say hullo”, with the expectable result.

    “You know,” said Mrs Simpson eventually—“have a biscuit, Lalla, they’re the original Tim Tams, I dunno why they had to introduce all these new flavours, nobody likes them—well, your hubby might not like the idea, but you need to move into the neighbourhood as soon as possible and get him started at Bells Road Primary.”

    “Mm. I spoke to the head teacher, he seems a really nice man, and that’s what he said. And Miss Starkie’s been very kind, she offered to take him, but of course her cottage is so small, and then— Well, he’s a good boy, but you know what they are at that age, they can be really exhausting, and he’s got a mind of his own: it wouldn’t be fair to her.”

    Cherry Simpson nodded understandingly, noting: “Our Lester was just the same at his age. Well, you might say it was double the aggro, having twins!” she added with a laugh. Lalla nodded, she now knew that the Simpson offspring, Merri and Lester, were twins, currently aged twenty-six. “Mm, though Merri was always a good girl. Mum just couldn’t cope after they turned five. Tony’s mum was willing, of course, but she’s so easy-going, she’d let them get away with murder, and honestly, Lalla, I went round to collect them from her place one day and they were jumping on the lounge-room furniture! All she said was: ‘It’s seen worse, in its time!’”

    Lalla tended to sympathise with the easy-going grandma, but she nodded kindly.

    “Yes, well, it wouldn’t work,” said Mrs Simpson briskly. “Besides, if Miss Starkie gets an artistic fit she forgets everything else. She rang us up once at one in the morning to ask if she could borrow something from the garage—I forget what, now. The big wrench, was it? Anyway, Tony was ropeable, as you can imagine, and shouted at her. Though goodness knows what she would’ve needed a wrench for, she does leatherwork. Maybe she was covering a chair—I mean, it’s not upholstery, Lalla, don’t get your hopes up. No, she does chair seats and backs for arty people who like that sort of casual look—you know, sling seats, is it?” she added vaguely. “A bit like directors’ chairs, only with leather bits, not canvas.”

    “Oh! I know! That’d be rather nice! Only I don’t think it’d suit our house,” she admitted, her face falling.

    “No. You want something traditional. Anyway, what I was gonna say… Look, Peter probably won’t like this, but it would really be the best thing, since you’ve got so much ground there and the weather hasn’t broken—or likely to, by the look of it. The garden’s really suffering.” She took a deep breath. “Hire a big campervan, and live on the spot.”

    Lalla gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth. Mrs Simpson looked at her fearfully.

    “Cherry! That’s a wonderful idea!” she beamed. “I’ll tell him it’s a campervan or nothing!”

    Cherry Simpson sagged. “Oh, good,” she said weakly.

    That evening Tony Simpson pointed out drily: “From what you’ve told me about ’im, the bloke’ll laugh, darl’. Scoff: y’know?”

    “I’m sure he will!” she replied vigorously. “But Lalla’ll win, you’ll see!”

    The misguided Tony made a rude noise. “Twenny bucks,” he offered laconically.

    “You’re on!”

    “I’m serious, Peter,” said Lalla grimly when he’d stopped laughing. “Petey needs to go to school immediately. And there’s nowhere to stay in the neighbourhood, it hasn’t got any motels.”

    “Are you seriously suggesting we live in a damned Winnebago until the house is finished?”

    “I knew there was another name for them. No, only until Joe’s finished the floors and the beds are in and we can move in.”

    “Then surely he can skip a week or t—”

    “NO!” shouted Lalla. “This marriage is not gonna work if you won’t listen to a thing I say! Petey and me aren’t toys that you can pick up or shove away as you please!”

    “Darling, be reasonab—”

    “I am being reasonable, Peter, you’re the one that’s being stupidly obstinate and—and hidebound! I’ll give you half an hour to decide whether you want us to have a campervan or not. If the answer’s not, I’m taking Petey back to the Cooks: Mrs Ledbetter said there’ll always be a job for me there. I’m going for a walk.” With this she walked out before he could point out that it was something like thirty-six Celsius out there and the streets were thronged with hurrying Sydney home-goers.

