Happy Ending

24

Happy Ending

    Ann had worked it out: the Almighty loved Adam McIntyre. Or possibly the combination of him and Georgy Harris (along with the entire world population of movie-goers, right). ’Cos now that they’d arrived the weather was glorious and even the tides were behaving themselves and all his scenes, either on the beach or on the verandah of the hideaway with Rosie (lounging on a planter’s chair, the plaster not in shot) were going wonderfully and Dawlish was actually pleased. So much so that Rupy had dared to put forward his brilliant idea for how to end the bloody thing: see, the tap show that the Modern Girl and the old aunties have been attending comes to an end (many of his audience at this point had looked completely blank, so they must have been even more confused about the thing’s plot than Ann was), and the camera follows them as they come out of the bingo hall.

    “And there, waiting outside, is the Modern Girl’s Boyfriend on his Harley—leathers, dears—and he takes off his helmet, and even though she’s been mooning over Euan for the entire show, it isn’t him, it’s Adam!”

    Possibly the other actors were about as fed up as they looked with Euan’s off-the-cuff interviews, deprecating performances at the pub, incessant encouraging of every girl for a radius of two hundred K and, latest crime, letting unauthorised Press snap Adam’s hideaway, because they had all cheered this brilliant scenario, then laughing themselves sick over it. Even the ones that Ann was ninety-nine percent sure had heard it before.

    And even Dawlish had smiled and said: “Not bad, Rupy. Turns the thing on its head, doesn’t it? Mmm… Ramifications there for 21st-century mind-set versus Fifties attitudes… Though we don’t want Adam’s character to represent Modern Man—too obvious. Might think about it, though!” Well, he was really pissed off with the unauthorised Press on set: after all, his company did have an exclusive contract with Ann’s paper’s Owners, didn’t they?

    Euan wasn’t present at the time, rather a pity, some felt, but Ann was lucky enough to be a witness to his enlightenment. His Big Star carry-ons had become so insufferable, especially the deprecating stuff at the pub, that most of the other actors weren’t bothering to hide how fed-up they were with him, so there were plenty of contenders, but actually it wasn’t one of them.

    Ann and Bernie had decided to escape from Isabelle’s cooking that evening—largely barbecued sausages and chops, well, she was now catering for a huge crowd, of course—and try out Laverne’s rather more genteel offerings at the pub: choice of chicken and chips in a basket (Ann usually failed to resist this when a menu offered it, it was the basket that did it, every time), fish and chips, you could have the fish either battered or grilled, salad optional, or the Choice of the Day. Everyone had now worked out that there was a weekly cycle to the Choice: starting on Monday with Thai curry (beef or lamb, it varied,) then progressing to Tuesday’s pasta (the cheapest sort of packet spaghetti, according to the cognoscenti) with one of those sauces out of a jar, Ann really liked them, they always made her wear the Dolmio grin, Wednesday’s pizza (home-made: traces of the Dolmio sauce discernible under the cheese, salami and red peppers, olives optional), Thursday’s stir-fried noodles with prawns, Friday’s roast, Saturday’s cold meat and salad (it was a busy day for the bar, she didn’t have much time for cooking) and Sunday’s surprise. Usually chicken in apricot sauce, or if Saturday had been too exhausting, bought frozen lasagna. Today was Sunday and Bernie had prudently phoned to check that the chicken in apricot sauce was on, which it was, and had booked a table. They would probably have to share, but at least they were sure of seats.

    The Double Dee minibus made regular trips to the pub of an evening but Bernie had splashed out and hired a car, so they went in that, being more or less forced to offer Harry a lift, as he suddenly appeared when they were getting into it.

    “It’ll be the chicken with apricot sauce tonight,” he predicted gleefully.

    “Shut up,” warned Bernie.

    “Oh, Ann doesn’t mind me, do you, Ann? I’ve got all the details: it’s an old recipe, Laverne’s Aunty Sue got it out of The Australian Women’s Weekly back in 1974. Laverne is sure it was 1974, because the bit of the page that Aunty Sue cut out and stuck in her recipe scrapbook—”

    “I thought I told you to shut up?” he groaned.

    “Unfortunately the pumpkin pie recipe that dates from around the same period is from an American magazine, and the measurements don’t match our Australian spoons,” he added smoothly.

    “That’s apocryphal,” Bernie warned Ann.

    “It doesn’t sound like it to me,” she admitted, grinning. “Go on, Harry: does it mention the mysterious American cornstarch?”

    “Aw, youse Aussie sheilas know it all, don’tchuse?” he whined.

