Paradise Revisited

14

Paradise Revisited

    Peter managed to get some sleep on the plane, amazingly enough. Well—he was used to flying, and after some time of sitting staring glumly into space he’d given in and taken a pill. But he woke up when the flight attendants started serving breakfast—they made enough noise to wake the dead, but presumably that was aimed precisely at waking the passengers without having actually to shake them. But by the time they got to Auckland he was pretty zonked out, all the same, so he obediently tottered into the room in the Auckland Airport Travelodge—adjacent to the airport, yes—that John had booked for him. There he passed out on the bed in the central heating, waking to find it was morning. He hadn't missed his flight to Rarotonga, it didn’t go until quite some time later, so he had a shower, felt marginally better, and tottered downstairs to the dining-room, as a preferable alternative to ordering from Room Service and staying in his room, brooding. He’d had plenty of time to think, and it was ninety to one—no, something like nine hundred to one—that she’d now have a permanent man in her life.

    He sat down at a table laid for four—they were all laid for four—and having ordered coffee and toast proceeded to slump there, brooding.

    He’d embarked on the coffee, which was Goddawful but it suited his mood, and buttered his toast—the butter was suspiciously yellow and a cautious taste had revealed it to be incredibly salty—and decided against the small plastic packet of purported marmalade, when the burly man at the next table suddenly offered: “Hey, you expecting to catch a flight this morning?”

    Peter looked up with an effort. “Er—yes. Later.”

    “It’ll be later, mate, they’re grounded!” he said bitterly. “Fog—see?” He waved angrily at the sheets of plate glass to their rear.

    Peter had assumed the view was grey because it was still early. “Oh.” He looked dubiously at his watch. It was still early: half past six, in fact. “Perhaps it'll clear later.”

    “Yeah, an’ perhaps we’ll of missed our connections, too!” he said crossly. “I’m supposed to be headed to flamin’ Rarotonga, and ya know what they’re like!”

    “I think that must be the same flight as mine. What are they like?”

    He shrugged. “Five’ll get ya ten they’ll get there late, see, and miss the announcement the flight’s delayed, so they’ll give it away and go!”

    “Uh—oh. Right. Uh—ring them? Tell them you’re waiting?” he offered feebly.

    “Nah.” He got up and came and sat down heavily at Peter’s table, uninvited. “English, are ya, mate? Yeah, thought so. Josh McIntyre—I’m from Sydney, we don’t do much business in the Cooks, see: the Kiwis have got the place virtually sewn up, and good luck to ’em! I said to the boss, ‘You’re mad, they’ve got virtually no infrastructure, and everything’ll take five times as long to get done and we won’t get the labour’, but no, he reckons this place is owned by a Yank. Doesn’t mean it won’t be local labour, though, does it?”

    “Er—no. –Peter Sale,” said Peter resignedly, shaking.

    “Good to meetcha, Peter. Business or holiday?”

    “Er—holiday, I suppose,” said Peter lamely.

    “Right. So where ya booked in?” he asked in friendly tones, picking up the little packet of some nasty-looking black substance which had been sitting on the saucer side-by-side with the marmalade packet and examining it with interest.

    “It’s a place called Palmyra Polynesia: you might not have—”

    “Shit! Not really? That’s the place I’m headed for! Hey, ya do know it’s on an island, do ya?”

    “I believe it is, yes.”

    “Well, they’re all islands, of course. I mean, not on Rarotonga, mate. Offshore.”

    “Mm. Presumably there’ll be a boat, Josh.”

    “Yeah, but that’s what I’m saying! They won’t of waited! No use ringing them, see, they’re on the island!”

    But presumably they could ring their man and tell him to get back to the airport, pronto? Peter didn’t make this point, he just said mildly: “I see.”

    “See, our bloke Cas Stuart, he went out there when the boss decided we might wanna look at the job, and his mobile couldn’t get a signal, he was stuck at the airport for ages, he hadda ring the hotel and they hadda wait until the launch got back, and then send the bloke back!”

    “Oh, shit,” said Peter, gaping at him.

    “You said it, mate!” He set the small plastic packet down. “Ours.”

    “I’m sorry?”

    “This Vegemite. It’s Australian: don’t ask me why, thought the Kiwis made their own.”

    Oh, good grief! Shades of Lalla’s singed toast breakfasts!

    “You all right, mate?” asked Josh McIntyre.

    Peter passed his hand over his face. “Yes, thanks, Josh. Jet-lagged,” he said limply.

    “Ya not the only one. Well, thing is, it’s not a long flight from Sydney but heck, it took three hours to get to the bloody airport, the traffic was a nightmare, and ya gotta turn up hours before the bloody thing takes off, with these bloody scanners—we had some dame that expected to get on with three tubes of Semtex and a set of tasty-looking stilettos! –Nah, not really, mate!” he said with a laugh as Peter gaped at him. “Knitting needles—they were steel, mind you, musta been barmy—toothpaste, sunscreen and somethink for the hubby’s piles. ’E went as red as buggery when she come out with that one to the bloody Little Hitler at the gate, poor bastard! They all got the chop. Let’s hope they got the stuff here, eh? I mean, they gotta have it, only without a prescription, I mean: see, their regs are different from ours,” he spelled out kindly.

    Peter nodded numbly.

    “Yeah. Anyway, took forever. Where’d you catch yours, mate? Stopover in Singapore, was it?”

    “No, straight out from Heathrow,” he said wearily.

    “Shit! Ya musta hadda queue there!” replied Josh McIntyre with sympathetic horror.

    Not so much for Business Class, but—mm. “Mm. It took a while.”

    “I should koko! Never been to England, meself. Big, is it?”

    No, it could fit into New South Wales and be lost, what was the man on ab— Oh! “Heathrow? Yes, bloody big.”

    “Over-heated?”

    “Uh—yeah.”

    “They always are, mate. –No, I tell a lie: I been in one that was freezing: brass monkeys. Shrivel yer balls,” he elaborated colourfully, if unnecessarily. “Adelaide. Think it had just opened or somethink. Musta been about five degrees, max’—I'm not kidding. Then when we got outside it was fordy-three in the shade. Wonder we didn’t all pass out. Well, I knew it might be warm, but Jesus!”

    “That is hot, yes.”

    “Yeah. The locals didn’t seem to mind—well, admitted it was hot, yeah. See, our lot, we were met by this dame from the firm that was organising the conference, she grabs this taxi and ya know what? The bloody thing wasn’t air-conditioned! Musta been the last taxi in the whole of flamin’ Australia without air-con! We nearly passed out! All she said when poor ole Kev asked the bugger if ’e could turn it on and he said ’e didn’t have any was that it was dry heat and she rather liked it, it kind of penetrated to your bones, made you feel healthy or somethink! Healthy! We were just about dying, mate! Well, not a long run to the city, but Jesus! Then Kev spotted her Kiwi accent and she admits she is, came over for the drier climate!”