    … “Well?” she said grimly on her return.

    He made a face. “Yeah. Sorry. You’re perfectly right, I have been assuming that I could just—uh—pick you and Petey up or put you aside at will. A campervan it will be.”

    “That’s good, because I’ve ordered one for tomorrow.”

    His jaw dropped. “Did you assume that I’d give in?”

    His pretty, gentle wife awarded him a steely look that was worthy of his mother in her heyday. “No, Peter, I didn’t assume anything: I just hoped that you’d want to stay married.”

    He gulped. “Yes. I mean, I do. –Look, do the things at least have air conditioning?” he burst out.

    “Yes. This is Australia. Well, I’m glad. I wouldn’t like to have to give up Green Gables.”

    Peter’s jaw now felt as if it could sag no further. He staggered over to the sideboard, poured himself a whisky and knocked it back. Then he staggered over to an armchair and collapsed into it. “Are you telling me that the house matters more to you than our marriage?”

    “No, but it’s a definite factor,” replied Lalla with apparent calm. He didn’t visibly react, so she pointed out: “Living in style in this silly hotel seemed to matter more to you than our marriage.”

    “Uh… When you put it like that…” He got up and poured himself another belt.

    Lalla sat down on a sofa—the suite had several, all large, overstuffed and covered in a shiny fabric which was just on the yellow side of oatmeal. The walls were a pale oatmeal. The curtains were ditto. The carpet, inoffensive in itself, was a flecked oatmeal. The huge things on the wall did not help: they possibly dated from an earlier stage in the place’s décor and featured enormous, semi-stylised flower prints—or rather, parts of flowers: no one print showed a whole bloom. She gave them a look of dislike.

    “I’ll be glad to see the last of those puce-tinged tulips and magnolias and that slice of bright yellow lily or whatever it is,” she said with a sigh.

    “Er—yes.” Peter licked his lips uneasily. “I would not have believed that you could be so hard,” he said faintly.

    Men never could, could they? They always thought women were pretty little dolls—though in reality, of course, they were only too willing to let them rule their lives. Well—take choosing the car. Apart from Jan Harper and Pete McLeod, Lalla couldn’t think of a single couple she knew where the bloke had chosen the family car. Well, Roger and Jean were a bit different, of course, he had to have a specially modified car, but she’d selected the colour and make of the latest one, too right.

    “I was a tigress fighting for my cub, you nit,” she explained.

    “Uh—good God! Of course you were!” he realised.

    She nodded, apparently serenely.

    Peter looked desperately over at the whisky bottle.

    “Don’t have any more, Peter, you’ll pass out. Did you manage to get any lunch today?”

    Peter replied automatically: “Yes, some sort of salad sandwich thing, chosen by Bernie’s own Bronte. –She’s sorting me out good an’ proper,” he added with a flicker of humour.

    “Good. I said she looked sensible.”

    “Er—yes.” Bronte Parrish, Bernie Carpenter’s PA, currently on loan to Peter, would have been six foot in her stockinged feet, though as she customarily wore high heels the effect was little short of frightening. She was not a middle-aged battle-axe, no. She was a terrifyingly competent woman in her mid-thirties, perfectly groomed, the dark brown hair in a flawless bun, the pencil skirts tight on the splendid thighs, the bust imposing within a selection of bright but unfussy blouses and the well-cut jackets which matched the skirts. Nice selection of discreet and not inexpensive earrings. Ditto watch and bracelet. According to Bernie there was a hubby somewhere well in the background: this gentleman was customarily referred to, though only behind the terrifying Bronte’s back, as Mr Bronte. Sensible, Peter felt, was about the mildest adjective that could have been applied to her.

    Lalla laughed suddenly.

    “What?” he groped.

    “Oh— I was just thinking about the way most women choose the family car.”

    Peter was blank for a moment. Then he got it. “Right: taking Bronte as your model, you’re in training to be one of those, are you?”

    “No! I can’t drive!” she gasped, collapsing in helpless giggles.

    Peter goggled limply. Then he got up and staggered over to get himself—

    “Not—whisky!” she gasped.

    —a nice drink of spring water. Christ!

