Under Advisement

15

Under Advisement

    Petey stood on one leg, fidgeting.

    “What’s up?” asked Ken mildly, not ceasing to tidy his fishing net away.

    “Mum’s bawling,” he revealed glumly.

    Oy, oy. Ken folded the dry net carefully into his boat, and straightened slowly. “This bawling wouldn’t have anything to do with that English bloke in Hut Four, would it?”

    “He’s all right,” replied Petey in mild surprise.

    Ken swallowed a sigh. “Petey, when did Lalla start bawling?”

    “Just now. –I never done nothing!”

    “No, I didn’t think you did. What had she been doing just before she started bawling?”

    “Um… getting me a drink.”

    “Anything else?”

    Petey went very red. “No! And I never threw him on the floor!”

    Ken had been about to give it away and go and see for himself, but at this his jaw sagged and he croaked: “Threw who, for God’s sake?”

    Looking sulky, Petey revealed: “Davey White.”

    “Your old bear?’

    Petey nodded hard.

    “Uh-huh. Let me get this straight. First she picks up old Davey White, then she gets you a drink, then she starts bawling. Now, think hard. Was she holding Davey White again when she started bawling?”

    “No!” he shouted, turning puce. “He was on the sofa!”

    “So she just handed you your drink and then started bawling?”

    “Yeah. I never done—“

    “No, okay, Petey, I believe you. I’ll come and speak to her, but I can’t promise that I can make her stop, okay? –Listen,” he said as they headed up towards the hotel complex, “has she said anything to you about the man in Hut Four?”

    “His name’s Peter, too!” he reported pleasedly.

    Yeah, fancy that. Ken eyed him wryly. “I know. Did Lalla mention she’d met him before?”

    “Nah.”

    Then he had a shock in store, didn’t he? Not asking why the kid hadn’t gone to his grandfather when his mum started bawling, because he might be just under ten years of age but he wasn’t dumb, Ken trudged off resignedly to see if he could (a) make her stop bawling, (b) persuade her to tell him all about it, and (c) get her to tell the kid who his bloody father was. And (d) shoot himself in the foot, of course.

    She was bawling, all right. A disconcerted Taggy Tangianau was standing outside her closed door.

    “She told me to go away,” she reported numbly.

    Pity more people didn’t tell more of his compatriots to do so, reflected Ken drily. “Then I would, Taggy.”

    “But she’s crying!”

    “Yeah. Well, I’m gonna speak to her, but as it’s none of my business, either, I don’t know that she’ll tell me what’s up.”

    “You said you would!” cried Petey.

    “Yeah. Shuddup, Petey. Don’t whinge,” he sighed. “Shove off, Taggy,” he ordered his relative.

    Looking dubious, Taggy moved away from the door. “I’ll be on Reception,”

    “Yeah, and if I was you I’d be there right smart, because by my watch you’re already late, and Mac reports back to Mrs Led—” Taggy was out of there.

    “—Mrs Ledbetter, every week,” finished Ken very drily indeed. “All right, here goes nothing.” He went in.

    Lalla was sitting on her small sofa, bawling. She was hugging Davey White, actually, so presumably she’d picked him up after the kid left. He pulled up a chair beside her, ordering Petey to go and get her a drink of water. “Nice spring water, in a glass, thanks.”

    Petey went slowly over to the kitchenette, looking over his shoulder.

    “Lalla, stop crying. If the bloke’s said anything rotten to you I’ll go and punch his lights out,” he said heavily.

    “No,” she said soggily, not looking up.

    “Oy, Petey! –Oh, there you are. Go and find a packet of tissues and bring them here. Look in her bedroom first and then the bathroom. And hurry up.”

    “Um, yeah. What about the water?”

    “Get the tissues first.”

    “Um, yeah. Um, I can’t open it.” He thrust the plastic bottle he was holding at him, and went off to the bedroom.

    Sighing, Ken opened the bottle. “Lalla, stop bawling, for Christ’s sake; you’ve thrown a scare into the kid,” he said heavily.

    Lalla just sobbed.

    “Oh, God,” he sighed. “Uh—yeah: thanks, Petey.”—As he was presented with a box of Kleenex.—“Here’s the water. Put it in a glass nicely. And don’t argue.”

    “I am!” Looking both aggrieved and virtuous—quite a trick, that—Petey headed back to the kitchenette.

    Alter more sobbing, the administration of several bunches of tissues, the administration and subsequent spurning of the glass of water, more sobbing and more tissues, Ken got up, sighing. “Look, Lalla, it doesn’t take a genius to guess what the matter is. I don’t know what the prick said to you yesterday, but if you don’t want to go down there and face him again, I can’t say I blame you.”

    She gasped out something incoherent, with a fresh burst of sobs.

    “Petey can come with me. I got some books for him the other day, it’s high time he started stretching his brain a bit, that bloody school isn’t teaching him enough, as I might just have mentioned!” he said loudly.

    “I don’t wanna do lessons!” cried Petey shrilly. “It’s the weekend!”

    “They aren’t schoolbooks, cretin-head, they’re just books to read.”

    “Stories?” he said suspiciously.

    “Some are. One’s about space.”

    “Ooh! Space!”

    “Yeah. You can read them at my place or your grandfather’s.”

    “Your place. Mrs Nelson, she talks too much,” he decided.

    How true. “Right. Come on. –I’ll be back,” he warned Lalla, hauling the kid out of it.

    … “Right,” he said, letting Petey sit in his hammock. If he fell out of it so much the better, it’d teach him not to fool around in hammocks, wouldn’t it? “I won’t be long, and if there’s anything in the books that you don’t understand, ask me when I come back, right?”

    “Right! –Where are you going?”

    Ken sighed. “Paradise Cove, and if you want a good hard smack, follow me down there. I’ve said I’ll be back. If you get thirsty there’s water in the fridge.”

    He went out before Petey could ask him what if he got hungry.

    When he got there the bloke was sitting on his front step looking depressed. Serve him bloody well right.

    “Hullo, Sir Peter,” he said evenly.

    “Er—good morning, Ken. I was under the impression that my PA had booked me in as merely Mr Sale,” replied Peter limply.

    “Yeah. I looked you up on the Internet and found out you aren’t. I also found out where you were ten years and nine months ago, almost to the minute. That mining accident was quite well publicised. Added to which, the Aussies are really into digitising their old newspapers. Now tell me that Lalla’s kid’s name is a pure coincidence.”

    “No, of course it isn’t,” said Peter tiredly.

    “Did you know about him?” demanded Ken grimly.

    “What? No!” he said angrily, flushing. “Of course I damn well didn’t! Jesus, would I have let her drag him off to—” He broke off. “I don’t wish to denigrate your culture, Ken,” he said stiffly, “but I don’t imagine the local schools are anything to write home about.”

    “No, you’re right, there. I’ve just bought him a few books—widen his ideas a bit. And I have told Lalla in words of one syllable it’s high time she took him back to Auckland if she wants him to have any sort of decent career, let alone learn to behave like a civilised human being.”

    Peter swallowed hard. “That was very thoughtful of you.”

    Ken looked wry. “Something like that.” He took a deep breath. “Look, I know this is none of my business, but I happen to be very fond of Lalla, and that father of hers is an absolute no-hoper, so there’s no-one else to stick up for her. Now that you do know about Petey— No, scrub that, for the moment. Why are you here, Sir Peter? Just a holiday, or business? –Though I can’t see that the Cooks have got anything that’d need your presence, and I wouldn’t have thought Quinn Sale or any of its subsidiaries would be interested in anything less out here than putting up another Palmyra Polynesia. Though come to think of it, you own Vibart’s Bank, too, don’t you? Have those cretins from YDI been trying to get it to finance their so-called ecolodge?”

    “Who the Hell are you?” said Peter limply, staring at him.

    Ken shrugged his wiry shoulders. “Just someone who’s long since decided to give the rat-race and the so-called real world away. –Well?”

    Peter sighed. “You’re right on two counts: nothing here would require my presence, and YDI did come to Vibart’s for finance, complete with a fistful of shiny coloured brochures featuring large photos of Lalla in a bikini top and sarong with a fucking flower behind her ear.”

    It was Ken’s turn to stare limply. “You mean you came to find her?”

    “Yes,” he said flatly.

    After a stunned moment Ken sat down beside him. “That puts a rather different complexion on it,” he said slowly.

    “Thanks. I think,” replied Peter drily.

    Ken hesitated. Then he said: “I gather yesterday’s encounter didn’t go too well?”

    “No. The boy turned up unexpectedly, just when I was trying to get her to explain why the Hell she’d disappeared from Canberra without a trace—and I did try to find her, before you start, had my PA phoning every damned Holcroft in both Australia and New Zealand—and as he informed me it’s his tenth birthday in a few days’ time it then became glaringly apparent that he must be mine. At which point she hauled him off to his dinner.”

    “Uh—goddit,” Ken admitted groggily.

    “Did she ever tell you why she shook the dust of Canberra?”