    God! First the Vegemite, then a conference in Adelaide, and now a female New Zealander? If the bloody man said one more thing that reminded him of Lalla he’d—he’d—

    “You sure you’re okay, Peter, mate?”

    “Mm. I—uh—once met someone who'd been to a conference in Adelaide, too. She—uh—had trouble finding the art galleries.”

    “Yeah? Not into that sorta stuff, meself,” replied Josh McIntyre in a vague voice. “Think there’s one on the main drag—well, what passes for it. The town hall’s in another street, likewise the big post office, and that’s where the main square is.”

    “I see. What about the banks?”

    He sniffed. “Banks? Ya mean, the State Bank, that just about sent them bust a few years back? Just plain mismanagement, the government hadda bail them out. Same street as the town hall. Dunno what else. Aw, yeah, old ANZ building. Think that was about it. Well, it’s Adelaide, mate!”

     “Right. The big banks’d be in Sydney, then?” replied Peter with a little smile.

    “Yeah, ’course!” the Sydneysider agreed. “You in banking yourself, mate?”

    “Uh—more or less. Merchant banking. Amongst other interests.”

    “That right? I'm from HGI, meself. –Civil engineering and construction, mate. Well, we been taken over by the Carrano Group but we’ve kept the trading name, see: it’s quite well known in Australia and Sir Jake Carrano, he’s got a bit of nous!” he reported approvingly.

    Briefly Peter debated saying: “Yes, I know Jake Carrano,” and decided against it. “I see. So may I ask what this job in the Cooks is, Josh?”

    “Bit of construction work at the hotel.” Mr McIntyre waved vigorously at a waiter, who ignored him. “All the same,” he concluded heavily. “Fancy another coffee, mate? It won’t be drinkable, but it’ll be hot.”

    What else was there to do in the Auckland Airport Travelodge at not yet seven of a grey, foggy morning? “Mm, thanks, Josh. Er—have you tried the marmalade?”

    “Yeah. It’s all right. Same as we get back home, really. Might as well buy it in the jars and be done with it. Ya might have time to order more to eat, too, instead of spending five hours wrestling with the ruddy packet!” He winked, and went off to the buffet, where another lackadaisical waiter was propping up the wall gazing into space.

    By the time they had to head for the airport Peter knew quite a lot about Josh McIntyre, HGI, Mrs McIntyre (Lesley), and Gordo, Vonnie and Christie McIntyre. And the McIntyre house, mortgage, and swimming-pool that she wanted done up, read ripped out and replaced at extreme pain to Josh’s hip-pocket. Not to say, about Mrs McIntyre, Snr., still going strong and sharp as a tack at seventy-seven, and Mrs Janice Thorsby, Lesley’s mum, daft as a brush and hadda be put in a home, where every Friday, don’t ask him why Friday, maybe that was the day the medication wore off, she nicked something from the other inmates. Jewellery? Yeah, but not only that, mate! Barmy things, like poor ole Mrs Martin’s comb, and Mr Firth’s hearing-aid, and a sneaker what to his knowledge they never had managed to track down the owner of: see, half of them wore them, they were comfortable if you had bad feet. They’d tried but half of them had lost one anyway. And one awful day she’d nicked Lesley’s keys, no-one knew to this day what the ole bat had done with them—flushed them, most likely. She hadda ring him and get him to pick her up. Plus and have new keys cut for everything, the house as well, they’d all been on the same bunch. What a waste of a day off, eh? Well, that’d teach ’er not to go round there on a Friday again!

    It was all very enlightening, really. Well—certainly shook him out of his ruddy self-absorption, Peter reflected ruefully. Not to say, threw a harsh light on how a large part of the so-called civilised world lived.

    The job Josh was on, it turned out, was not exciting. And quite small for their firm, but the boss reckoned they’d get a toe in, and Mr Ledbetter, he had influence. Bit of landscaping and building: he was expanding the hotel a bit, and putting in a few more so-called huts—luxury cabins, according to Cas. Yeah, well, foundations could be a problem, he admitted in some surprise to Peter’s enquiry. That was why they’d been keen to get HGI to do it. Proper engineering job—you know. But if they imagined it’d be done in time for next winter—the Aussie winter, the place got a lot of custom then, ’specially as it was the northern summer and they had a lot of rich American and European clients—they had another imagine coming. With local labour? No way!

    The plane was late getting in to the Rarotonga airport, all right. But funnily enough there was a fellow waiting to meet them. Odd-looking. Quite tall, slim—remarkable, this, compared to the chunky Polynesian figures clustering to meet relatives getting off the plane—and, unless it was Peter’s imagination, almost Japanese-looking. Possibly he was the only employee of Palmyra Polynesia who could read, and they'd sensibly given him the job of meeting guests, as a replacement for the man who had failed to read the bulletin board on the occasion of Josh’s unfortunate colleague’s visit? He loaded them into a pristine white vehicle, rather like a modern Jeep in style but combined with—well, the phrase “surrey with a fringe on top” sprang vividly into Peter’s mind. The thing was open-topped, but shaded by a white awning. Fairly solid in construction, but definitely fringed.

    Josh had rejoined him at the baggage claim and he now looked at this vehicle with a certain admiration and noted: “Tropical, eh? Cas never mentioned it, maybe it’s new. The food’ll be good, but be warned, mate, it'll be pricey. See, Cas, he was there on business, he got freebies, only he copped a gander at the menu and nearly passed out.”

    Peter wasn’t surprised: the only other passengers for Palmyra Polynesia were a cross-looking, very expensively dressed pair of Swiss. With, in her case, very, very expensive luggage which she had not been pleased to see the hotel’s man slinging casually into the little trailer attached to his fringed white vehicle.

    “I see. So it isn’t all-inclusive?”

    “Can’t be, Peter, mate. You shoulda made sure yer secretary checked that out before ya let ’er make the booking.”—He had earlier assumed that Peter’s PA must be a female, so he hadn’t disabused him—nor apprised him of the fact that when he’d said “PA” it wasn’t just a euphemism for secretary.—“Cas reckons there’s nothink else at all on the ruddy place. I mean, it's Palmyra Polynesia, period. Nowhere else to eat. Hope to God the boss made ’em agree to feed me. I mean, we usually get a meal allowance if we’re travelling for the firm, but shit!”

    “Didn’t you ask him, Josh?” asked Peter in some amusement. The man spoke of his boss as if he was on very good terms with him, but perhaps that was just the Australian manner.

    “All ’e said was, don’t worry about that,” revealed Josh heavily. “All right for him, he took the wife to ruddy Club Noumea Tahiti last July!”