   … “Ya bloody nearly blew that one, mate,” noted Mr Carpenter next day, after he’d poured out the lot to him, faute de mieux.

    “Yeah.”

    “Has it been delivered?” he enquired in friendly tones.

    “Yes! We were out there at crack of dawn supervising its arrival!” he snarled.

    Bernie collapsed in a terrible sniggering fit. Finally wiping his eyes and gasping: “They’re all like that when they’re defending their cub, Peter! You’ll learn!”

    “I wish I’d never told you, now, and I hope your rabbit dies!” retorted Peter bitterly.

    Bernie just went into a further fit. The words “mighty” and “fallen” might have been in there amongst the sniggers, but Peter was definitely not listening. Not—listening.

    It would perhaps have been a slight—very slight—consolation to him to learn that that very same evening, Cherry Simpson greeted her spouse’s arrival home from a hot, hard day at work with an outheld fist and the demand: “I’ll have that twenty now, thanks.”

    The campervan was in situ, the Sales had moved in, Miss Starkie had firmly approved the move, and Petey had started at Bells Road Primary. The report was that it was “quite big” and that Miss Dawkins, his class teacher, was “all right”. One Dean Martin—his parents blinked—was reported to own a neato water-pistol that his Pop had made—meaning his grandfather: they had now worked out it was the customary local vernacular usage, odd though this might have seemed to some. And Addison Lemon was a dork, but she could fight good. Several questions might have been asked at this point, not least those relating to personal names, surnames and gender, but they let sleeping wolfhounds lie.

    The renovations at Green Gables were going well: on the strength of his excellent job on the drive, Peter let Mr Bob Adams and his “obbo”, one Gordo, a shambling giant of a man with a sheepish grin, do the little side path as well. They did take their time over that and there was a fair amount of hobnobbing with Joe Franchini—also, of course, recommended by the Adamses—but never mind, it was more than worth it. The floors were looking splendid and Mr Franchini had offered off his own bat to do the fireplace surrounds in the sitting-room, the smaller room at the front opposite it, which Peter had privately decided was a breakfast room, the dining-room behind that, and the billiards room. Plus the upstairs passage floor: you’d want it matching! Er… somewhat weakly Peter agreed that that would be a nice look, but they did want to move in as soon as possible, so they thought they’d put down rugs for the time being, and, er, definitely think about it later. But yes, by all means make a start on the fireplaces, Mr Franchini.

    “Joe,” he corrected him amiably. “Righto, Peter. By the way, ya wanna tell Lalla there’s a sale at Kmart, if she’s looking for sheets and towels and stuff?”

    Thanking him groggily, Peter tottered off to find his spouse. Nowhere in evidence. Nor was their son. Uh… what day was it? He tottered into the billiards room, where Joe was now looking hungrily at the mantelpiece, implement in hand, and croaked: “Er, Joe, am I wrong or isn’t it Saturday? Are you working overtime?”

    “Nah—it’s my firm, ya see. The boys are off today, though. Just getting the job done for ya.”

    “Thanks very much,” he said groggily. “Um, have you seen Lalla?”

    “They went off to see the ole lady. Hey, she’s a corker, eh? Told ole Bob if ’e didn’t give ’is obbo a sunhat he’d be liable for a personal damages suit!” He sniggered. “I said to ’er, ‘Don’t think they make sunhats hippopotamus-size, Miss Starkie’—didn’t go down too well. Added to which, the poor bugger hasn’t got the nous to bring any sort of suit.”

    “Er—I did see Gordo wearing a hat, Joe,” he said cautiously.

    “Yeah! That’s me point! Next thing ya know, she’s marched up here with this huge great straw thing for him. Only ever seen anythink like it once: that was when me cousin’s girl come back from ’er trip to Mexico with a load of souvenirs.”

    “A sombrero,” said Peter very, very limply. “Of course.”

    “Yeah! –Nah, well, that’s where they are.”

    “Oh! Right! Thanks, Joe.”

    “No worries,” floated after him as he hurried off. …They must do something about putting in (a) a garage, (b) a “granny flat” for the Beatties and (c) a path through this sparse-looking but bloody impenetrable—ow!—undergrowth as soon as possible!