    “No.”

    “No,” said Peter heavily: “no. Well, my daughter Candida, who was then thirteen, turned up out of the blue—egged on by her damned mother, I might add—and proceeded to stage the sort of scenes you might expect. Combination of spite, sulks, and horror at my taking up with an unsuitably lower-class female who hadn’t been to the sort of school she herself had just got the sack from. –Arson. Attention-seeking device, don’t say it. Her mother never bothered to take much notice of her but that didn’t mean that after the divorce she let her see much of me, either.”

    Ken eyed him drily. “I get it. Added to which, when she did see you, you were always distracted by much more important Big Business stuff.”

    “Yeah. Evidently Lalla decided that not only was it a matter of not being able to hack my lifestyle and not being suitable for the said bloody lifestyle, it wouldn’t be fair to Candida for us to take it further. –It didn’t work, she went from bad to worse.”

    “Right. She’d be the Candida who’s splashed all over the social media, then. Ah… painting a bunch of unfortunate deer green, was it? I gather the Animal Rights people in Britain are up in arms about it.”

    “Yes. Unfortunately I doubt it’ll result in a jail sentence; Scotch Jimmy’s got too much political pull. –Sorry, Ken: he’s the unfortunate she’s married to at the moment.”

    “Right.”

    He sighed. “Lalla’s already pointed out that Candida wouldn’t have turned out any better if we had married—worse, probably.”

    “Yeah.”

    Silence fell.

    Eventually Peter admitted glumly: “I think I did manage to get the point over that I came out to see her, only then Petey turned up.”

    “And the shit hit the fan: yeah.”

    “Er—well, not as such. We couldn’t say anything in front of him. But I’m damn’ sure she could see I was furious with her. –Well, Jesus! Wouldn’t you be, finding out you’d had a son for ten bloody years that you never knew about?”

    Ken didn’t honestly know. He rather thought that he’d feel guilty more than furious. But he was relieved to know that that was Peter Sale’s reaction. “Mm-mm,” he said thoughtfully. “She’ll never give him up to you, Sale.”

    Peter’s jaw dropped. “Give him— I wouldn’t dream of asking it of her!”

    “No? Most filthy-rich blokes’d do it without a second thought. We see a lot of that type here,” Ken replied in a carefully casual tone.

    “I’m sure you do! Well, I am not that type,” he said grimly.

    “Glad to hear it. So what do ya want?”

    Peter swallowed hard. “To marry her, you idiot. And—well, to lead a decent life together. –With Petey, yes.”

    “Uh-huh. Back in England, this’d be, would it?”

    He hesitated. “I don’t know. That’s one of the points I’ve been mulling over.”

    “Yeah. Well, I lived in Europe for years and I’m pretty sure she’d hate it. Well, she’d enjoy the cultural amenities—the opera and the galleries, and so forth. Not that she’s had much chance so far to form her tastes, but she’s got a natural aversion to aural crap. Likes my Mozart CDs, on the rare occasions when I can get her to sit down and listen—she’s not supposed to be on call twenty-four hours a day, but my compatriots aren’t the sort to take any notice of that sort of silly Caucasian notion. And—uh—you can drop any idea of sending Petey to a flash public school. She doesn’t even like the thought of letting him go to school in Auckland while he boards with her cousins.”

    Peter swallowed hard. “I see.”

    Ken sighed. “Yeah. They’ve been very good to her. They’re keen to have him: they’ve kept in regular touch. They haven’t any kids of their own—dunno if it’s because he’s a paraplegic, or not. Petey used to see them most weekends when they lived over there.”

    Peter nodded. After a moment he said: “I’m glad to know she’s got some supportive relatives. What about the parents?”

    “Bloody Neville’s right here, he’s about as much use as a wet dishrag!”

    “Who?” replied Peter weakly.

    “Her fucking useless father, that’s who. Never stuck up for the poor girl in his life! Well, the mother was a gazetted bitch, bullied him as well as her, but she died a couple of years back. Don’t tell me she never mentioned her!”

    “Uh—yes, she did. But she didn’t say much about her background—didn’t want to give herself away, I suppose.”

    “What?” said Ken dazedly.

    “Oh, I suppose you don’t— No. Well, the whole thing was my fault from start to finish, and you may well say I’ve no right to feel so bitter about her never contacting me about Petey, but—” Lamely Peter told him the whole story, making a very, very bad fist of it.

    Ken Tangianau’s conclusion was: “Doolally.”

    For a moment Peter thought it must be a Polynesian word. “Oh! Uh—yes. God knows why I did it.”

    “No, literally,” he murmured with a little smile. “Mad dogs and Englishmen. Driven mad by the heat.”

    “Er—well, it was bloody hot, yes, and the local style of entertaining seemed to entail endless barbecues in the glaring sun on broiling concrete patios next to giant swimming-pools with the sun glaring off their horrid turquoise depths— Um, yes,” he ended feebly.

    Ken took a deep breath. “Look, I know Lalla well enough to know she’d never have done it if she hadn’t fallen for you from the word ‘go’.”

    Peter Sale swallowed hard and gave him a plaintive look. “Do you really think so?”

    “Yes,” he said flatly. Talk about shooting yourself in the foot! Oh, well.

    “Um… I suppose I could scale back my workload, and, uh, set up an electronic office,” said Peter dubiously, frowning over it. “But—well, not here, it’s just too bloody isolated. And New Zealand wouldn’t be very much better… There is the Sydney office, I suppose. Could base myself there…” He rubbed his chin. “Yes, well, certain noses might be out of joint, but… Well, Bernie Carpenter’d be okay, I think. –What do you think?”

    “That could work. She likes a warm climate. Though mind you, the Sydney winters can be miserable—lived there myself, for a bit. It’d be easy to get over to Auckland to see Whatserface and the paraplegic husband. And relatively easy to get over here. She’s not the type to forget old friends, since you don’t ask,” he added drily. “Writes scads of letters every week. Keeps in touch with all those bloody nurses that she was house-sharing with when Petey was born—even though she’s always recognised that all their supportive stuff was some sort of vicarious nesting behaviour, so to speak!” he ended with a grin.

    “I— I see,” said Peter groggily. “So you really think Sydney might be the answer?”

    “Well—provisionally, yeah. You’d have to watch it, though: the Sydney snob scene’s bloody sickening—you’d find it vulgar, but that’s their version of up-market,” he added casually. Peter blinked, though he was beginning to get his measure by now. “And the private schools are full of their kids, you’d wanna watch that, too. Yeah. Well, I’d suggest Auckland, it has expanded a lot over the last ten years or so, but in European terms it’s not only tiny and provincial, it’s…” The slanted dark eyes narrowed. “Amateurish,” he finished unexpectedly.

    Peter had to swallow. “That’s very clear. Thanks very much, Ken.”

    “You’re welcome. –When I was living in Sydney,” he said with a grin, “I used to think the Aussies were naïve, and then I got sent to New Zealand on a liaison job.” He shook his head, looking rueful. “Unbelievable. At all levels, too, from government circles—not excluding the higher echelons of their Public Service—right down to the man in the street. They quite literally don’t know enough to repeat your name when they’re introduced—or even, in more than ninety percent of cases, to shake hands. –I’m not kidding, Sir Peter.”

    “Just Peter, for God’s sake, Ken. That does sound exaggerated,” he admitted.

    “No, I’m afraid it isn’t. It has a certain charm—and my people are right at home there,” he noted wryly, “but I couldn’t hack it. I—well, to tell you the truth, I felt as if I was talking to children all the time!”

    Peter winced. “Right. Thanks very much, Ken. That definitely rules out Auckland.”

    “Yeah. But I do think Sydney might be a goer, Peter, so long as you can stick with a pretty ordinary suburban lifestyle.” He eyed him sardonically. “No shiny high-rises with a lovely view of Sydney Harbour—it is a wonderful view, true. Mind you, it is possible to buy a house with a decent view if you want to chuck a cool ten mill’ away on it—that’s Aussie dollars, of course—but then you’d be stuck with the local snobs for neighbours.”

    “But— Well, I think Lalla would like a house with a view,” he said lamely.

    Ken shrugged. “Australia might be at the wrong side of the world but it’s not lagging behind the rest of Western civilization: unless you’re in the back of beyond anything with a decent view’s long since been snaffled up by the filthy rich. Of course, you could always buy a whole ruddy island, like old Ledbetter.”

    “Very funny,” said Peter weakly.

    “Ya realise this dump has no natural water source?” said Ken drily. “Why the owners were so eager to sell.”

    “Yes; we did do our homework when YDI wanted Vibart’s to back their bloody ecolodge.”

    “Mm. Well, I think the odd island or so up in the Whitsundays might still be available. –Off the coast of Queensland. Make a nice holiday home for you—only about two thousand kilometres from central Sydney.”

    “Very funny, Ken. I will look into the real estate position in Sydney very closely, though: thanks for the advice.”