    “It sounds as if it’s okay, then,” said Peter kindly.

    Over his shoulder their driver said loudly: “You’re Josh McIntyre, right?”

    “Yeah,” agreed Josh somewhat numbly.

    “They’ve arranged for you and your blokes to eat in the staff dining-room. The food’s all right. Well, won’t be tinned spaghetti on toast and pale grey boiled mince like what you’d get back home.”

    “Eh? Speak for yourself!” retorted Josh indignantly.

    He shrugged. “Did a consultancy job once in Australia, out beyond the Black Stump, as you lot’d say. They gave us bunkhouse accommodation with air conditioners that kept breaking down in fifty-degree heat, and that was what there was to eat. Weetbix with long-life milk or baked beans on toast for breakfast. Take it or leave it.”

    “I’ve worked in the Outback meself and they done us proud!” retorted Josh crossly. “Chops and eggs for breakfast, as much toast as you wanted, marmalade and peanut butter and Vegemite, and Weetbix or cornflakes as well, and I dunno about the milk but it tasted okay, and really bonzer feeds for lunch and dinner, steak or roasts or lasagna, with chips and veggies! And pudding!”

    “Lucky you. Well, it won't be that heavy, in our climate, but we do the occasional roast. Usually—PIG!” he shouted, braking violently.

    The passengers shot forward in the grip of their seatbelts, gasping, and Mrs Swiss’s very fancy handbag flew up, up and away.

    “Shit!” gulped Josh. “Hey, look, ’tis a pig!”

    Sure enough, a smallish brindled pig was on the road, apparently entirely unmoved by the presence of a well-sized motor vehicle which had nearly killed it. The Swiss were now expressing loud indignation in French. And she was into the bargain ordering him either to get the bag immediately or order the driver to do so.

    “Thought they might have Captain Cookers,” added Josh, peering at the thing with interest.

    “They’re mostly a mixture,” said the driver calmly. “It’ll belong to somebody. The Nooroas, probably. –HEY! Anybody about? Your PIG’S on the road!”

    Nothing happened, except that he got up, retrieved Madame’s handbag and handed it to her with an elaborate bow.

    He got back into the vehicle and shouted: “HEY! NOOROAS! Your PIG’S on the ROAD!”

    Just when everybody was thinking he’d better do something about it, because the pig hadn’t budged and nobody was answering him, a small Polynesian boy wandered out of the shrubs lining the road, looking bored.

    “Aw, it’s you,” he said.

    “Get that ruddy pig off the road, Prince William, or I’ll have it on the spit for tea,” retorted the driver.

    “Dad’ll do ya, if ya do, eh?” he replied in friendly tones. “It likes eating that stuff, see? Dunno why, none of the others do, eh?”

    “What stuff?”

    The boy replied in his native language. Their driver lapsed into the same, which resulted in the boy’s shouting at him, ending very loudly in English: “’Tis SO!”

    “It isn’t, but if it’s been eating it and it’s not dead yet, it must be edible to pigs. And why aren’t you at school?” he replied in steely tones.

    The boy looked vague—in the manner, Peter realised with a certain shock, of little boys all over the world. “Tummy ache,” he offered unconvincingly.

    “Bullshit! What was it, a maths test?”

    “NO!” he shouted

    “Spelling, then.”

    The boy said nothing.

    “That musta been spot-on,” noted Josh with interest. “Hey, kid, your dad oughta paddle yer pants for you. If you don’t learn to spell you won’t be able to use a computer properly.”

    Peter eyed the child doubtfully, but this apparently had struck the right note. “I am learning up about computers, see? We got them at school now!”

    “Then ya need to learn to spell, ’cos if ya type a word wrong, it won’t find it, geddit?”

    “Yeah. If ya know all about computers and can spell, Prince William, you could have a fancy car and a good job like this joker, see?” said the driver.

    The boy eyed Josh suspiciously. “Have ya got a fancy car?”

    “Yep, a nice new Merc.”

    “That’s very fancy,” explained the driver, poker-face.

    “Better than what you had?” demanded the child suspiciously.

    “No, the same: I used to have a nice new Merc, too. Or put it like this, if you’re not back at school tomorrow—and I will check with Mrs Kitchen—I’ll be in touch with your dad.”

    “All right! And you’re MEAN, Ken Tangianau!” he shouted.

    “Get that flaming pig off the road.” Insouciantly he produced a large knife and tried its edge on his thumb.

    The boy rushed to haul the pig off the road, the driver, now revealed as Ken, put his knife away and sat down again, and Josh and Peter collapsed in horrible splutters.

    “Pity,” noted Ken as they drove off at last, with a toot of the horn to which Prince William did not respond: “I could just’ve done with a nice spit-roast leg of pork.”

    “Yum, yum!” agreed Josh with a chuckle. “So do ya do pork much, here?’

    “Hell, yeah! Staple part of the diet!”

    “Good,” he said simply.

    Peter cleared his throat. “Josh, if I was to couple the words ‘Lesley’ and ‘cholesterol’—”

    “Shuddup, ya bugger!” he choked delightedly, going into a paroxysm.

    Peter sat back, smiling. Horribly nervous though he now was.

    The launch trip was delightful, as it was a sparkling clear day. Or it would have been delightful, without the continual stream of complaint from Madame. She didn’t appear to realise that Ken apparently understood her every word—not even when, as she complained her back was aching, he found her a cushion. Certainly she then proceeded to criticise his appearance—faded jeans, and a flower behind his ear—the fact that the launch contained, besides themselves and their luggage, a crate of cackling chickens and several cartons of fruit and vegetables, and the fact that it wasn’t faster and/or a hovercraft, and into the bargain rehashed the pig episode. In summary—though it wasn’t—it shouldn’t have been on the road at all and Ken should have done something about it pronto.

    Josh, by contrast, leaned back at his ease with his arm on the rail, happily accepted a banana from the cartons when Ken offered them, and said happily to Peter: “What a gorgeous day, eh? Wish I could of brought Lesley, she’d of loved it.”

    So there you were. Peter leaned back in the sun and smiled at him.

    The hotel turned out to be pretty much as expected. The Swiss were bowed off to their suite in the main building by the manager in person, who seemed to have sized up all of them and their potential nuisance-value in one swift glance, Josh was led off by a beaming Polynesian lovely in a sarong to parts unknown, and Peter was shown by a sturdy, beaming Polynesian lad in a sarong to what was apparently “the best hut”. The boy confiding: “See, they’re all the same, Mrs Ledbetter, she says we don't want any arguments over who’s got the best one, but your one, it’s right on Paradise Cove!” And when they got there: “This is it. See, it’s not really Paradise Cove, that’s just what we all gotta call it!”