    Petey greeted him with: “Look! Me and Miss Starkie are making fig jam like Mémé’s! I told her about it, see!”

    “How in God’s name do you know about Maman’s fig jam?” he croaked.

    “She told me, of course. You weren’t there. Me and Mrs Macdonald and Mrs McNeil, we were talking about Mrs Macdonald’s jam, she makes it from some funny berries they got in Scotland. Can berries be called Bill?” he asked dubiously.

    “Yes; the name is bilberries, but it’s nothing to do with the human name Bill,” said Miss Starkie briskly. “They’re also called whortleberries in Scotland.”

    “That’s it! She said they were whortleberries and then she said you could call them Bill, I mean Bill berries,” he said carefully. “It’s great jam, see, Peter, and then Mémé told her how to make fig jam, like from figs.”

    “Fresh figs, I think you mean,” the old woman corrected him.

    “Yes, straight off the tree, like yours. Or out of your fruit bowl, I s’pose.”

    “That’s right. Fresh in this instance only means not cooked or dried, Petey.”

    “Right.”

    “I see,” said Peter limply. “Your fig tree certainly bears well, Miss Starkie.”

    “Yes. It’s hard to get rid of them, really: most people these days barely know what they are. That Simpson woman won’t take any, she claims they don’t like them.”

    “I wouldn’t waste the jam on her, then,” said Lalla firmly. “What about the people on the other side, Miss Starkie?”

    She sniffed. “Don’t think the woman knows what jam is. Lives entirely off prune juice, raw carrots and celery, by the look of her.”

    “Mémé says you need red meat, though,” Petey objected.

    “Possibly the female eats a small amount of very expensive fillet steak once a week, then, Petey. In any case, she’s far too grand to condescend to accept anything homemade.”

    “Oh, heck. We were hoping she might be nice,” said Lalla sadly.

    “Have you seen Number 7?” demanded Miss Starkie.

    Number 7 She-Oak Rise was a modern offering, constructed, as far as was humanly discernible from the road, entirely of dark brown plate glass.

    “Mm,” Lalla admitted. “She suits it, then.”

    “Quite. It looks as if it lives off prune juice, carrot sticks and celery, too,” she said drily.

    Lalla collapsed in ecstatic giggles, nodding madly. “Yes! Oh, dear! What a waste of a lovely section!”

    “Exactly. –Just get on with those labels, thanks, Petey: they won’t write themselves. Can I do anything for you, Peter?”

    Peter smiled. It had taken her well over a week to break down and call him by his name. Doubtless the advent of a gent to look at her cottage for damp-proofing had helped. “No, thanks, Miss Starkie. Just wondering where my wife and son were.”

    “Helping,” grunted Petey. “F,I, G, space, J,A,M.”

    “Yes. Jolly good. Er—I did want to consult you, Miss Starkie, about the sites for our garage and Granny flat, not to say some sort of vegetable garden, but there’s no hurry.”

    “We’re gonna have a picnic tea, so why not come up and have it with us, and you can talk about it then,” suggested Lalla. “I see, the syrup mixture starts to look more syrupy!”

    “Mm,” Miss Starkie agreed, “and then you watch it like a hawk. –Well, I don’t think much of that recipe of Jane Grigson’s”—she nodded at a tired paperback which was open on the bench dividing the kitchenette from the living area—“but I’ve sort of cobbled a method together, based on a recipe for peaches in syrup.”

    “It smells wonderful: just like Maman’s!” said Peter with a laugh. “So we’ll see you later, then?”

    “Yes, thank you. Don’t bother about pudding, Lalla, I’ll bring something.”

    “Ooh, lovely, thanks!” she beamed.

    Peter wandered over to the sofa, smiling, and picked up a book. Possibly he ought to be working, or at least thinking about a proposal that Vibart’s was looking at but that he himself had doubts about... Later.

    The pudding turned out to be, talking of figs, the most miraculous tarte aux figues. It was so good, in fact, that Peter forgot all about the message he’d been supposed to give Lalla until the following morning.