    “No worries,” replied Ken laconically, Aussie-fashion—though he didn’t think the bloke’d get it. He stood up. “I think you’d better go and suggest it to her ASAP, Peter. She was bawling her eyes out when I came down here.”

    “What?” Peter struggled to his feet.

    “Yeah. Put your hat on, ya don’t wanna come down with sunstroke, she doesn’t need any more aggro,” he drawled, walking off.

    He was about five yards from his own hut when it dawned that the bloke probably didn’t have a clue where to find her. Too bad, let him flounder for a bit, he more than deserved it!

    “Good morning, sir. May I help you?” smiled the curvaceous, neatly-groomed young Cook Islands woman on the reception desk. She wasn’t as pretty as Lalla, but very nearly. And rather more exotic-looking, with that richly brown skin, a floral sarong that would have done justice to Dorothy Lamour in her heyday, and the spray of gold-centred, creamy frangipani tucked into the bun. Peter found he was wondering why on earth the YDI idiots hadn’t included some shots of her in their ruddy brochure, at the same time as he was registering dazedly that it was still only morning. It felt as if that interview with Ken had gone on for about four hours.

    “Er—yes, thank you. I’m looking for Lalla Holcroft.”

    “I’m sorry, sir: Miss Holcroft’s not available at the moment,” cooed Taggy in the prescribed manner. –She was, of course, completely unaware that he was the cause of Lalla’s outburst of sobbing. “May I help?”

    “I— It’s nothing to do with the hotel. Personal business,” said Peter lamely. The girl was undoubtedly going to think he was a predatory male and give him the brush-off.

    Sure enough, she immediately replied: “I’m afraid the staff are not permitted to socialise with the clients, sir. Would you care to speak to the manager?”

    Ugh. He now had the choice of telling the manager the lot or giving up. Though he supposed if he lurked around the place he might nobble the boy, Mata, and either get Lalla’s whereabouts out of him or get him to tell him where to find bloody Ken and get him to cough it up: it had now dawned that the blighter must have deliberately refrained from giving him directions.

    Um, if he told the manager the lot he had a feeling it’d soon be all round the hotel, and that wouldn’t be fair to Lalla. And even if it didn’t it leak out, was it fair to her anyway? The alternative would be to see if he could convince him he wasn't a predator.

    Sighing, he said: “Very well, I will speak to the manager, thank you.”

    Taggy gave him an uncertain glance. If he thought he was gonna bribe Mac, he had another think coming! Boy, some of them had the cheek of the Devil, eh? “Very good sir, I’ll see if he’s available,” she said smoothly, picking up the phone. “May I know your name, sir?”

    “Peter Sale. Er—I’m in Hut Four, I think it is.”

    “Yes, of course, Mr Sale: Paradise Cove,” said Taggy, casting a swift glance at her screen, which was displaying the names and rooms of all the current guests.

    Mac answered the phone with a resigned: “All right, Taggy, what’s up now?”

    To which she replied smoothly: “I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but Mr Sale from Hut Four would like a personal word with you.”

    “Oh, God. Another one. That’s the Brit, isn’t it?”

    “One of them, yes,” replied Taggy with a brilliant smile that went right through Peter without seeing him.

    “Send him in, then, Taggy.”

    “Certainly, sir.” She hung up and said to Peter: “Mr Gordon can see you now, Mr Sale. His office is at the rear of the building. Just take that corridor to your right.” She turned and pointed to it helpfully.

    “Thank you,” said Peter, heading off.

    Taggy waited until his back had vanished and then grabbed up the phone. “Hey, Mac,” she gasped: “don’t let him see Lalla, will ya? ’Cos she was bawling when I come over and she wouldn’t let me in!”

    The unfortunate Mac’s eyebrows rose very high. Groggily he agreed: “No, okay, Taggy. Was it him set her off?”

    “Dunno! –Gotta go!” she hissed, hanging up.

    The manager was a lot younger than Peter had imagined: in his late thirties, he’d have said. A rather nondescript-looking man, slim, with light brown hair. He was casually dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt, tieless and open at the neck, and grey cotton slacks, but he got up very properly as Peter came in and came to shake hands, saying: “Mr Sale? I’m Mac Gordon.”

    “How do you do, Mr Gordon? Thanks for seeing me,” replied Peter, experiencing a certain thankfulness, alas, that the man was Caucasian, and starting to feel on familiar ground.

    “Not at all, sir,” he returned with a practised smile. “Please, sit down. How can I help you?” He waited until Peter had taken the guest chair and then went back behind his desk.

    “I wonder if I could see Miss Holcroft? It’s nothing to do with the housekeeping, I’ve been made very comfortable. I used to know her some years ago.”

    “I see,” replied the experienced Mac smoothly. Odd: the bloke looked—well, he didn’t look like the usual all-hands creep, anyway. Pommy, yes: written all over him. Even before he opened his mouth: that haircut was a dead giveaway. Very well off—well, the Paradise Cove hut wasn’t cheap, but there were grades and grades of rich, and that casual blue silk shirt, which he’d had the wit to wear loose, lots of the Poms didn’t, had probably come from Bond Street. Likewise the casual cream trou’. Linen and silk mix, ’ud be his bet. And those poncy sandals had to be handmade. Yeah, well, very expensive, but very, very tasteful, too. And if his eyes weren’t deceiving him, the bloke was wearing a bloody Reverso! Pop Ledbetter had tried to buy one at auction—hah, hah. Fifteen times the price of your average classic Rolex, he’d reported sourly, and he didn’t mind paying for quality but he wasn’t gonna be ripped off.

    “I wasn’t aware that Miss Holcroft had ever been to England,” he said mildly.

    Peter blinked. “Er—no. I don’t think she has. I met her in Australia.”

    “Yes? She’s never worked there, if I remember rightly.”

    Peter found he was taking a deep breath. “No. Would it be possible to see her?”

    “I’m afraid the staff are not permitted to socialise with the guests, Mr Sale.”

    “So your receptionist informed me. I’d merely like a word with her for old times’ sake.”

    “I see. Perhaps you’d like to wait in the guest lounge or on the terrace,”—he’d have said “patio” to the Yanks or the Aussies but the Brits, they’d found, thought “terrace” was posher or more U or some such thing—“and I’ll see if she’s available.”

    What the Hell could he say? “Thank you,” said Peter, getting up.

    Mac stood up politely. “Not at all, sir.” He would have got the door but the bloke had already opened it for himself. He went out—not slamming it behind him, no.

    Hmm. Mac sat back down slowly and rubbed his nose. Then he rang Taggy. “Get in here, Taggy, we need to talk.”

    Taggy appeared in two seconds flat, panting slightly. “Ya didn’t let him, didja?”

    “No. Sit down, Taggy.”

    She duly sat, reporting: “He’s gone out on the patio.”

    “Terrace: he’s a Pom,” replied Mac drily, if somewhat disingenuously: he wanted to get her on his side or he’d never get the truth out of her.

    She sniggered. “Terrace, yeah!”

    “Now, what’s all this about Lalla bawling?”

    “This morning. Before I come over.”

    Swallowing a sigh, Mac said: “I see. Where was she, Taggy?”

    “In her sitting-room. She wouldn’t let me in.”

    “Uh-huh. Did you tell anybody else about it?”

    “No-o… Ken was there,” she volunteered.

    “Ken?”

    “Yeah, he come with Petey. Only he said I was gonna be late for work, so I come on over,” Taggy explained.

    “I see. And did he go in?”

    “Yeah, only he said, um, well, he meant she might not tell him anything. It wasn’t that man, was it? I mean, he only come the other day.”

    Some of them were bloody quick workers, however, as they were both well aware. “I don’t think so, Taggy, but I’ll make sure. Now, listen. Of course you had to get to work, I understand that, but next time this sort of thing happens”—blast, wrong way to put it, she might well take him literally—“I mean, next time you know one of the staff is upset and they won’t tell you what’s up, you tell me or Angie straight away, okay?” He should’ve said or tell Mrs Ledbetter, but he knew that’d never work, the staff were all shit-scared of her.

    Taggy nodded hard. “Yeah, I will, Mac. Only I thought she’d be okay, see, ’cos Ken was there. Um, you know that other man?”

    God, now what? “Yes? Which one?”

    “The man that come on the boat with him. Mr, um, McIntyre. The one that’s gonna build the new huts. He said he was okay and if he wanted to be incog, that was all right with him.”

    “Uh-huh. And do you like Mr McIntyre, Taggy?”

    “Yeah, he’s okay. –But what is cog?”

    “Eh?” groped Mac.

    “Like, Mr Sale wanted to be in it. In cog.”

    Oh, dear. Mac gulped. Dealing with people who were very far from stupid but had very little education and didn’t share the same set of cultural references was extremely tricky. Trying not to sound too kindly or patronising, he said: “It’s an expression. It doesn’t mean in anything. It’s short for incognito, which means the person, um, doesn’t want other people to know who he really is.”