    “Those of us that have got mums and aunties that cook—yeah. Or that used to: all of my mother’s generation are now firmly wedded to their microwaves. Aunty Jill’s even worked out how to do frozen peas in hers without reducing them to wrinkled little bits of green plastic.”

    “Sucks,” concluded Bernie happily.

    “Too right, mate!” he gasped. “I was under the impression that frozen peas were really quick and easy to cook in the traditional saucepan: why bother to microwave them?”

    “Are you asking me?” replied Ann feebly. “I can’t tell you why, I can merely say that it is so. Well, Aunty Jill’s sixty-seven, takes a size twenty-four and dyes her hair bright brassy yellow, that clarify the matter for you?”

    “Entirely. Isn’t she wonderful?” he said to Bernie in awe.

    “Yes. Added to which, even you are not going to phase her, so give it up.”

    “Very well, I will,” said Harry sadly in his native Oxbridge. “Bloody Derry’s never going to want to do an Australian epic, anyway, so all my acute observations are going to be wasted. But I could have written a perfectly splendid scene in a modern Australian kitchen.”

    “Yeah, yeah. –Offer your services to Brian Hendricks: he could cast Rosie, Dot and Molly in it as triplets. How to Marry an Aussie Millionaire. It could be their mother’s kitchen,” returned Bernie snidely.

    “Shut up, you bugger!” said Harry with a laugh. “Have you heard that one, Ann?”

    “Mm?”

    “Derry’s latest: How To Marry A 21st-Century Millionaire with the three of them in it.”

    “Oh—right, it was a film, wasn't it? Didn’t they make a TV series of it, too, way back?” said Ann without interest.

    “Hah, hah!” noted Bernie gleefully. “Aussies three hundred and fifteen, Home side naff all. –Harry was expecting you to ask which one of them could possibly play the Lauren Bacall character, given that none of them are tall, thin and elegant.”

    “She was starting to look gaunt by then,” said Harry thoughtfully.

    “Well, quite!”

    This was pretty much Greek to Ann so she just stared out of her window into the dark—Dawlish had kept filming until the light had gone and as the Almighty, doubtless because of Adam’s presence, had provided a sunset, had filmed that as well—and thought dreamily of apricot chicken…

    “Huh?”

    “I said, penny for them!” repeated Bernie with a laugh in his voice.

    “Apricot chicken. You are sure it’ll be on, are you?”

    “Positive,” he said, patting her knee. “Go to sleep again, darling.”

    “I might just do that: D.D. sure made you types view a lot of Fifties films, didn’t he?” she said dreamily, staring into the dark.

    Harry had, in fact, by a natural progression, been talking happily about Forties films—Bogie, of course. He was, Bernie registered with horrid glee, reduced to complete silence.

    The dining-room was of course crammed to the gunnels but Laverne had conscientiously kept two seats for them. They wouldn’t mind sharing with John and Rosie and Euan, would they? They wouldn’t, so she led them to the two places saved for them. Harry hadn’t booked but Laverne very kindly squeezed him in.

    He asked eagerly what everyone was having, but was flattened by John’s saying calmly: “The chicken in apricot sauce, of course, since it’s Sunday. Aren’t you here for that?”

    “It’s better than Mum’s,” disclosed Rosie on a clinical note.

    “Yeah, it’s better than my mum’s, too!” admitted Ann with a grin. “Thought we might see Amaryllis and Jimmy here,” she added, looking round.

    “No, they went into town, desperately seeking vegetarian,” explained Rosie.

    “They won’t find it there!” she promised with a laugh. “Has she done her passionfruit pav for pud?”

    “Yes, praise be!” replied John, grinning.

    “Oy, Harry; where’s your notebook?” added Rosie.

    Euan had merely been looking superior throughout this interchange but at this he broke down in awful sniggers.

    It had now dawned on most of those at Big Rock Bay who had been privileged to be in their presences that Harry couldn’t stand Euan Keel—hadn’t he worked with him before, or something? recalled Ann vaguely at this point—so she wasn’t altogether surprised when having taken a bread roll and opened his packet of real butter, Harry said on a very casual note: “Oh, by the way, Euan, heard Derry’s latest for the ending?”

    Everyone else was frozen, but John asked nicely: “Has he decided on it at last, Harry?” Yikes! thought Ann, hand suspended over her packet of butter: hadn’t he been there when Rupy gave with his famous scenario? Uh—no, maybe he hadn’t.

    “Possibly not definitively, John, but he’s certainly ordered me to write it up,” replied Harry with barely-concealed relish.

    “Go on: do tell,” drawled Euan.