    “Honestly, Peter!”

    “Sorry, darling.”

    “Will Kmart even be open on Sunday? I bet they’ll have sold out.”

    “Er—there must be other sources of household linens in Sydney.”

    “We’re just about out of towels, though. How soon did that shop man say he could deliver the washing-machine?”

    “Er—within the week, I think.”

    She snorted.

    “Bernie says that firm is solid and reliable. I mean, they won’t bilk you, they will supply parts if the thing breaks down, and they will deliver.”

    “Only not fast,” she said heavily.

    “No. It was your idea to live in this campervan with its minute washing facilities.”

    “I think that little washing-machine’s cool!” Petey interjected.

    “Silence, Grub,” Peter ordered. “Your opinion was not solicited.”

    “Hah, hah,” he returned, unmoved. He pushed his empty cornflakes bowl away and reached for a piece of toast and the peanut butter. Weren’t some kids supposed to have an allergy to the foul stuff? Peter Christie Macdonald Townsend Holcroft was not one of them. Peter tried not to breathe as he opened the jar.

    “I’ll see if I can hurry them up,” he said heavily. “Just remember, Lalla, darling, you don’t have to worry about money. Go to a decent shop, buy some decent towels and bedlinen, for Christ’s sake!”

    Lalla bit her lip. “But I don’t know what’s decent! I tried looking at sheets last week, and there was a really nice lady there, and she said—well, I didn’t understand it, it was all technical, but she meant they were rubbish. Then the shop lady came up and tried to persuade me they’d be good, but she cut her down to size. So I didn’t buy any. Something about counting threads?” she ended dubiously.

    “Ring Maman,” he said firmly. “Just tell her the size and number of the beds, she’ll see to it.”

    “You don’t mean send sheets out all the way from France? Peter, they weigh a ton!”

    He passed his hand over his forehead. “Look, at the risk of being accused of conspicuous consumption, I can afford it. And in any case Maman will have them freighted, not sent parcel-post—in fact I know that chap Michael Stuart quite well, I’ll ring him tomorrow and see if we can arrange something. Er, S-Speed-Tran International, darling.”

    “S-STI, yes: one of the Stuart Group’s companies. Um, yes, they are into air freight, but do they fly to Australia?”

    “Bound to.”

    Lalla took a deep breath. “Well, while they’re at it, maybe they could bring us a custom-made mattress for that blimmin’ bed, as well!”

    “Eh?”

    “The Victorian double bed, Peter! It’s all very well to say it’s a charming old thing, and it is, but they don’t sell modern mattresses to fit it! I’ve taken the measurements very carefully, and none of the shops— Well, actually none of the horrid men in the mattress shops would believe me about the measurements. Me and Troy spent hours and hours driving round the lot of them, but they’re all the same! Added to which they’re hideous, and far too high! Not just the double ones, all of them. I thought at least there would be some sensible single ones to suit those lovely Edwardian beds we found, but there aren’t! I’m quite sure Marie-Louise’s feet wouldn’t even touch the ground if she was sitting on one, Peter: mine barely did! And it’s so bad for your hips to have a jolt like that every time you get out of bed.”

    “The modern mattress designers must be mad,” he croaked.

    “I think they are; the Aussie ones, anyway. I emailed Jan and she says it’s just the same over there. All the mattresses are twice the height of the old ones: in fact you can see where they’ve bunged the new bit on top of the old design.”

    “God,” he muttered.

    “My mattresses are okay!” Petey put in, breathing peanut butter fumes all over them.

    “Um, yes: they were made specially for the bunks, eh?” Lalla agreed. “I’m not exaggerating, Peter.”

    “No. Okay, Maman will source decent French mattresses for all of the beds except for Petey’s bunks. Er—she may supply the rest, which I’m afraid will include bolsters and strange square Continental pillows, which no pillowcase in the entire English-speaking world will fit, I’d better warn you.”

    “Then I’m sure she’ll send us some that do fit. It’d be ideal, Peter, but are you sure? She is an old lady, after all, and it’d be a lot of work for her.”