    “Heck! Ya mean he isn’t really Mr Sale? But Mr McIntyre, he’s all right, why would he say he was okay? An’ he give Mata five pounds in English money!”

    Mac refrained from any of the replies which readily sprang to mind in response to this last piece of intel. He explained carefully: “He’s calling himself Mr Sale but he’s really Sir Peter Sale. It’ll just be because he doesn’t want people to fuss over him.”

    “I getcha,” said Taggy in relief. “Some of them American ladies, they’d suck up to him like anything, eh? Like they done when we had that other Sir that time.”

    “Exactly. So just make sure that you keep on calling him Mr Sale,” replied Mac firmly.

    “Yeah, ’course. Um, Lalla wouldn’t bawl over something like that, though,” she said on a dubious note.

    “No. I’ll ring her now,” he said, picking up the phone, but not in the hope that she’d take the hint. “You’d better get back to Reception.”

    “I’ll just wait and see if she’s okay,” replied Taggy firmly.

    Suddenly Mac smiled at her. “Fine!” He dialled Lalla’s extension.

    “Is it ringing?”

    “Yeah,” he reported. He waited, his mouth grim. “Not answering,” he said, hanging up. “I’ll get over there. Go on back to Reception, Taggy. I’ll let you know how Lalla is, don’t worry. But if Ken spoke to her earlier she’s probably all right.”

    “Um, yeah. Okay.” She got up uncertainly.

    “Come on,” he said, coming over to her and putting his arm round her. “What’s that saying of your mum’s? ‘Never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you’, eh?”

    “Yeah,” said Taggy, smiling, to his huge relief: he’d been afraid she was gonna bawl, too. “Like, if you can say it, she reckons ya won’t be in trouble, neither! Ya shoulda heard Dad trying to say it that time he let that fat man from Auckland give him a bottle of whisky when he took him out in the boat!”

    “I wish I had!” replied Mac with a laugh, as they went out.

    The reception desk was decorated on the public side by a pair of very cross-looking Americans. Shit. “Tell them we’ve had a minor emergency and apologise!” he hissed, releasing Taggy and heading for the main door with all speed.

    Behind him he could hear her cooing: “Good morning. I’m so sorry we couldn’t attend to you before: we’ve had a minor emergency.” Good for Taggy! Worried though he was about Lalla, Mac found he was smiling as he hurried over to the staff block.

    “Lalla!” he said loudly outside her door. “It’s Mac. I’m coming in!”

    There was no answer, so he went in.

    Lalla was crouched on her sofa, hugging something. Uh—Petey’s old white bear? Oops: Linus blanket, thought Mac grimly.

    “What’s up?” he demanded bluntly. “Is Petey okay?”

    “Yes,” she said dully, sniffing. “He’s fine.”

    “So?” He sat down beside her. “Come on, Lalla, I’m not moving until you tell me the lot.”

    Lalla’s jaw trembled. “I can’t.”

    “Yes, ya can. First off, has some bastard molested you?”

    “No, of course not.”

    “Well, it isn’t of course not with some of the ones we’ve had. All right: has Ken done something?”

    “No.” She sniffled. “He’s been very kind.”

    “Glad to hear it. So what is it?”

    Lalla said nothing.

    “Look, whatever it is, ya can’t shock me, Lalla!” he said desperately. “I’ve been in the hospitality business all my life! Shit, I was about ten when Mrs Pringle the first turned up at Mum and Dad’s motel and found the bigamous Mr Pringle in bed—literally—with Mrs Pringle the second, stark naked. Her, I mean. He wasn’t starkers, he was wearing a pink frilly apron and a yachting cap on backwards,” he added drily. “Then, I’d have been fifteen or so when Mr Fanshaw, who musta been about fifty, caught me with Mandy Roberts down the back of the motel units with her hand in my pants and my hand in hers, and offered not to tell on us if we’d both come back to his room and let him watch. –Getting himself out as he said it, I might add, so that we could see he meant it.”

    Lalla gulped. “That’s horrible.”

    “Yeah, well, we told him he was a dirty old man and Mandy gave him a vicious kick in the shins. I took a swing at him but he stepped back in time, unfortunately. But like I said, you can’t shock me.” He paused, but there was no reaction. “Are you pregnant?” he asked baldly.

    Lalla gave a mad laugh. “Not for ten years and nine months almost to the day, and that’s the truh-huh-houble!” she wailed, bursting into tears.

    Cripes. Mac scratched his head. “Petey?” he groped.

    Lalla was wailing something through the sobs but he didn’t get it. Sighing, he put his arm round her. “Look, if it’s that long ago, can it matter any more?” he said heavily.

    “Yes, because he’s huh-huh-he-ere!” she wailed.

    Of course he was here, in fact he was doubtless pestering Ken or if that had palled, bumming food off Mrs Nelson or Angie as they spoke.

    “Come on, Lalla, the whole of Rarotonga knows about Petey, there’s nothing to bawl about at this late stage!” Uh—surely some earnest Christian hadn’t been having a go at her? The Cook Islanders weren’t like that. He honestly didn’t think they’d ever have dreamed of hurting her feelings. Mind you, there were one or two expats who’d have enjoyed it. “Uh, has some bitch from New Zealand been coming the holier than thou?”

    “No,” said Lalla, sniffing horribly.

    Mac gave her his handkerchief. “Here. Blow.”

    She blew her nose obediently. “It’s all my fault,” she said miserably.

    “If we’re still talking about Petey it can’t be, it takes two,” replied Mac on a dry note.

    “Not that. I never told him, and—and now he knows!”

    Oh, shit. “Don’t cry again,” he said heavily, patting her on the back.

    She blew her nose desperately. “He looked really wild, and I know I should have let him know, only back then nobody had heard of men’s rights, and I knew he’d only throw money at him and try to send him to a horrible English boarding school and—and ruin him!”

    Uh… English boarding school? A nasty sinking feeling overtook Mac Gordon. What with that and the Pom saying he wanted to talk about old times with her…

    “Are you trying to say that ruddy Sir Peter Sale is Petey’s father?”

    More tears ran down Lalla’s cheeks. “Yes. And yesterday Petey let it out it’s his birthday in a couple of days and he guessed!”

    “Uh—oh: Sale guessed?” said Mac limply.

    “Mm.”

    “Right, that’ll be why he’s looking for you this morning.”

    Lalla shuddered. “He’ll be furious. And he said he came out to see me because those men from YDI put me in their silly coloured brochure!”

    “Eh?” he groped.

    “You know: those two nice men who were looking for sites for their firm’s ecolodge. They took lots of snaps, only the tourists do, so I never thought—”

    “Right,” said Mac quickly, deciding he wouldn’t pursue that one. “So he came out to see you: well, that’s a good sign.”

    “No! Because he never knew about Petey!”

    “Uh—you mean he never even knew you were pregnant?”

    “No,” she agreed, sniffing dolefully.

    Ouch. “Mm, well, whatever the rights and wrongs of it, I’d say it’d be only fair to at least talk to him, Lalla. He’s waiting on the terrace by the pool. You’d better wash your face and come on over. Have you got any grog in the place?”

    “No,” she replied, sniffing horribly.

    “Then go and wash your face and put a bit of lipstick on, and comb your hair, and we’ll go over together and I’ll get you a brandy,” he said firmly.

    To his astonishment, she replied glumly: “All right.” And got up, handing him Davey White, and headed for the bathroom.

    Mac sagged, not realising, in spite of his earlier recognition of its function as a Linus blanket, that he was hugging the bear tightly.

    Peter sat glumly on the terrace by the pool, waiting. Morning didn’t seem to be a popular time for the guests at Palmyra Polynesia to surface: he had the place to himself. It was very pleasant in the shade of several huge potted plants, backed by a row of palms and other assorted tropical growth, and the cushioned white cane chair was very comfortable. Unfortunately he wasn’t in a mood to appreciate any of it. Though he did automatically register that the whole thing—terrace, pool, plantings, furniture, and the large awnings over the expanses of plate glass that were the windows of the big guests’ lounge—was very carefully colour-coordinated. Several shades of green for the plants, of course—good grief, were those things with the pale, wispy heads papyrus? Okay, papyrus in Polynesia—with here and there a creamy-white spray of frangipani or frond of orchids, heavy ceramic pots in white or varied shades of dark blue, white tiling, possibly marble but possibly some fake thing, the turquoise-lined pool, and the upholstery of the seating and the fabric of the awnings in broad dark blue and white stripes interspersed with very narrow turquoise stripes. Oh—and now and again peeping from amidst the foliage the odd turquoise ceramic ornament. Er—ersatz Chinese lions? Something of the sort. Tasteful: yeah.

    Nothing happened for quite some time. Doubtless the bloody manager was giving him time to cool off. Peter sighed. Was the man intending to contact her at all?

    Eventually a young waiter surfaced from somewhere further along the terrace. Okay, he’d give it a go. “Excuse me, Mata!” he called.

    The lad approached, looking cautious. “Um, I’m Hoyt, actually, sir.”