    “The basic ending is unaffected: Daughter still throws herself into your ready arms,” said Harry, buttering his roll with a casual air.

    “Of course!” agreed Rosie quickly.

    “Don’t say he’s decided on a wedding in clouds of lace after all!” said John with a grin.

    “Ooh, and full regimentals?” asked Euan eagerly.

    This remark immediately lost him the sympathy of the entire table—except possibly for John Haworth, Ann freely admitted to herself that she was incapable of reading him.

    “No, no, nothing to do with the Fifties Daughter at all,” said Harry soothingly. –Those of the audience who had realised that Euan was horribly up-tight about the ending now perceived that he relaxed, poor fool.

    Harry went in for the kill. “Scene, back at the bingo hall.”

    “Again?” said Euan with a laugh. “–Mebbe I will eat ma roll: after all, how many calories is that?”

    “About seven hundred, with the butter. Think Florizel,” advised Rosie on a dry note.

    “Och, no, it’ll put me off ma nice apricot chicken!” he said with a laugh, unwrapping his butter. “Go on, Harry, if you must. Bingo hall?”

    “Yes.” He waved his buttered roll. “Pan over huge audience exiting in a state of flushed satisfaction, bah, blah, Bernie’s set in all its glory.”

    “Harry,” said Bernie heavily, “why don’t you just bung a bread roll in it?”

    “But Euan wants to know. Or possibly it’d be better left unsaid,” he said artlessly.

    Euan was observed to go very still. “What would?”

    “Scene: exterior of the bingo hall, dingy London street, enter 21st-Century Daughter and old aunties, pan right to 21st-Century Daughter’s Boyfriend leaning on his Harley in full leathers and helmet. Close-up: Boyfriend removes helmet. Et voilà: Adam in person,” said Harry casually. “Anyone not want their butter?”

    Euan had gone very white. “What?”

    “Mm? Oh—yes. Think the intent is, the audience gasps, then collapses in gales of laughter and we end on a high note. If there’s hundreds of calories in that butter, Rosie, you won’t wa—”

    “Forget it, Euan, it was some daft idea of Rupy’s, I don’t think Derry’s serious about it at all,” said Bernie kindly.

    “No, it’d turn the whole thing on its head,” agreed Rosie. “Here—get fat,” she said evilly, passing Harry her butter.

    Euan’s hands shook a little and he tried without success to smile. “So you’re not really writing it up, Harry?”

    “Mm?” he said through a lavishly buttered roll. He swallowed thickly. “Well, yes, mate, but as Rosie says, Derry probably isn’t serious.”

    “No,” he said palely.

    “It is about the five-hundredth version of the ending that we’ve heard, Euan,” said John kindly.

    “Aye, of course! And he has to end it somehow!” he said with a forced laugh.

    At this point Laverne arrived, beaming, with their orders—just as well.

    Euan remained remarkably composed throughout the first course but didn’t stay for pud. Ann found that she was still hungry but somehow the apricot chicken wasn’t as glorious as usual. Well—yeah, the man was a pathetic, up-himself twerp, but Harry Strachan was a spiteful shit.

    Several other people must have switched their sympathies to Euan, too, because as the adjoining table got up to go, a short, blonde, curly headed figure extracted herself from the mob and came over and said to Harry: “I dunno who you are, but I’m gonna say it. That stuff you said to Euan Keel was the most spiteful thing I’ve ever heard. Even my little boy wouldn’t behave like that, and he’s only eight.”

    “Well put, Molly,” said John Haworth evenly.

    Harry shrugged. “He’s been begging to be taken down a peg for weeks—and I do know who you are, Third Cousin: don’t tell me you’ve fallen for him, too?”

    Molly went very red, and John got up. “Come on, Molly: I’ll drive you back to the farm.”

    “What was that, second prize?” drawled Harry as he led her flushed form off.

    “Harry,” said Bernie heavily, “you’ve lost the sympathy of this entire table: why don’t you just fuck off?”

    Shrugging, he got up and wandered off.

    “Varley Knollys has been putting the needle in, but don’t tell me that doesn’t excuse him,” said Bernie with a sigh.

    “About what?” groped Ann, as Rosie just nodded.

    “Mm? Oh, God, I suppose you don’t— Well, about being a hack writer, darling, while Knollys is a prize-winning, made-it Name in English Litracha. Or what passes for it, these days.”

    “Simeon’s Quest. If you’ve never read it, don’t bother,” advised Rosie. “Working-class boy’s tribulations at his up-market English uni. Might of been interesting, not to say relevant, back in 1950.”