    Peter looked somewhat limply at the tiny semicircle of sparkling silver sand with the white-edged, turquoise wavelets frothing gently upon it. Ringed by palm trees an’ all as it was. “It looks pretty much like Paradise to me, er, Mata.”

    He must have got the name right, because the boy beamed happily and said: “Yeah, that’s what Lalla reckons!”

    Peter jumped. “I—I see. Would—would that be Lalla Holcroft?” He swallowed painfully.

    “Yeah, that’s right!” beamed Mata, apparently noticing nothing odd in the enquiry. “She’s our Head Housekeeper. “Um,”—he looked uneasily round the so-called “hut” with its giant kingsize bed, complete with floating draperies, possibly but not definitely intended as mosquito nets, its bamboo suite, bulkily cushioned with huge puffy things covered in a bright print of tropical blooms, its walk-in “closet” space, its elaborately carved chests of drawers and sideboards in what looked like Indonesian teak, though the carving itself had an Indian look about it, its matching carved but also well-cushioned dining suite for two, and its vases of orchids and bougainvillaea—“there is a fridge, sir, just a bar fridge for your convenience.” Quickly he opened what Peter had assumed was just another carved cabinet. “But you can order anything you like from Room Service. Um, I could send her over if you want to speak to her.”

    Peter hesitated. “I would like to speak to her, yes. But I’d like to have a shower first. Well, in perhaps half an hour, Mata? Whenever it suits her, really,” he ended weakly.

    “Yes, sir,” the boy agreed, looking unhappy. “Um, like I said, the ensuite’s really nice!”

    Peter hadn’t bothered to look at it. It was extremely clear from the style of Palmyra Polynesia that the bathrooms would be just what one expected, if not more so.

    “Of course. Would you like to show it to me now, Mata?” he said kindly.

    Looking relieved, the boy hastened to point out its glories. Crumbs, even a bidet! It was all pale green. He duly praised it.

    Mata looked pleased, and led the way back into the main room, pointing out for the second time the complimentary basket of fruit. And reminding Peter for the third time that the guests were allowed to pick anything they liked. But if they weren’t sure if it was edible, just to ring Reception and someone would come over straight away.

    Peter wouldn’t have dreamed of wandering round the gardens picking their fruit. He smiled weakly. “That’s very generous.”

    “So wouldja like something to eat now?” the boy urged. “We can send something over!”

    He couldn’t have eaten a thing. “No, thank you very much, Mata. I’ll come over to the dining-room later.”

    “Restaurant. Dinner is served from seven, sir,” he reminded him in what was very evidently a phrase fixte.

    “Of course. Thank you, Mata.” Desperately he handed him a tip, though as he didn't have any local money, it had to be— Uh, hardly anything left from the New Zealand money he and Josh had been given as change for their pounds sterling or Australian dollars by the Auckland Airport Travelodge. Okay, five quid.

    “Uh—it’s English money, I’m afraid.” he said as the boy gaped at it.

    “Yeah,” he gulped. “Ta! –I mean, thank you, sir!”

    “Not at all. The service is excellent. Oh—and don’t forget to give Miss Holcroft my message, will you?” he said as the boy headed happily for the door.

    He stopped dead. “Heck, do ya still wanna speak to her?” he gulped in dismay.

    Oh, dear. “Yes, please. It’s not about the service,” said Peter desperately.

    “Righto, then, I’ll tell her,” he agreed, once again looking relieved and this time mercifully slinging his hook.

    Peter had been going to totter into the ensuite. Instead he found he’d sat down limply on the bed. Good grief! Well—willing, yes! But thank God it was poor old Josh that was going to have to manage the Palmyra Polynesia expansion programme and not him! The whole episode, from setting toe upon the glorious silver sand of Paradise Cove, should have taken five minutes. Peter looked groggily at his watch. It had taken over half an hour, even though he hadn’t required the eager Mata to unpack his suitcase.

    “Hey, Lalla,” said Mata cautiously. “That new joker in Hut Four.”

    “Yes, Mata?” replied Lalla encouragingly.

    “He said to send you over.”

    With difficulty Lalla refrained from looking at her watch. Hadn't the new guests arrived about an hour ago? “When was this, Mata?”

    “When I was showing him his room. I mean hut. Sorry, Paradise Cove Hut!” he gasped.

    “I don’t mind if you call it Hut Four, silly,” said Lalla, smiling at him.

    “No,” agreed Mata in relief. “Anyway, he wants you to go over.”

    “Mata, he didn’t mean right then, did he?”

    “Nah, ’cos he said he was gonna have a shower first and to come over when it suited you.”

    That sounded all right. “Okay. I’d better go now, I think. What’s his name?

    His name was apparently Dunno.

    “Never mind. What’s he like?”

    “All right. English. It’s not about the service, he said!” he added quickly.

    That was a change from a lot of the English guests they got, then. “Nor it should be,” she agreed. “I’m sure you did everything right.”

    “Yeah,” agreed Mata gratefully. “Only he wouldn’t let me unpack his suitcase. Funny, eh?”

    It sure was! Most of the guests expected you to do everything for them, bar undressing them and actually helping them into the shower, though some of them demanded valet service, mind you! “Yes, it is a bit odd. I suppose he had an English accent, did he?”

    “Yeah, sure! Like I said, English!” replied Mata proudly.

    Mm. It was no use asking what sort of accent. “Remember Mr Broadbent?” she ventured.

    “Yeah! He was okay, eh?” he beamed.

    Yes, Mr Broadbent had been very much okay, a genial self-made man who was thrilled with everything and didn’t mind saying so. “Yes, a lovely man. Is he sort of like him?”

    “Nah... He gimme five pounds!” he beamed. “Like Mr Broadbent done when I showed him to his hut!”

    “Heck, did he really? He must be all right!” gasped Lalla.

    Mata nodded hard. “Yeah. And he said the ensuite’s very nice. Like, he didn’t say there wasn’t something—you know.”

    Lalla did, indeed. The something there wasn’t could have been anything at all—anything some of them could dream up to complain about, they did. Double basins was a favourite. Not in the suites, they did have double basins, so they had to think up something else for them.

    “He’s not fat, though,” Mata added suddenly.

    “Isn’t he? Oh! Not like Mr Broadbent! Well, I’d better go and see him. Don’t worry, Mata, I’m sure you didn’t do anything wrong. It’ll be something and nothing, as per usual.”

    Cheering up immensely, Mata agreed: “Yeah, ’course it will, Lalla! Hey, I picked this for you!”—presenting her with a large pink hibiscus.

    Lalla discarded her much smaller bloom, which undoubtedly Mrs Ledbetter would have approved as more ladylike. Smiling, she put the giant pink hibiscus behind her ear. “Ta, Mata, it’s lovely!”