    Peter reddened. “I’m so sorry, Hoyt! Er—you are very alike,” he added feebly.

    This situation had occurred many times before—with those of the guests who bothered to remember the serving staff’s names at all, of course—and they’d all been well drilled in the correct response, so Hoyt replied without a flicker: “That’s all right, sir. What can I get you?”

    After his faux pas Peter found his nerve failing him. “Er, well, just a cold drink, thanks. Would you have fresh limes?”

    “Yes, sir. Spring water with lime, then, sir?”

    “Uh—well, I was thinking more of—” Blast, what the Hell would they call it here? “Well, a lime squash,” he said feebly.

    “I could ask the chef,” the lad replied dubiously. “Or some guests, they like nimbu pani, that’s got like, lime juice and water in it, sir.”

    “Nimbu pani!” said Peter in relief. “Excellent: thank you, Hoyt!”

    “With ice, sir? All our ice is made from bottled water,” Hoyt reported conscientiously.

    It was very warm and extremely humid. “Yes, please.”

    “Right away, sir,” he agreed, heading inside.

    Peter didn’t believe for an instant it’d be right away. He leaned back in his chair, sighing a little.

    When the drink appeared it consisted of a tall glass already filled with liquid and ice and ornamented with a twist of lime, accompanied by a glass bowl of sugar and a quartered lime in another small glass bowl, all three of these items on white cut-paper coasters, a spray of bright yellow flowers, genus unknown, one folded paper napkin, turquoise edged with dark blue, and one long-handled silver metal spoon of the parfait type; all on a smallish silver metal tray.

    Hoyt explained carefully: “Your nimbu pani does contain lime juice and sugar, sir, but please adjust it to suit your taste. Will there be anything else, sir?”

    “No, that’s fine, thanks, Hoyt,” replied Peter somewhat weakly, though in a place like this he hadn’t really expected anything much less. At least the glass wasn’t gold-rimmed. Hoyt then produced a small electronic gizzmo from his shirt pocket and Peter had to sign it with an electronic pen, or possible merely a plastic implement—he had an idea you could also sign these things with your finger. The boy then asked him for his room number and asked him if he’d care to add it, sir.

    At this point the whole thing got too much for Peter and he said nicely: “No; I trust you, Hoyt.”

    He gave a startled laugh—without any doubt whatsoever no guest had ever said as much to him before—said: “Righto, then!” and added ‘Hut 4’ to the thing. Peter then apologised for not having any local money and gave him five quid. Not pointing out either that a pound went nowhere in today’s Britain or that the only other notes he had on him were fifties.

    The drink was really a little too sweet, so he added the juice of a lime quarter, involuntarily wondering as he did so how many of the usual guests ordered the serving staff to wait while they tasted the thing and then ordered them to add sugar or lime as required. A large percentage, would have been his bet. The squeezed quarter smelled so wonderful—and so did his fingers as he used the colour-coordinated napkin—that he shrugged and dropped it into the drink. It improved it no end.

    He sipped it slowly, and waited…

    “All right?” said Mac cautiously, gripping Lalla’s arm tightly. He’d got a double shot of brandy into her but he wouldn’t have taken a bet she wasn’t about to bolt.

    She smiled wanly. “Yeah. I’d better get it over with, I s’pose. Thanks, Mac.”

    “You know where to find me if you need me,” he returned grimly, releasing her. She didn’t move so he gave her a little push in the direction of the patio. “Go on.”

    “I’m going,” replied Lalla glumly.

    She did seem to be, so he retreated to the reception desk and told Taggy she was all right.

    “Was that her going outside just now?”

    “Yeah.”

    “He’s still out there, ya know!” she hissed—unnecessarily, there was no-one within earshot.

    “So he oughta be,” replied Mac sourly. “Look, if she looks upset when she comes inside again you’d better give me a bell, pronto: goddit?”

    “Right.” Taggy fixed her eyes grimly on the somewhat distant view of the sliding glass doors leading onto the patio.

    Cringing slightly, Mac retreated to his office, silently thanking all the gods that were that Mother Ledbetter wasn’t here at the moment. Not that she’d have disapproved of Lalla seeing Sale, far from it: facing up to things was one of her firmest tenets; but receptionists were supposed to present a pleasant appearance at all times in public areas. Unquote. And that expression of Taggy’s would have slain an ox at twenty paces. Good for Taggy.

    Peter got up shakily. “Lalla! So you did get my message!”

    “Um, yes. Mac said you wanted to see me,” replied Lalla glumly.

    “Of course I want to see you! Come and sit down.” He pulled another cushioned cane armchair closer to his.

    Lalla sat down obediently. She looked as lovely as ever, today in an absurd one-shouldered sarong thing that was a dead ringer for the pretty receptionist’s, except that the latter’s had a bright yellow background with large blooms in pale pink, bright pink and apricot, and Lalla’s had a bright pink background with large blooms in light turquoise, pale pink and royal blue, together with a scattering of—er—stars?—no, white frangipani, he realised with a smile: there was a spray of it behind her ear.

    “So today’s a white frangipani day, is it?” he asked with smile, hoping to get an answering smile: her eyes were suspiciously red.

    “What?” said Lalla in bewilderment.

    “Er—you and the pretty receptionist both have sprays of it in your hair.”

    “Oh. No, we’re not regimented to that extent. It’s just a coincidence. Mrs Ledbetter stressed that the flowers have to tone with the sarongs, but that white’s always acceptable, so a lot of the girls just choose white.”

    “But your dress does have white in it,” he murmured.

    “I suppose it does. But there’s a great big frangipani just outside our block, you see.”

    “I get it! Line of least resistance!”

    “Yes,” said Lalla, looking at him cautiously. He sounded quite cheerful. “Um, you can be cross, it’s all right, I deserve it,” she said gloomily, avoiding his eye.

    Peter bit his lip. “Lalla, darling, I don’t want to be cross with you. Though I do think you deserve me to be a little cross. I mean, ten years is a long time to—to be unaware you have a son.”

    Lalla gulped. “Yes. Only when he was born no-one ever mentioned men’s rights, and—and I duh-didn’t want you to—to just throw money at him and suh-send him to a horrible boys’ boarding school—I mean public school!” she gasped.

    “No. Ken said something similar to me this morning,” he replied tightly.

    “What?”

    “Yes: he’s a very decent fellow. I gather you don’t even fancy letting Petey board with your cousins in Auckland while he goes to school there?”

    “No,” said Lalla in a small voice. “If I’d thought ahead… Only it’s too late to go back to my job at the Carrano Group, I’m out of touch with all the international law stuff now.”

    “Is that what you used to do?” he said dazedly.

    “Yes. Research, I’m not a lawyer. Well, I passed the exams, but that’s all. Quite a lot of company law research, too, but the international stuff was my area.”

    “I see.”

    She swallowed hard. “Anyway, I’m very sorry, Peter. I never really thought you’d be interested in him.”

    “No, well, you did have my demonstrated lack of interest in bloody Candida shoved under your nose as an example.”

    “Mm. But you did care enough to make sure she went to school.”

    “Yes, well, water under the bridge,” said Peter with a sigh, passing his hand over his forehead. “Is it always so humid here?”

    “Yes. Would you like another drink?”

    “In a minute. Just let’s get it clear that I still care about you very much, Lalla, and the only reason I’m here is that I came to find you.”

    “Mm,” she said, nodding. A tear stole down her cheek and she wiped it away with her hand, sniffing. “It is clear. I’m very sorry to have given you such a shock and—and spoiled it all,” she ended, her voice shaking.

    Spoiled— Oh! Spoiled what could have been a joyous reunion, by Jesus! Peter suddenly felt as if the birds had started singing—he hadn’t heard a single bird so far on Palmyra Polynesia—and the sun was shining—it wasn’t, the day was rather murky and overcast—and, in short, as if all his Christmases had come at once!

    “You did give me a shock, of course, but you haven’t spoiled anything, darling Lalla,” he said firmly. “I’m still me, I’ve never stopped loving you, and you’re still you. Or have you stopped loving me?”

    “No. Or do I mean yes?” said Lalla in confusion. “I mean, I still do!” she gasped.

    “That’s all right, then! We’ll work it out, my darling: everything, for you and me and Petey, okay?”

    “Ruh-really?” she croaked.

    “Yes,” said Peter firmly. “Now don’t cry, for the Lord’s sake; everything’s all right!”

    Lalla tried to smile, but tears ran down her cheeks and she wiped them away desperately with the back of her hand.

    Peter was just tenderly offering her his handkerchief when a very hard voice said: “Hey, Mister, the management of Palmyra Polynesia doesn’t allow clients to victimise the staff, so ya can leave off right now: goddit?”

    And he looked up in astonishment to find the pretty receptionist glaring at him, hands on hips, backed up by a grim-looking Hoyt with his fists clenched.

    “Yeah, and if ya pester Lalla any more I’ll punch you out, and it’ll be worth it!” the young waiter declared fiercely.