    “Um, yeah. I thought you said he can’t write dialogue?” she groped.

    “Varley? No, he can’t, while Harry is a brilliant dialogue writer. Dialogue for films doesn’t count in the British Culture Vulture scene,” she explained kindly.

    “I see… Was this recent?” asked Ann thoughtfully.

    “Eh? Oh, the prize? Hell, no, yonks back. Then he went to Hollywood and wrote Tinseltown, CA. Even more up itself. Sneering at all the ignorant movie stars that don't know what Real Litracha is. It didn’t win a prize, forget what pipped it at the post.”

    “Something ethnic about a woman writer’s early sufferings,” supplied Bernie. “No, well, Knollys is a certified shit but that still doesn’t excuse Harry.”

    “No. Euan’s pretty pathetic, really, isn’t he?” she said thoughtfully.

    “Very,” agreed Rosie firmly. “Unfortunately, just when you’ve started feeling really sorry for him he’ll do something insufferable that puts you off him all over again. Forget him, Ann. Have a second helping of pav?”

    “I will if you will!” admitted Ann, grinning.

    They did that.

    Possibly it hadn’t dawned on most of them, but Bernie for one was aware that Derry really hadn’t yet decided how to end the bloody thing. Well—the Fifties side of it, yes: the Daughter in Euan’s arms. Still in Singapore: he had originally thought of setting it back in Blighty but had decided that Euan looked better in tropical whites. Not shorts—apparently Fifties Royal Navy white shorts were ludicrous even on something as good-looking as Euan Keel. As Rosie was also in white for this scene, complete with some little frilly white orchids in the hair, he didn’t really need a wedding scene with clouds of lace, did he?

    Several scenarios for the very last scene had been sketched out and several shouting matches with Varley had taken place—yes. “My concept!—No, my concept!” kind of thing. Naturally none of the dialogue that the unfortunate Harry had produced for these trial runs was anything like what was wanted, and at one point Derry had shouted: “FUCK the dialogue! One picture is worth a thousand of anyone’s words and TEN THOUSAND of yours, Strachan!” Something like that. He had more or less decided he did want to end it outside the bingo hall. Cobbled dark London streets glistening after rain, dim street lights, neon lights from a chippy further down the street—that kind of thing. Bernie had made bloody sure the studios had built a set for it, because no way was he going to be caught out at the last moment by one of Derry’s typical “decided on this months back, where is it?” manoeuvres. Added to which, he was rather keen on the idea, himself: the dark, hard, cold, gleaming London streets would make a marvellous contrast to leafy, lush, warm green Singapore with succulent Rosie and, let’s face it, succulent Euan sweating slightly in their tropical whites.

    One scenario had the 21st-Century Daughter just hopping on a bus with the old aunties, having declared (more or less): “I s’pose the Fifties weren’t as romantic as all that.” Or, depending on Derry’s mood: “It was romantic back in the Fifties, wasn’t it? I suppose you can’t expect real life to be like that, though.” At which point the modern Euan hops on the bus. On the great director’s more jaundiced days the bus didn’t feature (though the studio could supply one: London Transport omnibuses were standard fare to most film studios), and a sulky figure huddled in its anorak by its beat-up Ford greeted them with: “I’ve been waiting for ages! Get in—and don’t tell me what the fucking thing was like, I don’t wanna know!” Derry veered between making this figure Adam or Euan. Artistically he liked the idea of Adam—the discarded Fifties boyfriend, wrong choice for the Daughter and still the wrong choice for the 21st-Century Daughter, but demonstrating the utilitarian nature of Real Life—but he couldn’t manage to convince himself the punters would believe Adam was either second-best or a grumpy 21st-century hubby. If he made it Euan, it would still be a demonstration of utilitarian Real Life, but would it reflect back on the original Daughter’s choice and cast a blight over their Fifties romance? Usually he declared that yes, it would, but then couldn’t decide whether in fact he wanted it to. Was Fifties romance just a bubble? Several people had reminded him that he himself had held forth about the number of divorces in the Sixties proving that it was, but of course he hadn’t wanted to hear that.

    At one point Bernie had explained some of this to Ann but she’d just smiled vaguely and said: “I suppose it is cold in London at night, yeah.” So he’d very kindly desisted.

    The final Singapore scene took place outside Adam’s hideaway, where Euan had followed the Daughter, under the belief, more or less, that she had another assignation with Adam. It had to be a perfect day for this scene against the lush tropical greenery and the trucked-in frangipanis, hibiscuses, and potted banana palms, and luckily for the entire location crew, it was.