    “She’ll say if it’s too much, but don’t worry, this sort of thing is meat and drink to Maman. Ah… bedspreads, duvets?” he added, wincing. “Will they fit?”

    “That’ll be okay. The nice lady I met at the silly shop said what you do, you buy a size bigger duvet—she called it a duna, but she meant duvet—and it drapes over the edges; and they’re much cosier like that, too! It’s a really attractive look: the shops had some like that on their beds. And she knows someone that’ll make bedspreads to order. I’ve written it down in that diary thingie, it makes quite a useful notebook!” she beamed.

    That was good to know. It was the leather-bound volume to which Maman referred as an agenda. Louis Vuitton. Price not disclosed to its innocent recipient. He nodded groggily…

    “You won’t forget, will you?”

    “No, I promise, darling.”

    “Good, because I can’t face another ruddy mattress shop,” Lalla admitted, sighing.

    “No, understandable. Did you get this woman’s name, sweetheart? Because I really think we ought to write and th—”

    Petey swallowed an immense mouthful of toast and peanut butter. “Mrs Mason. She’s gonna come to afternoon tea with us on Tuesday, eh, Mum? After school.”

    She nodded and beamed.

    Okay, Mrs Mason. Unknown woman picked up in downtown Sydney… “Uh—which shop did you meet her in, Lalla?”

    “David Jones, Cherry said it’s the nicest, and it did have some lovely stuff, but not the right sheets.”

    He sagged slightly. It was nice, all right. With luck this Mrs Mason would not turn out to be a freeloader, any other sort of opportunist, or simply a bore who would inflict herself on them forever and a day. Fingers crossed, then.

    Zoe Mason poured tea, looking complacent. “Now, see what you think!”

    Obediently Lalla and Cherry tasted it.

    “Ooh, it’s miles better than mine!” cried Lalla.

    “Mine, too,” Cherry agreed. “What on earth did you do to it, Zoe?”

    She laughed. “It’s just a matter of pouring the water on while it’s boiling, dear! It seems to make it taste fresher.”

    “Yes, it does,” she agreed dazedly. “Heck. …I’m sure I read somewhere that you  don’t use it boiling, you use it when it’s just boiled.”

    “They were wrong, then,” said Lalla happily. “I’ll always pour it really boiling in future, Zoe!”

    “Good. Have a muffin, dear.”

    Lalla didn’t really like sweet American-style muffins, but since these were home-baked by Mrs Mason herself, she took one, smiling, and thanked her.

    The afternoon tea fortified them all so much, even though Petey had had to be fended off it at several points, that they felt strong enough for a tour of the house.

    “Oh, dear,” the middle-aged, comfortable-looking Mrs Mason concluded.

    Lalla bit her lip. “Mm. Peter’s so used to—to having people to do everything for him that he doesn’t realise how difficult it all is. I mean, the other day he said it was nice to have chilled spring water from the little fridge in the campervan, but he hasn’t done anything about getting a proper fridge for the house!”

    “Well, you can leave that to me, dear,” Mrs Mason announced in militant tones. “My brother Dan is Dan Mason Electrical, he’s got a chain of outlets now but he still manages the one over in Waratah Grove himself. He’ll put in a nice fridge-freezer for you in no time.”

    “Is that far away?” asked Lalla—Sydney was enormous, very spread-out.

    “It’s the local shopping mall,” said Cherry in amazement. “Don’t tell me you haven’t found it yet!”

    “Um, no. I know where the Kaffee Klatch is.”

    “It’s in the opposite direction,” said Mrs Mason firmly. “Not far, only a five minutes’ run. We might as well pop over today.”

    “That’d be great,” Lalla agreed dazedly. “Have they got a nice supermarket?”

    “Not bad, a Woolie’s. They’ve started doing fancy little packets of meat, mind you, it’s the influence of all these Asian tourists and students we’re getting these days, if you ask me. And minced everything! Chicken, pork, lamb—lamb mince! My old gran would never have believed it. And they’ve even started packing the fruit and some of the veggies like that, too. Ridiculous! But anyway, Waratah Grove’s got a nice butcher’s shop, Lalla, so just make sure you buy your meat there!”