    “Oh, dear!” said Lalla with a mad laugh, scrambling to her feet. “Peter isn’t pestering me, Hoyt, you mustn’t hit him, and I’m truly not being victimised, Taggy, darling! Thank you both so much!” Whereupon she burst into tears.

    Oh, lawks. Peter got up slowly—he was afraid that the boy might lose it if he made a sudden move. “Thank you both for coming to Lalla’s defence,” he said clearly. “Lalla, darling, take my handkerchief and stop crying: you’re upsetting your kind friends.”

    Sniffing and gulping, she took his handkerchief and wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “Thaggs, Peter. Saroggs don’d have poggets,” she said soggily.

    The two poured-into ones in evidence certainly didn’t! “No, of course not,” he replied soothingly. “Blow your nose again, darling. I really think we’d better tell them the truth, don’t you?”

    “Yeah, ya better had!” said the receptionist angrily.

    “It’s not bad, Taggy. Well, you wouldn’t have done it, I know,” said Lalla, smiling mistily at her, and handing the soggy handkerchief back to Peter, “but you see, when I was in Australia, nearly eleven years ago, I met Peter and fell in love with him, and I went to bed with him, and got pregnant with Petey. But he never knew, ’cos he’d gone back to England. And I never told him.”

    “So that’s why Petey hasn’t got a dad,” said Hoyt.

    “Mm,” Lalla agreed, nodding. “And—and you mustn’t blame Peter, Hoyt,” she added, as he was starting to look angry again, “because he did try to find me, but I’d gone back to Auckland and I was living with Jean—you know, my cousin—and he didn’t know her phone number.”

    “I geddit.”

    “Well, I don’t,” said Taggy sturdily. “So why didn’tcha wanna marry her?”

    “I did, I assure you,” he said, not daring to address her as “Taggy” in case he’d got it wrong. “But—well, I already had a daughter who was only thirteen—I was divorced by then,” he added hurriedly—“and Lalla thought it wouldn’t be fair to her.”

    “She hated me, you see, and she was a very unhappy little girl,” said Lalla simply.

    Her two supporters goggled at her.

    Peter was now trying not to smile: very evidently they couldn’t imagine anyone being so cretinous as not to like Lalla!

    “So I just went home without telling him my address or phone number,” she added quickly.

    “Heck,” said Taggy numbly.

    “I was okay, ’cos Jean and the other nurses all looked after me.”

    “Yeah, ’course,” Taggy replied, nodding.

    “But it all worked out okay, ’cos now I’ve got Petey, and I can’t imagine not having him! And—and Peter’s come all the way out from England to find me. I mean, he’s not a tourist, at all: that’s why he’s here.”

    “Is it?” Taggy demanded.

    “Yes, of course,” Peter replied, hoping he sounded firm.

    “Heck, they make ya pay through the nose, ya know,” she croaked.

    “Um, yes, but he’s got lots of money,” said Lalla quickly.

    “That’s all right, then,” Hoyt conceded.

    “Yes,” Peter agreed. “Thanks very much for sticking up for her, Hoyt.” He held out his hand to him.

    “Heck, that’s okay!” the boy replied with a loud laugh, shaking it fiercely.

    “Do you forgive me?” Peter asked the receptionist.

    “I dunno,” Taggy replied honestly. “So are ya gonna marry her now?”

    Lalla clapped a hand to her mouth.

    “Yes!” replied Peter with a laugh. “Of course! If she’ll have me.”

    “Will ya?” said Taggy to Lalla.

    “Um—but we haven’t discussed it— I mean— There’s so many things to decide! Like Petey’s schooling and where we’d live and—and everything!”

    “But he’s Petey’s dad,” Hoyt pointed out.

    Lalla was now so flushed she felt she couldn’t go redder. “Yes,” she said in a strangled voice. “I—I do want to!” she gulped.

    “Then you oughta,” Taggy declared firmly. Her face lit up. “Hey, if ya got married here maybe I could be a bridesmaid!”

    “Why not?” said Peter airily.

    “Stop it, Peter,” said Lalla in a stifled voice,.

    “Well, darling, your friends are here. We could fly those nice cousins over, and any other friends from New Zealand, of course.”

    “That’d be ace!” urged Hoyt.

    “How on earth do you know about my cousins, Peter?” said Lalla dazedly.

    “Ken mentioned them.”

    “Jean and Roger?” she said dazedly. “He’s a paraplegic.”

    “Yes, Ken did mention that. I’d see he had proper medical care all the way, naturally. And a resident nurse.”

    “Um, well, Jean is a nurse. But it’d be awkward on the plane.”

    Since they were all well and truly at the far end of the rabbit hole walking with their heads downwards, Peter joined them there. “QSMME can lend us the Lear jet. Absolutely no problem.”

    “Some of the clients, they have those,” Hoyt acknowledged.

    “There you are, then,” said Peter airily. “So will you?”

    “Um, yes, please,” replied Lalla weakly.

    “Hurray!” her two supporters cried wildly.

    Lalla looked round in a hunted way but as it wasn’t quite eleven o’clock no outraged clients were objecting to the noise.

    “I suppose Taukea’ll wanna be a bridesmaid, too,” noted Taggy once the excitement had died down a bit.

    Undoubtedly; in fact they all would: yikes! Lalla looked frantically at Peter.

    He put his arm round her, smiling. “The more the merrier!” he said with a laugh.

    She swallowed hard but as Taggy was now looking anxious, said: “Yes, but you must be chief bridesmaid, Taggy!”

    “Righto!” she replied with an excited laugh. “Ta, Lalla! –Blow,” as the phone over on the reception desk rang. “I better get back to it.”

    “Um, me, too,” Hoyt admitted. “I better clear these things away. Hey, Lalla, can I get you a drink? –On the house!” he hissed, though as there were no other guests in sight it seemed redundant.

    “As a matter of fact, Hoyt, dear, I’d love a nice cup of tea.”

    “Righto! Cup of tea coming up!” he agreed. “Ya want another nimbu pani, Peter?” he added in a friendly way.

    “On the house,” prompted Lalla.

    “Yeah, ’course! –Do ya?”

    Very, very weakly Peter agreed: “Yes, please, Hoyt,” and the blessed boy grabbed his tray and pushed off at last.

    Peter sagged. “Has it dawned, in the midst of all this excitement over bridesmaids, paraplegic cousins, and intimate details of our sex life, that I haven’t even managed to kiss you yet?”

    “Um, yes,” Lalla admitted.

    He sat down. “Right, well, you can come and sit on my knee—I might just be able to bear it in my enfeebled state—and I’ll make the attempt.”

    “I don’t think staff are supposed to sit on guests’ knees.”

    “Or I could put you over it!” he retorted indignantly.

    “In that case I better sit.” She sat on his knee, looking shy in spite of the repartee.

    “Ooh, er,” said Peter conversationally. He kissed her very gently. Whereupon Lalla  grabbed his shoulders fiercely and kissed him back fervently. Well, hooray!

    “All right?” he asked, grinning, as they eventually came up for air.

    “Yes! Of course! Don’t fish!”

    Grinning, he leaned his face into her shoulder. “Mm-mmm…”

    “Peter, there are millions of things we ought to sort out, you know,” she ventured uncertainly.

    “Mm. Think about it later,” he said in a muffled voice.

    “Okay,” Lalla agreed with a deep sigh of contentment.

    How long should it take a kitchen full of breathlessly interested supporters to make a cup of tea and prepare a glass of lime juice, sugar and water? By the time several persons surfaced with these provisions Peter and Lalla were sitting circumspectly side-by-side, merely holding hands, so in this instance, he had a fair idea that whatever the average time might have been, someone had exercised supreme tact. Okay, clearly the entire staff of Palmyra Polynesia would have to be invited to the wedding!

    If she put off telling Petey for as much as another ten minutes, some big mouth would be sure to let it out in front of him, or he’d overhear them talking about it. So once Peter had finished his nimbu pani Lalla got up and said firmly: “I’d better go and tell Petey.”

    “Of course. I’ll come with you.”

    “Um, that might make it worse,” she replied uneasily.

    “I can see that, but I think it’d be better all round if he realised from the word ‘go’ that we’re a couple.”

    To this his fiancée replied calmly: “I take your point, but all his life he’s only had me: do you think it’d be kind to break the news like that?”

    “Er—possibly not, but—well, I just have a very strong feeling that we’d better start as we mean to go on. I—uh—I don’t think I can think of any more rational arguments, Lalla: as I say, it’s a feeling,” he ended somewhat limply.

    She frowned over it. “I see what you mean. And he did say you were all right. Okay, then, come on.” With this she headed off—not through the French doors to the guests’ lounge, but towards the far end of the terrace.

    Feebly Peter tottered to his feet and staggered after her.

    “Is this where you live?” he asked, as after making their way through a stretch of planting and across an expanse of lawn, followed by more plantings, or perhaps native vegetation, it seemed to be all coconut palms, they approached a sufficiently obscure cabin.