    “That’s okay. –And it’s not dinner or that, ’cos he'd said he’d come over for it!”

    “Good-oh,” said Lalla calmly, going.

    Peter had more or less given up expecting her. It was over an hour since the blessed boy had disappeared. He’d had a shower, drunk a bottle of water straight from the fridge, wandered outside, wandered inside again and found his panama, wandered outside again, and gone for a very slow walk along the little beach and back. The day was still glorious but the sun had a westering look to it. He had no idea what the time was: he’d dozed off on the plane, only coming to when a hostess shook his shoulder as they were about to land at Rarotonga. If the pilot had announced what time it was here, he’d missed it. He debated wandering over to the main building, decided he’d wait a bit longer, wandered back inside, had a piss more out of boredom than necessity, though it had been a very large bottle of water, wandered back into the main room, chose a small orange juice from the fridge, discovered it wasn’t nearly as nice as he’d expected—too bitter, tasted as if they’d squashed the skins and all—pitched it out, wandered back outside, wandered back inside, moodily read through the sheaf of brochures on one of the low sideboards, and wandered outside again, this time forgetting the panama.

    Not a sausage. He turned his back on the track which he and Mata had come down, and headed off along the little cove again...

    When you got as far as the sand stretched, there was nothing but a clump of palm trees and some rocks forming a low point. He sighed and turned back. He’d walk very slowly and when he got to the hut have a very slow whisky with plenty of ice in it, and then head for the main building and the bar.

    He scuffed along in the hard sand below the tide mark, scowling. He wouldn’t look up, because she wasn’t coming: the kid must have forgotten to give her the message. He looked up. No, the fucking track was empty. Scowling, he looked back at his feet again...

    He looked up. Jesus! There she was! Unmistakable. Not coming down the bloody track at all, but walking along the beach: she must have come round the further point or maybe there was another track over there that he'd missed or—

    It was almost exactly the scene from that bloody glossy thing of YDI’s: against a background of palm trees and blue sky, the tall, curved figure in the low-slung sarong, the inadequate bright pink bikini bra, the tumble of long brown curls over one tanned shoulder and the big pink flower behind an ear. The Girl from Ipanema in person: “Tall and tan and young and lovely…” Peter’s legs shook—actually shook.

    The sun was in Lalla’s eyes: she squinted. Yes, thin, not the Mr Broadbent type—well, that wasn’t a point in his favour, judging by their Pommy guests so far. He had sunglasses on but no hat—yet another Pom that’d have to be warned about the ultraviolet, where did they imagine they were, for Heaven’s sake? She kept up a steady pace but given her druthers she’d have turned and run. ...He looked a bit like— No, she was imagining it, and not for the first time! Just because he was about that height and slim and Mata had said he was English!

    He did look li— Oh, God, surely not! Why hadn’t she looked at the guest list? Mrs Ledbetter had given strict instructions that she should always check the list of new guests, but she'd been so busy, and then, she'd been worrying about whether to take Petey back to New Zealand and what on earth she could do over there to earn a crust if they did go— Surely not! Rubbish. Her lips tightened and she walked on grimly.

    It was. Lalla gulped and stood stock still.

    Peter took a deep breath, removed his sunglasses, and went forward. “Hullo, Lalla.”

    “Put your sunglasses on: the glare’s bad for your eyes,” said Lalla feebly.

    His jaw dropped but he obediently put his sunglasses back on.

    Lalla swallowed. “Um, sorry. Um, hullo. I didn’t know it was you, I forgot to look at the guest list.”

    “I see. Well, before we agree that it’s a strange coincidence and forget all about it, let me just say it isn’t,” returned Peter tightly.

    “Isn’t it? Um, what?” she faltered. Help, and he didn’t even know about Petey! And there was no hope he wouldn’t find out. Even if he didn’t talk to the staff, like most of the guests—well, almost all of the guests barring lovely Mr Broadbent, actually—he was sure to find out, the place was so small! Unless he’d come for a completely private— One or two of them did! And stayed in their hut all the time!

    “It isn’t a coincidence!” said Peter loudly.

    “Um, isn’t it? No, it wouldn’t be. I mean, of course no-one will disturb you if you want to be absolutely private. And you’ve got the best hut, it’s lovely down here.”

    “So the charming if inept Mata informed me.”

    “What’s he done wrong?” said Lalla in a doomed voice.

    “Uh—nothing.”

    “Then why did you want to speak to me?”

    His jaw dropped again. “Because you ran away from me in Australia, Lalla, and I thought that we had something special!”

    “Um, yes. I mean no! I mean...” Lalla’s voice trailed away.

    “All right, there’s another man, is that it? And always was!” said Peter loudly and bitterly.

    “No,” replied Lalla blankly.

    He gulped. “You—you mean not now?”

    “No. Um, or then. I mean there isn’t. And of course there wasn’t, back then: I wouldn’t have let you if there was.”

    He wiped his hand across his face. “Jesus. You mean you’re free?”

    “Mm.”

    “But— Look, if there wasn’t anybody else, why the fuck did you run like a rabbit? Or was it merely that you decided you couldn’t stand a prolonged dose of yours truly?”

    “No. I—I thought I explained,” said Lalla miserably,

    “You didn’t explain ANYTHING! I turned my back and you vanished without a fucking TRACE!”

    “I did explain. I couldn’t— I mean, it wouldn’t have been fair to Candida.”

    Peter’s ears rang. “What?” he croaked.

    “Yes, I did explain, I remember it quite clearly!”

    He waited for her to say that men never listened, but she didn’t. “Look, I let the brat come with me to Western Australia—she did nothing but complain, eat junk food and lurk in her room watching television, I might add—wasn’t that what you wanted?”

    “Yes. I mean, for the trip—yes, of course it was. –I left you a note.”

    “In which you explained NOTHING and didn’t even leave me your ADDRESS!”

    “No, because like I said. It wouldn’t have been fair to Candida.”

    “Are you telling me you walked off and—and ruined everything we had—that I thought we had, at any rate—merely because of that spoilt little bitch?”

    “Yes. Don’t call her that: she couldn’t help it, poor little thing.”

    “Poor little—” Peter choked. “Are you by any chance aware of what she’s doing now?”

    “No, of course not. But that isn’t the point.”