    “Yes; I always do,” Cherry agreed. “Mind you, Woolie’s rotisserie chooks are all right.”

    “Slathered in brown dye, though, dear.”

    She sighed. “I know. I always try to peel it off before Tony gets home. He’s addicted to it, it can’t possibly be good for him! Then I put the chicken in a stir-fry or a risotto or somethink, and he never realises!” she added on a triumphant note.

    Alas, Lalla broke down in a giggling fit at this revelation, but the two matrons just exchanged glances and smiled upon her indulgently. She’d learn.

    Dean Martin and his Pop were the first to see the enormous lorry arrive. Mr Martin, Senior, often looked after Dean after school—though nobody in the Martin family dared to put it quite like that, considering the advanced age that Master Martin had attained. He was keeping Pop company. And helping him with his models, of course! In between manufacturing water-pistols for his grandson, Pop made models. Currently of racing cars. From the olden days, according to Dean. Carved, or perhaps whittled wooden ones, due to be painted up in the appropriate colours: British racing green, for example. The two of them were merely out for a harmless stroll which coincidentally happened to be along She-Oak Rise, Dean having imparted the breathless news that Petey and his mum and dad had a campervan there! Judicious enquiry amongst the neighbours had yielded the further intel that they’d actually bought the old house. “What about the old bat?” Pop had croaked. We-ell, according to what his daughter-in-law’s neighbour had got off her friend Mona, Cherry Simpson reckoned they’d got round her and she was actually giving them jam and stuff! Pop had duly gaped, but concluded: “It won’t last.”

    “Hey, LOOK!” shouted Dean as the giant pantechnicon rumbled up.

    “Strewth.” After an instant’s stunned staring Pop hurried forward. “Oy, mate! Don’t you take ’er up that drive, they’ve just had it laid!”

    “If you say so. You gonna lug the load up it for us, are ya?”

    “Hilarious.” Just in case, Pop stationed himself bang in the middle of the driveway. Halfway between where the gateposts would have been if they’d put any in. “Dean! Run up to the house and get Petey’s mum, and if ya can’t find her, don’t muck about looking, get one of the blokes that are working on the house down here pronto!”

    “Righto, Pop!” He raced away.

     Pop eyed the huge lorry consideringly. “All-Aussie Transport, eh?”

    “Yeah.”

    “You a contractor, or an employee?”

    “Employee. So?”

    “So there might be some hope of you getting ya load delivered safe and sound!” he returned smartly.

    The driver’s mate, who up till this point hadn’t uttered, now put in: “It’d be more than our jobs are worth not to, mate, the bloke this stuff’s for is a mate of the owner’s: I mean the owner,” he stressed.

    Pop sniffed. “Thought All-Aussie—good name, that,” he noted sardonically—“was owned by a ruddy great Pommy-based multinational?”

    “Yeah, the Stuart Group. That’s Michael Stuart. Ya might of heard of him,” he added snidely.

    Pop was more than a match for smart young jokers still wet behind the ears that thought they knew it all. “In that case he owns your lot through S-Speed-Tran International. It and its fleet of new cargo planes. At least ’e isn’t calling them somethink bloody rude.”

    The two employees of All-Aussie Transport exchanged blank glances. “Eh?” uttered the driver.

    “Virgin Airlines!” said Pop with huge scorn. “Wonder ’e was allowed to.”

    “Aw,” they replied feebly.

    Pop sniffed.

    Luckily for the sanity of the innocent delivery men, Dean had found Lalla, and into the bargain Joe Franchini, and of course Petey, and returned with them at this juncture. “See!” he pointed out proudly, if redundantly.

    “That’s a dirty great delivery truck, all right,” allowed Joe, scratching his chin.

    “But the washing-machine came,” said Lalla numbly.

    “Yeah.” Joe eyed the immense truck thoughtfully. “You expecting anything from overseas?”

    “N— Oh! But she can’t have sent the mattresses and stuff already!”

    “Looks like it. –Gidday, mate! Need a hand?”

    The driver leaned out of his cab window. “Yeah, you could lift that there impediment out of our way while we unload.”