    “No, this is Ken’s place, he’s looking after him.” She walked in without knocking or calling out. Limply Peter followed her.

    Petey appeared to be alone, sitting in a large hammock, reading.

    “Where’s Ken?” said Lalla.

    “He said I could be here!”

    “I know. Where is he?”

    “Gone to get some fish for Angie.”

    “Right, well, you can come on home, there’s something important I need to tell you.”

    “Ken said I could keep these books!”

    “It’s not about the books, Petey. Come on.” She seized his hand as he scrambled out of the hammock.

    “Hang on, I gotta—”

    “You can collect your books later. This is important, Petey, it’s about your whole life.”

    “So are the books, ’cos Ken, he says if I can get on top of those I’ll be ready for a decent school. And I can, see: they’re easy!”

    “Good. We’ll talk about it later.”

    “Um, except the one with sums in it,” Petey admitted as she more or less dragged him out.

    “I’m quite good at sums, I could probably help with that one,” said Peter meekly.

    “Is he coming too?” Petey demanded of his mother.

    “That was very rude, Petey Holcroft, and you can apologise to Mr Sale immediately,” replied Lalla grimly.

    “Um, sorry, Mr Sale,” said Petey glumly.

    “Thank you, Petey. I am coming, yes; that’s one of the things we’re going to talk about.”

    “Yes,” said Lalla, heading off into what seemed like impenetrable jungle but which turned out to include a little track.

    “This is the back way,” Petey pointed out to her—though not as if he was objecting to it.

    “Yes. There’s more shade, Peter isn’t used to our climate, he’s from England.”

    “It’s not that hot.”

    “But England’s very cold,” she replied calmly.

    “Is it?” he demanded of Peter.

    “Yes.”

    “But it’s nearly Christmas,” he pointed out dubiously.

    Peter looked wildly at Lalla.

    “Um, Petey, ’member how Grandpa tried to explain about the northern hemisphere?” she prompted.

    “Ye-ah…” he replied vaguely.

    Lalla sighed. “It’s the opposite to here. When it’s summer here, it’s winter there. And their winters are very cold.”

    “So is England in the northern hemisphere?”

    “Yes,” they both said.

    “Aw.”

    “You know that song White Christmas? Like that,” Lalla added helpfully.

    “It’s dumb.”

    “Undoubtedly,” Peter agreed, since Lalla now seemed at a loss. “Nevertheless it is about winter in the northern hemisphere. When it says ‘white’ it’s talking about snow.”

    “I know!”

    They forged on along the track.

    “So do ya get snow in England?”

    “Yes, quite often, in winter. Especially in the north—that’s closer to the North Pole.”

    “So it’d be colder, eh?”

    “That’s right,” Peter agreed.

    “So wouldja, like, wear fur-lined anoraks, like the Inuit?”

    Peter’s jaw sagged—not least at the with-it, politically correct terminology. “Not in England, no. Padded anoraks, or heavy woollen overcoats. Where did you learn about the Inuit?”

    “Ken’s got a book. Well, it’s quite hard but he said if I was interested, so be it. I read most of it. And it’s got good pictures. He’s got an old book, too, but it calls them Eskimos and he said that’s not right. It’s keen, though, it’s all about these dogs, see—” He plunged into it. Peter couldn’t for the life of him tell if it was a Jack London, or what.

    The saga ended, with the obligatory panting and gasping, just as they emerged from the undergrowth to a view of a lowish two-storeyed building with outside it some undoubted frangipanis in bloom. Peter smiled. “I see: this is your block!” he said to Lalla. “With the frangipanis!”

    “Yes. The pink one’s lovely, isn’t it? But nobody dares to pick them any more unless they’ve been told to,” she said with a sigh.

    “No, ’cos see, Mrs Ledbetter, she told off Melanie an’ June an’ Taukea an’ Sarah for picking too many and they didn’t ought to of let Mrs Nelson and Mrs Tangianau pick them, neither!” Petey added eagerly. “Mrs Ledbetter, she’s fierce!” he informed the stranger in their midst.

    “Er—this surely wouldn’t be Hiram Ledbetter’s wife, would it, Lalla?”

    “’Course!” Petey replied scornfully before his mother could open her mouth.

    “Yes,” Lalla agreed.

    “So she’s involved in the day-to-day running of the place?”

    “Not so much these days, but she helped set it up and trained nearly all the staff.”

    “Good grief. –Well, I mean, old Hiram’s a billionaire,” he said weakly.

    “Yes, but this is his pet project, and she took one look at the local hotels and realised the whole thing’d be a disaster unless she took over.”

    “Yeah,” Petey agreed. “Only she didn’t have to train Angie an’ Mac, eh, Mum?”

    “No, of course not. She and Mr Ledbetter had already sent Angie to a very good cookery school, and of course Mac had done a hospitality management course, and they were already running their motel in the Bay of Islands then, weren’t they?”

    “Yes. –That’s in New Zealand,” he suddenly informed Peter.

    “Mm,” Lalla agreed. “This is it, Peter. Come on in. Take a seat.”

    “Thanks, I think I’d better,” he replied, sinking onto the little sofa. “I’m starting to suffer from neural overload. –Too much intel,” he explained.

    “Kids are like that,” she returned on an indifferent note. “You did say you wanted to be in on it.”

    “True. Er—I realise that Mac is Mr Gordon, the manager, but who is Angie?”

    “His wife, of course,” said Petey, staring at him.

    “Petey, there’s no way Peter could have guessed that. Just sit down and be quiet. –I’m sorry, Peter. I see what you mean about neural overload: we’ve been talking with no context, haven’t we? Angie is the Ledbetters’ daughter and as Petey says, Mac’s wife. She’s the chef here. Her parents set up the hotel for her and Mac, really.”

    “Thanks, darling,” he said limply.

    Lalla smiled a little. “So those lovely little crisp biscuits that came with my cup of tea and that you called unsolicited will’ve been from her.”

    “Or Navy,” noted Petey.

    “He’s the sous-chef,” Lalla explained.

    “I see.”

    “Mum, c’n I’ve a dri—”

    “No. In a minute. Just shut up and listen.” Lalla sat down beside Peter. “Now, you know that this is Mr Sale?”

    “’Course! He’s a Peter, like me!”

    “Exactly. And that’s why, you see.” She took a deep breath. “You’re named after him, Petey, because he’s your father.”

    His brow furrowed and Peter experienced a sinking feeling. Then he said: “But he’s English.”

    Lalla at this was conscious of an awful urge to say: “Nevertheless he’s still capable of it.” She gulped. At the same time Peter cleared his throat. “Don’t dare to say it,” she warned him unsteadily.

    “No,” he agreed weakly. “We met when Lalla was in Australia, Petey.”

    “She said that,” he admitted.

    “Yes,” said Lalla, swallowing hard. “And, um, I told you it was my fault, didn’t I, and I never told him about you?”

    “Yeah. Only ya never said his name was Peter.”

    “Um, no,” she admitted.

    “Grandpa, he reckoned she ought to of called me Neville, like him,” Petey then informed his father. “Only Roger, he said if she was gonna name me after him she’d of called me No-Hoper.”

    Lalla gasped and clapped her hand to her mouth. “Petey! When did he say that?”

    “Ages ago,” he said, looking vague. “Now c’n I have a drink?”

    “Yes. Just see what’s in the fridge.”

    “Coke?”

    “If there is any, yes.”

    Petey watched limply as his son got up and went over to the little kitchen area, apparently unperturbed. He looked frantically at Lalla. “Has—it—sunk—in?” he mouthed.

    “Sort of,” she murmured.

    “Er—I gather that this opinion of your progenitor is shared by the majority of your male supporters?” he ventured. “Ken had a similar opinion, in fact I think the phraseology might have been almost identical.”

    “Yes. It’s justified,” she said calmly, “but I never thought Roger would have been that outspoken.”

    “And who is Roger, exactly?”

    “Jean’s husband.”

    “He’s got an electric wheelchair: it’s keen,” contributed Petey, coming back with a can of Coke which he’d expertly opened. Then disposing of the tab in the kitchen tidy—so she had him trained to that extent.

    “And Jean is your cousin the nurse who was very supportive when Petey was little, Lalla, is that right?”

    “Yes, and when he was on the way, too. We shared a house with her for quite a long time.”

    “I see.”

    “And the other nurses, Mum!” Petey corrected her.

    “Yes, of course.”

    “Bob, he said if I stayed with them I could go to St Cuthbert’s: he thinks he’s funny,” he volunteered.

    “Yes, but never mind that, Petey: we’re confusing poor Peter with all these names.”

    He looked vague and drank Coke noisily.

    Lalla just waited until the burning thirst seemed to have been slaked and then said: “Now, have you got it, Petey? Peter is your father.”

    “Yeah.”

    “Good. And he came all the way from England—it’s on the other side of the world, you know—”

    “Yes! I seen it on the map!” he interrupted crossly.