    He drew a deep and trembling breath. “Then do let me enlighten you. After several years of unremitting agony for all concerned at three more schools, she was finally old enough to leave, so her bloody mother insisted on finishing school. She had flings with its bloody drawing master and skiing instructor, contracting a dose of glandular fever in the process—don’t tell me we were lucky it wasn’t AIDS, I’m aware of that, thanks. Spent a year in bed in luxurious comfort in her mother’s bloody sister’s palace in California, complaining unceasingly, need I say; recovered, had an affaire with a much older film actor—he was in it for the dough and dumped her when he found out it was all tied up in trust; had an affaire with some sort of gilded youth and dumped him when she found out he was also involved with an ageing film actor—male. And returned triumphantly to the deb scene in London, got engaged to an extremely acceptable young man, according to her mother, with an extremely acceptable minor title, got as far as the altar for a giant white wedding and changed her mind. –Surprised the scandal didn’t reach you, it seems to have gone round the world. Let’s see: married and almost immediately divorced a completely unknown English TV actor—I’m omitting all the little bits on the side, you understand—set up a Lesbian love nest with a Polites instructor—some sort of daft exercises—got dumped after the poor woman discovered her and a male friend in bed; wangled a job with the BBC by seducing possibly the only hetero male director the place has, lost it by never turning up to work and being discovered in the director’s bed with the director’s son—”

    “Peter,” said Lalla loudly, “that’s apocryphal!”

    “No. And last June married some sort of Scotch title—well, his grandfather made a fortune in the War by extremely dubious means, but he was Scottish, all right—and is currently lording it in his castle, driving the poor bastard to the single malts. The latest was having a gay pal paint his deer—the ones in the park, there are some wild ones as well, I gather—paint his deer bright green. A horrid shade between jade and turquoise.”

    “That is apocryphal,” said Lalla firmly.

    “No.”

    “All right, how old is he?” she demanded, glaring.

    “What, Scotch Jimmy? Fortyish. More than old enough to know better. The gossip columnists are giving it a year and the bookies are betting it’ll be less, judging by the odds being offered. Now explain to me how it could have been less frightful if you’d married me.”

    Lalla gulped.

    “Yes, well, there you are,” said Peter grimly. “Where the Hell were you, anyway? Here? I scoured Australia for you—poor John tried every Holcroft in the book. And bloody New Zealand, he tried all of them, too.”

    “When?” croaked Lalla, goggling at him.

    “When? Well, straight afterwards, Lalla. When the bloody place in Sydney produced another Miss Holcroft entirely, who claimed not to know you and to have had nothing to do with it. Or is she some damned cousin or something and the two of you were in some damned girly pact never to let on?”

    “No, of course not!” said Lalla in amazement.

    Peter let the tropical silence ring a bit: he felt she owed him that much. “Then what?”

    “I was in New Zealand. The flat’s phone was in Jean’s name, but— I mean, if he rang all the Holcrofts, he must’ve found Mum and Dad!”

    “He didn’t. He rang all the Holcrofts and none of them knew a Lalla. Well, got some changed numbers but he got a response out of every number he tried, if it was only that they didn’t buy over the phone— What?” he said sharply as she gasped.

    “Was it a lady?” she gulped.

    “Uh—I don’t... Well, I think it was. Why?”

    “It must have been Mum: that’s what she always used to say! I mean, if it was anything she didn’t want to know about, not just if they were really selling something!” She swallowed hard. “What did he actually say, Peter?”

    “Well, uh, said he was looking for a Lalla Holcroft who’d been in Canberra that February, I think,” he fumbled.

    “Yes,” said Lalla faintly. “She—see, it was a strange man, so even though back then—” She gulped, and broke off.

    “What?”

    She’d nearly said that at that stage Mum hadn’t known she was pregnant, yikes! “Um, nothing. Well, you see, she’d put any strange man off. She nagged me for years to get married to someone respectable, of course, but that didn’t mean she'd ever have taken a phone message for me from a strange man.”

    Peter looked at her limply. “That sounds so mad it might just be true.”

    “Yes,” said Lalla miserably. “I’m sorry, Peter. Poor John.”

    Poor John? What about poor him? Peter gaped at her.

    “I hope he didn’t go on looking for ages.”

    “Yes, he went on looking for ages, Lalla, because I told him to!” he cried.

    “Mm. Sorry. It—it wouldn't have worked out, anyway. You live a completely different sort of lifestyle. Well, heck, I mean, here you are, staying in the best hut, and I’m working here.”

    “Lalla, what are you ON about?” he shouted. “I’m here because I found out YOU were here!”

    “Eh?” said Lalla, gaping at him.

    “YES! Why the Hell else do you imagine I’d be staying at this poisonous, overpriced all-white dump?”

     She gulped. “’Tis all-white, I suppose. Well, we’ve never had an African American, now I come to think of it. Or—or anybody from China.”

    “See?”

    “We did have a lovely Japanese American couple once, though.”

    “Spoke perfect American, did they?” said Peter nastily.

    “Yes—but it’s not a policy!”

    “Not ’alf. Who vets the bloody guests’ applications?”

    “Mac takes the bookings. I don’t think he—”

    “I’m bloody sure he does, Lalla, if the monologue from the Swiss bitch on the launch coming over here was anything to go by. Racist to her hideously painted fingertips.”

    “We thought it was just because they were rich,” said Lalla miserably.

    “I’m sure it is!”

    “No, I mean—you know.”

    “Quite. Rich and racist.”

    “I suppose you’re right. But all the staff are making good money. And we spend a lot on the mainland, most of the fresh produce is local, it has been good for the Islands.”

    “Then let’s hope the locals are capable of letting it all flow over them like water off a duck’s back. I’m damn sure that bright Ken fellow who collected us understood every word the Swiss bitch said!”

    “Mm. Ken speaks French and German. But hardly anybody else does.”

    “Just as well. That nice young Mata who showed me to my hut seemed pretty cowed.”

    Lalla swallowed. “The thing is, we’ve had some awful ones just lately, Peter. And—um, well, Mrs Ledbetter’s away at the moment but she is pretty strict. Everyone’s scared of her.”

    “I see. Well, tell the poor boy the service is excellent and I love the bloody room, would you?”

    “Mm, ’course. And it was very kind of you to give him such a generous tip: he was thrilled,” said Lalla conscientiously.

    “Think nothing of i— Lalla, why are we having this conversation?” he croaked.

    “I dunno,” said Lalla glumly.

    “No, me neither! Look, for Christ’s sake come and sit down and have a civilised drink and—and let’s try to talk calmly, shall we?”

    Lalla looked uneasily at her watch. “All right. I am officially off-duty.”

    Refraining from rolling his eyes madly—she hadn’t seen him for over a decade and she was worrying about slacking off on the bloody job?—Peter led the way to the hut.

    Lalla perched nervously on the edge of the well-cushioned bamboo sofa. “I hope you’re comfortable here. You could have a suite instead if it’s too open for you.”

    “Lalla, for God’s sake stop talking about the bloody hotel,” he sighed, going over to the fridge. “The orange juice is horrible. Anything else you fancy?”

    “It’s that stupid Aussie brand, I did tell them not to buy it but there’s cartons of it to use up. We do get quite a lot of Australian guests: they seem to think it’s normal— Um, sorry. Just a spring water, thanks.”