    Joe choked, what time Pop, noting sourly: “Funny joker,” moved grudgingly aside. “Wouldn’t let them take that ruddy truck up and ruin yer drive,” he explained to Lalla.

    “Oh! No! I see! Thanks very much!” she gasped. “I’m sorry: I’m Lalla Sale, I’m Petey Holcroft’s mother, and this is Joe Franchini.”

    “Gidday, Lalla—Joe. Pop Martin,” he replied, holding out a horny hand.

    “Of course!” she beamed. “You’re Dean’s Pop, who made his lovely water-pistol!”

    Joe at this point had to cover his mouth with his hand, and one of the removal men coughed suddenly.

    “Yeah—well, yeah, ’is water-pistol,” Pop allowed. “Sorry, Lalla: got so used to all the kids calling me that. Ceddie.”

    “Ceddie, then!” she beamed. “But we weren’t expecting anything that would need a huge truck like this. I mean, some mattresses and some sheets.”

    He scratched his head. “Maybe they’re all boxed up?”

    “Yeah, they are. Regulations,” put in the driver at this point.

    Lalla bit her lip. “Oh, dear! Does that mean we’ll have to unpack huge boxes and—and then get rid of them?”

    “You could have a bonfire!” offered Dean eagerly,

    “Hey, yeah!” agreed his peer.

    “Petey, this is Australia, we don’t light fires where there’s lots of bush: didn’t you listen to what Miss Starkie said?”

    “Aw.”

    “Ya won’t have to, lady, we do all that for you. See, it’s All-Aussie Transport’s policy,” said the driver’s mate.

    “Really? And take it all away, too? Oh, wonderful!” she beamed. “Thank you so much!”

    “Policy in a pig’s eye,” noted Pop to the pellucid Australian sky. “It is when your customer’s a mate of your owner, yeah.”

    “It is!” he retorted crossly.

    “Right, tell that to Marg and Harry Tolstoy down Kurrajong Grove. –Had some of his old dad’s stuff sent over from WA when the old joker went, ya see. Packing cases piled up three high in the lounge-room, ruddy packaging from here to Christmas, they were still getting rid of flamin’ boxes three months later! Don’t take any notice of them, Lalla, they’re not Grace, ya know!” With this stern statement Pop took up a militant position at the side of the drive.

    Joe Franchini, who’d been trying not to laugh for some time, at this put in mildly: “Grace are the biggest household removals firm in Australia, Lalla. They do storage and stuff, too. They are good, but ya pay for what ya get, of course.”

    “I see.”

    “This lot, they do more commercial stuff. Heavy loads, often.”

    “Um, I see, Joe.”

    “Yeah. –Come on, mate, gimme that!” He accepted without apparent effort a large carton that the driver’s mate was lowering from the back of his now open truck, and walked up the drive with it.

    “So yer hubby knows Michael Stuart, does ’e, Lalla?” chirped Pop.

    “Um, he did say he did, Ceddie.”

    He sniffed. “Gotcha.”

    Lalla smiled weakly. She was sure he had got it, yes. Oh, dear. She’d been hoping it would never dawn on anyone connected with Bells Road Primary School just how rich Petey’s dad was.

    The load was, of course, the mattresses and linen from Marie-Louise, not to say bolsters, blankets, pillows, tablecloths—they didn’t yet have a dining table—and a monster carton of kitchen appliances, most of which Lalla didn’t have a clue how to work. Or even what they were. Oh, dear.

    When the dust had finally cleared, and everyone had gone, the delivery men having been regaled with large mugs of instant coffee, Joe and his blokes likewise, Pop and Lalla having had mugs of tea, and Petey and Dean Coke, since it was in some sort a special occasion, and three entire packets of biscuits had vanished like the dew, Lalla just sat down limply on the bed, now made up with a wonderful set of pure white, smooth-as-silk heavy cotton sheets by the helpful Pop, and adorned with a huge unexpected duvet, inserted into its cover by the combined efforts of Pop and Joe, and uttered: “Yikes.”

Next chapter:

https://thelallaeffect.blogspot.com/2024/01/settling-in.html