    “Good. Well, he came all that long way just to see us, ’cos remember those two nice men that came out looking for sites for their ecolodge—don’t interrupt,” she warned as he opened his mouth—“and took lots of snaps of me? Well, Peter saw the snaps and recognised me, so he came straight out here.”

    “On a jumbo?” he asked keenly.

    “Well, a large jet to Auckland, yes,” said Peter limply. Could the kid grasp any essential point? “And then a smaller one to Rarotonga.”

    “I geddit.”

    “He’s absorbing it into his consciousness, Peter,” said Lalla calmly.

    He jumped. “Oh. I see.”

    She smiled at him. “Mm.”

    Petey drank some more Coke. “Say you’re my dad,” he said thoughtfully.

    “Yes, Petey?” replied Peter eagerly.

    “That doesn’t mean you’re married, eh?”

    “No,” he croaked, biting his lip.

    “Nah; I knew that nong William Tairea had it wrong.”

    “What do you mean, Petey?” asked Lalla—sounding, Peter wasn’t sorry to see, dazed.

    “He said you hadda be married if ya had kids only I said ya didn’t, ’cos see, you’re not married, Mum. ’Cos you’re not Mrs Holcroft, eh?”

    “No, that’s right. Um, ’member when we talked about Mrs Tangianau’s cat and her kittens?”

    “Aw, yeah,” he said vaguely.

    “It’s just the same with humans. You don’t have to be married to have kids, it just takes a male person and a female person.”

    “Like a male cat and a female cat. Mrs Tangianau, she reckoned it was that ginger tom, ’cos three of them, they were sort of gingery. Well, splodgy.”

    “Exactly. But it’s nicer if you can be married and, um, live together in a nice house.”

    “Or a hut?”

    Lalla took a deep breath. “We’re not talking about moving to a hut, Petey. This has got nothing to do with that.”

    “But—”

    “No.”

    Petey sipped Coke. “Lily Nooroa, she got married, eh?”

    Lalla smiled. “Yes, that was a lovely wedding, wasn’t it?”

    “All right, I s’pose. Ken, he said it was a fuss about nothing.”

    “Rubbish!” replied Lalla strongly. “Everybody had a lovely time!”

    “Yeah, the food was good, eh?”

    “Super.”

    “So are ya gonna get married?”

    Peter took Lalla’s hand firmly. “Yes. I love Lalla, Petey, and now that I’ve found her, I want us to live together in a nice house. All three of us. It won’t be here: I can’t do my work from here, but somewhere nice.”

    “In England?”

    “Well, we’ll have to talk about it. I think it might be too cold for Lalla.”

    “It’s warm here,” he noted dubiously. “Say you had a hut—”

    “Petey!” cried Lalla indignantly. “No huts! –I’m sorry, Peter: huts have been his theme song for the last couple of months, he’s been driving me barmy.”

    “I have not!”

    “All right, it’s only felt like it,” she said drily. “But if Peter says he can’t work from here, that’s it. It doesn’t matter where we live, anyway, so long as we’re together. Does it?”

    “Nah. –It was good down Taupo with Pete an’ Jan. –He’s a Peter, too,” he informed his father. “Peter McLeod. He’s old, though. –Is he older than him, Mum?”

    Lalla gulped. Pete must be seventy. “Yes, lots: Pete’s older than Grandpa. But don’t say ‘him’ like that, Petey, it’s not polite: I’ve told you that before.”

    “Yeah, but I dunno what to call him.”

    “I’m terribly sorry, Petey: I didn’t think!” she gulped.

    “Nah. Only what shall I?”

    “Well, um, you did say he— Now I’m doing it; oh, dear. You did say that Peter was okay.”

    “Ye-ah,” he agreed cautiously. “That was before. –He give Mata five pounds in English money,” he reminded her.

    “Mm, I know. Not like some of them, eh?”

    “Nah. Some of them are mean as sin. –Ken, he said it was all right to say that, ’cos it’s true, but Mrs Nelson, she said I didn’t oughta say it, God wouldn’t like it. Only I thought God didn’t like sin anyway.”

    Peter coughed suddenly.

    “No, well, she only meant it wasn’t a very polite thing to say,” said Lalla valiantly. “Never mind that. What do you think you should call Peter? –Um, not ‘Mr Sale’, ’cos actually, he isn’t a Mister.”

    “Yes, he is, Mum!” Petey replied with an incredulous laugh.

    “Yikes,” she muttered. “I can’t,” she said limply to the gentleman in question.

    “Of course I’m a male human, Petey,” said Peter, hoping he sounded firm and calm, “but ‘Mister’ doesn’t quite mean that. I mean, your grandfather is Mr Holcroft, isn’t he, and, um, the manager is Mr Gordon.”

    “An’ Ken’s Mr Tangianau,” he agreed.

    “Yes, that’s right. ‘Mister’ is just a polite way of referring to an adult man. Well, I did, um, sign on here as Mr Sale, but I’m actually Sir Peter Sale. So if someone was talking about me, they’d say ‘Sir Peter.”

    “So it isn’t rude?”

    Peter looked helplessly at Lalla,

    “No,” she said calmly: “it’s not like just calling a grown-up by their first name at all. It’s very polite to say ‘Sir Peter’. But Peter signed on as Mr Sale because he didn’t want silly people to make a fuss over him: remember that Sir Mark man?”

    “He was all right.”

    “Yes, I thought he was very nice. Well, those silly American women made a terrific fuss of him and he didn’t like it, did he?”

    “Aw, yeah. –He come down the beach,” he explained to Peter, “an’ he said to me an’ Ken if he hadda take one more minute of them he’d go mad. –Is ‘fawning’ a word?”

    “Er—yes, certainly! –Oh, I see: they were fawning on the poor fellow, were they?”

    “Um, he said they were fawning women. Damned fawning women,” he said, one eye on his mother.

    “Yes, poor man,” she agreed calmly. “He meant they were sucking up to him, Petey. Fawning on him is another way of saying it, and so they were fawning women, see?”

    “Yeah. Know what one of them, she give Mata?”

    “What?” asked Peter.

    “An ole Fijian penny, like with a hole in it. –A meant hole. Only it’s not worth nothing.”

    “Yes, poor Mata, she was terribly mean: he’d been running after her all day and half the night,” agreed Lalla.

    “Yeah, an’ she kept calling him ‘boy’.”

    “Yes,” she said with a sigh. –You know, Peter: ‘Come here, boy!’ That sort of thing. Like the British Raj at its worst.”

    “Yeah,” Petey agreed. “Only she was an American. Sir Mark, he was English.”

    “Yes; if a man’s called ‘Sir’ he’s usually English, Petey. It’s called an English title,” Lalla explained.

    “Aw,” he said vaguely. “So shall I say Sir Peter?”

    “Just Peter would be okay,” replied Lalla cautiously.

    “Ye-ah… Only when Mrs Karati, she married Mr Robertson—he’s a Kiwi, but he’s okay,” he informed Peter—“well, Dale Karati, he said he better be Dale Robertson and call him Dad. Otherwise everybody’d get mixed up.”

    “That’s right, so he did, I’d forgotten that,” said Lalla. “Get confused, I think he meant.”

    “Yeah. See, his real dad, he was Mr Karati, only he died.”

    “Yes, I see, Petey,” replied Peter.

    “Only you are my real dad, eh?”

    “Yes,” he said shakily.

    “Yeah.”

    They waited, but that seemed to be that.

    “Um,” said Lalla, licking her lips uneasily, “maybe if you call him Peter at first until you get used to him, Petey and, um, well, after we’re married you could call him Dad if you felt like it.”

    “Ye-ah… I’ll think about it,” he decided, getting up. “C’n I go an’ get my books, now?”

    “Yes, that’d be okay. Um, if you come straight back we could have lunch in the staff dining-room, just for once.”

    “Ace!” He rushed out.

    Lalla looked anxiously at Peter. “I’m sorry, Peter. I didn’t like to insist.”

    “No, of course not, darling! He’s priceless!” he replied with a laugh.

    “What?” she fumbled.

    “Well, a couple of days off ten years old and he’s decided to take it under advisement?”

    “Um, he’s a bit like that. He does tend to think things out.”

    “In that case,” he said gaily, “he takes after his father!”

    “Mm.” Lalla swallowed hard. “Sorry, could I borrow your hanky again?

    Smiling, Peter gave her his handkerchief.

    “Er, Lalla, sweetheart,” he said cautiously, once she’d mopped her eyes and blown her nose, “you do realise what we’ll be exposing ourselves to if we have lunch in the staff dining-room?”

    “The food’ll be excellent, don’t worry.”

    “No, you twit! The— I was going to say congratulations, but judging by Taggy and Hoyt I think it’ll be more like rabid excitement.”

    Lalla’s jaw dropped. “Yikes!”

    “Yikes, indeed,” Peter agreed sedately.

Next chapter:

https://thelallaeffect.blogspot.com/2024/01/best-laid-plans.html