    Peter sighed but poured her a glass of water. It wasn’t Australian but it wasn’t local, either—New Zealand. It was that or Perrier. So much for the local economy. He awarded himself a Johnnie on the rocks.

    “That’s only Red Label,” said Lalla cautiously.

    “Yes, it doesn’t mind having ice dumped in it.” He sat down—in an armchair, he had a feeling she might bolt right out the door if he joined her on the sofa—sipped, and sighed.

    Lalla drank water numbly. This was terrible! He looked a wee bit older, and his face looked strained, but not all that much different. His hair was a bit grey above the ears but still thick on top.

    “Okay,” said Peter with an effort, “you thought you were acting for the best.”

    “Mm.”

    “I suppose you never gave my feelings a thought,” he added sourly, not having meant to say any such thing.

    “Um, I thought you’d probably be relieved, after a wee bit. I mean, I thought you'd be angry at first, only then... relieved.”

    “Relieved!”

    “Mm. Because we're too different.”

    “Did you honestly feel—I mean feel, not imagine or think you ought to feel—actually feel that we were too different?”

    She swallowed. “Um, no. But then... You talk yourself into things, don’t you?”

    It was the generic “you”, she didn’t mean it personally. Not that it didn’t feel bloody personal! “Some people do, certainly. I’m not in the habit of it, and I wouldn’t have said you were, either.”

    Lalla just licked her lips and looked at him plaintively.

    Peter sighed, and passed his hand over his face. “Very well.” He knocked back a slug of the Johnnie. “No point in rehashing it, I suppose. But at least believe I did my damnedest to find you, Lalla!”

    “Yes. I’m sorry,” she said in a tiny voice. “I would have stayed if—you know.”

    “All other things being equal? My lifestyle being less revolting?” returned Peter sourly.

    “Mm. And if Candida was older, maybe. But that’s only...” Peter expected her to say “hypothetical” or some such, but she ended sadly: “Wishful thinking.”

    “Lalla,” he said urgently, leaning forward: “it isn’t wishful thinking! It needn't be! You’ve said yourself you’re free, and I’m certainly free, there hasn’t been anybody else serious! It’s not too late—good God, what are you, only thirty-four? For Christ’s sake let’s give it another go, give ourselves a chance!”

    “Thirty-five,” replied Lalla numbly. “I—I can’t— I mean, you can’t just say out of the blue— I mean, we duh-don’t really know each other and—and—”

    “And what?”

    “Nothing! I mean, it’s—it’s more complic— I mean, I can't!”

    “Lalla, this time I’m not giving up, I’m quite prepared to stay here until you agree. At least you can’t run away, it’s a bloody island,” he added wryly.

    She couldn’t run away anyway, because there was Petey! Help, Peter’d be furious that she hadn’t told him—and these days there was a lot of talk about men’s rights, she could see that he’d had a right to know he had a child on the way, now, only back then she'd never even heard the phrase, and not even the most liberated of the nurses had ever said it, or even suggested he maybe had a right to know— Um, no, she was kidding herself, the nurses had all been nesting desperately, um, what was the word? Not substitution, um... vicariously? Something like that. She should have thought; why hadn’t she— Well, she had thought, to the extent of deciding he’d throw money at the poor little scrap and it’d end up like dreadful Candida—and look at the way she’d turned out! What an awful warning! Painting that man’s deer green—and the poor deer!

    “Well, say something!” said Peter on a desperate note.

    “The poor deer,” said Lalla faintly.

    “What?”

    “Painting them green: wouldn’t it make them very sick?”

    “Are you talking about bloody Candida?” he croaked.

    “Yuh-yes, ’cos it’s an—an object lesson!” she gasped.

    “There is the possibility, though I do realise I said I wouldn’t hark on the past, or words to that effect, that if we had been together all these years we’d have managed to knock some sense into her,” he said tiredly.

    “That’s a pipe-dream, Peter,” replied Lalla firmly. “You saw how jealous she was.”

    “Right. And her being jealous meant I didn’t have a right to a life of my own, presumably.”

    “In a way,” said Lalla slowly, “it did. I think that when people have children, they’ve got a duty to put them first. Well, it’s basically a selfish act in the first place, isn’t it? I don’t mean just sex!” she gasped, turning purple,

    He’d had a feeling she didn’t mean that—funny, that. “No?”

    “No. I mean—you know, they decide it’d be nice to have a baby. Nice for them, I mean: I mean, couples do. I mean, not if it’s an accident!” she gasped, turning purple all over again.

    “No, well, that is selfish, if you like,” said Peter without interest. “Can we get off the subj—”

    “No! I mean, it is the subject!” gasped Lalla desperately.

    “Lalla, if we had kids I swear I’d spend less time on the business and do my share of the parenting. And—well, I have thought about it, since I discovered you were here. Live wherever you like, choose the schools you prefer, give the kid a chance at a decent life.”

    “Yes—would you? I think you’d find it very hard,” she said faintly. “’Specially if you felt the business needed you, after putting it first all your life. No, I mean...”

    He was about to ask her what the Hell she did mean, not to say how she actually felt about him, when a high little voice piped: “Hey, Mum, are you there?”

    And a small, skinny figure in baggy shorts stood outlined in the doorway against the bright South Pacific sky.

    Lalla gasped and pressed herself back against the cushions. “What are you doing here?”

    “It's teatime! Mata said the man wouldn’t mind,” the child replied in self-exculpatory tones.

    “No, I don’t mind,” said Peter on a dry note. So much for there being no-one. Well—possibly not right now, and not back when they’d met—no, he did believe that, But in between there’d been someone, all right!

    “See!” The child came in, revealing himself as a little brown-haired boy of the skinny variety—all ears and elbows, kind of thing. Oddly familiar-looking, though to Peter’s knowledge he’d never before seen anything that size in shorts that were simultaneously that baggy and that bright. He was very tanned: had Lalla gone and got herself mixed up with some local chap, then?

    “This’d be the product of no relationships over the last nine years or so, would it?” he said before he could stop himself.

    “I’m nearly ten!” snapped the boy.

    “I do beg your pard— What?” he croaked.

    “Yeah! My birthday’s on the twenny-sixth!”

    It was now the nineteenth. The nineteenth of November. Peter drew a very deep breath. “Lalla, I think you’d better introduce us.”

    “Yes,” said Lalla faintly. “I mean, you shouldn’t be here, Petey, you know the rules.”

    “But it’s teatime! I’m hungry! An’ Mata said—”

    “I don’t mind, Lalla, and what is his name?” said Peter grimly.

    “Puh-Petey,” she croaked.

    “Peter Christie Macdonald Townsend Holcroft,” said Petey promptly, holding out a small, grimy hand.

    Lalla found she’d shut her eyes as Peter got up and shook hands with his son, saying: “Good to meet, you, Petey. That’s an impressive array of names.” Sounding horribly grim, oh, dear!

    Petey couldn’t have noticed the grimness: he was replying happily: “Yeah, ’cos see, it’s after the nurses, they were Mum’s friends, eh? Like Aunty Jean, only she isn’t a Christie now, she’s married to Roger, so she’s a Cowdray, too! He’s got an electric wheelchair, see; it’s neato!”

    “Really? Coincidentally, I’m a Peter, too,” said Peter, still grim, yikes! “Peter Sale.”

    “Hey, Mum, his name’s Peter, too!” cried their joint offspring.

    “Yes,” said Lalla faintly. “Mr Sale, Petey. We don’t call guests by their first names.”

    “I know! –Mata said he was all right, he give him five pounds! That’s a lot in dollars, eh?”

    “Mm.” She took a deep breath. “Petey, you’re not supposed to disturb the guests.”

    “You don’t mind, do you?” said Petey immediately to the guest.

    “Not really,” replied Peter on a horribly dry note, help! “But I don’t think you should be breaking the rules, should you? Especially if it upsets your mother.”

    “But it’s teatime! An’ Ken, he said it'd be okay, too! See, he said the man was on the boat and this awful lady, she said things only she didn’t know he could understand her, like, she’s one of those foreign ladies that talk funny, and him an’ the other man, they were decent types!” He beamed at them, panting slightly.

    Lalla gaped at him. There were, of course, no flies on Ken Tangianau. Could he possibly have guessed, and—and deliberately encouraged Petey to come down and—and find her with Peter? No, it was too mad, she was getting paranoid—and no wonder!

    “The other man’s a very decent type, all right,” murmured Peter. “Josh McIntyre; I gather he’s going to oversee your hotel’s extension project, Lalla?”

    “Um, is he? Oh—yes, that’s right, Mr McIntyre, he was due,” replied Lalla distractedly.

    “Yeah!” agreed Petey, jumping slightly. “Sarah, she took him over to the staff block ’cos see, he’s gonna have a flat, like us! Only he’s gonna go home for Christmas, Ken said. I seen him, he’s got a blue shirt, him and Mac, they were in his office!”

    “Petey, if you went and disturbed Mac in his office—” began Lalla.

    “Nah! I seen them through the window!”

    “Spying again,” said Lalla faintly. “How many times have I—”

    “No! I just saw them!”

    “All right,” she said, sighing. “You just saw them. When you just happened to be walking past the office.”

    “Yeah, see, I was going to the kitchen because—”  He broke off hurriedly.

    “Because you thought you might sucker Angie and Navy into feeding your fat face. What happened  to that sandwich I made for you?”

    “I ate it!” he shouted.

    “Good.”

    “I was still hungry, see,” he said on a sulky note, glaring.

    “All right, next time I’ll make you two sandwiches, only don’t go over to the kitchen!”

    “Angie, she doesn’t mind.”

    “She’s too nice to tell you off, more like. Mrs Ledbetter said you’re not to go into the kitchen, ’member?”

    “Yeah,” he admitted unwillingly. “But Mr Ledbetter, he took me—”

    “That was different,” said Lalla on a desperate note. “Mr Ledbetter owns the hotel, Petey, he can—he can make a special exception!”

    “Aw. Right,” he agreed thoughtfully.

    “If you’re hungry you can always go over to Grandpa’s: Mary’ll give you something, you know that.”

    “Or down to Ken’s?” he said hopefully.

    Lalla blinked. “Yes, of course, if he’s got anything in, but you know he doesn’t keep much food around, Petey.”

    “Nah, ’cos see, he likes to catch it fresh,” Petey informed his father.

    “Mm? Oh—I see. He's a fisherman, then?”

    “Yeah, ’course!”

    Lalla got up. Funnily enough her legs didn’t give way. “Come on, Petey, that’s enough chatter. You can have your tea, but I want you to promise that unless it’s an emergency, you won’t disturb any of the guests again—no matter who says they’re all right.”

    “A real emergency?”

    “You know what I mean! Promise!”

    “All right, I promise,” he said glumly. “But you don’t mind, eh?” He looked hopefully at Peter.

    “I don’t mind personally, no, but I do mind that you disobeyed your mother and the rules,” he replied steadily.

    “All RIGHT!” he yelled. “I PROMISE, see?”

    “Glad to hear it. –Lalla, we need to talk,” he threatened.

    “Yuh—um, yes,” said Lalla in a tiny voice.

    “Give him his tea—though it sounds as if he’s already had it—but give him his tea and then come back, please.”

    “Um, I can’t, I have to make sure he goes to bed at a reasonable time. Um, not English tea,” said Lalla, still in the tiny voice. “It’s his dinner.”

    “Like not tea that you drink,” explained Petey earnestly.

    “Er—no. Tea as in dinner.”

    “You goddit! Hey, have you got a Merc?”

    “Nuh—oh! No, that was Josh.”

    “What sort of car—”

    “Petey, shut up,” said Lalla faintly. “We could talk tomorrow, I suppose,” she said, not meeting Peter’s eye.

    “Very well.” He went over to the door. “This way, Peter Holcroft. –It’s a Bentley,” he said as they both went out, Lalla avoiding his eye.

    “Is that a good model?”

    “Yes. Better than a Merc.”

    “I'll ask Ken,” he decided. “See ya, Mr Sale!”

    “See ya, Petey,” replied Peter politely to the boy who was undoubtedly his son.

    And with that they headed off up the track, Lalla grasping the kid by the hand and Petey starting to wriggle and whine: “Mu-um, you’re squashing my hand!”

    Peter tottered back inside and collapsed on the edge of the bed. Jesus Christ Almighty! There was no doubt—well, nine months to the day after Canberra? And calling him Peter? Added to which, the reason the kid had looked so oddly familiar was, he now realised, that he bore a strong resemblance to the fuzzy family photos of one, Peter Sale, aged ten. The salient points were so different that it hadn't immediately struck him. Well, Petey was in shorts and bare feet, period. The Peter of the photos had been clad respectively in his swaddling school uniform with knee-length woollen socks pulled up for the occasion, or in what Maman, having victoriously defeated Nanny, deemed fit for the holidays in France: excruciatingly neat but horridly short shorts, an excruciatingly neat and clean tee-shirt, and a French sunhat, not an English one. Peter had no specific memory of his own face in the mirror at that age—well, what ten-year-old boy ever bothered with a mirror?—but he had an all-too-clear recollection of those photos. Why hadn’t she told him?

    Jesus Christ Almighty.

Next chapter:

https://thelallaeffect.blogspot.com/2024/01/under-advisement.html