    Adam wasn’t in the scene, because Daughter hadn't in fact had an assignation with him at all. Where he was, was sitting well out of reach of Derry with his wife and Bernie and Ann, under a large sun umbrella, down at the far, or setless, end of the beach. “I can’t hear any shouting,” he murmured.

    “That’ll start when he orders poor little Dot to stand up on her two good legs and let Euan snatch her passionately to his white uniformed bazoom,” explained Bernie.

    “Yes: what has she done, poor little thing?” asked Georgy sympathetically.

    “Refused to let him glue horrible little petals all over her bod, à la Titania?” suggested Adam. He raised his eyebrows above the sunnies at her.

    “That was awful!” Derry’s Titania admitted, shuddering. “But Dot’s got miles more grit than me, I don’t think he’d even dare to suggest that sort of thing to her!”

    “No,” agreed Bernie, smiling at her—you couldn’t help smiling at Georgy Harris, she was so sweet. The purblind might claim that any young woman’d be sweet, marred to Adam McIntyre, but Bernie Anderson was under no illusion that that was any sort of sinecure. The man was a mass of nerves and uncertainties—well, he admitted it himself. And no, the intelligence and self-awareness probably didn’t make it all that much easier for Georgy. “He put forward his glowing vision of How to Marry a 21st-Century Millionaire and she refused point-blank even to read for it.”

    “Triplets, triplets, there were never such devoted triplets!” sang Adam merrily to the tune of Sisters.

    “Exactly,” agreed Bernie, grinning at him.

    “That was horrible,” said Georgy detachedly. “Don’t—sing. But I thought Rosie was absolutely adamant that she wasn’t gonna be in it anyway, Bernie?”

    “She is, but Derry doesn’t believe her, Georgy, because he thinks he talked her into this.”

    “She told me, off the record,” explained Ann, “that she only did it for the free trip home to see her mum and dad during her uni holidays.”

    “Of course,” agreed Adam. “And what about the Third Cousin?”

    Ann and Bernie exchanged glances. Hers said plainly: “I’m not gonna stick my neck out, mate.” So he admitted: “Derry’s convinced himself she wants to be a fillum star and Euan’s girlfriend, not necessarily in that order. Several garbled versions of her put-down of Harry seem to have got back to him, and he extrapolated from them.”

    It was the turn of the McIntyre-Harris ménage to exchange glances. “Er—we thought she and Euan had barely exchanged two words, Bernie,” said Adam on an apologetic note.

    “You thought right, as far as—” He became ware that Ann had turned the colour of a boiled lobster and looked as if she was about to choke to death. “No?” he said politely.

    “No!” she gasped. “I mean, not quite. I mean—well, not exactly what Mr Dawlish is imagining, but—”

    “Just tell it, Ann,” said Adam, smiling his world-famous smile at her.

    To no-one’s surprise, Ann told it.

    It had happened at the barbecue the Bells had laid on for cast and crew the previous evening. The rumour had gone round that there’d be steak as well as the usual sausages and lamb chops, so there was a goodly turn-out for it. Sure enough, an extra giant gas-fired barbecue had joined the row of those already in use, with a grinning Scott Bell in an appropriate apron in charge of it, accompanied by a grinning Craig Magson, possibly Megson. Ran the SunnyVale Supermarket in the nearest town. The steaks had been provided by SunnyVale, or possibly merely by Craig, at cost, and could he have his photo taken with—

    The barbie wasn’t being graced by Dawlish in person, he’d taken a very-recently-taken-up-with bathing beauty into his cabin, ordering Isabelle Bell to provide a tray of cold smoked salmon (Tasmanian: tried and pre-approved), flown-in tinned pheasant en gêlée (Fortnum’s), tossed green salad with vinaigrette made to his exact specifications (Spanish olive oil, French wine vinegar, moutarde de Dijon, local salt) and fresh mangoes and pineapple (both local) with vanilla ice cream (the Bells’ normal brand, he’d fallen for it completely). So Tony was able to take plenty of very unofficial snaps of a beaming Craig with Adam McIntyre and Georgy Harris, of a beaming Craig pretending to karate chop Adam McIntyre, of a beaming Craig pretending to be karate chopped by Adam McIntyre, of a beaming Craig pushing Rosie’s wheelchair, and of a blushing Craig being allowed to lift Rosie out of the wheelchair—that sort of stuff. It wasn’t absolutely clear where one, Marlene Magson or Megson, was this evening but she certainly wasn’t with him.

    The steaks were singeing nicely, Rosie’s husband had rejoined her and more or less rescued her from Craig’s clutches, given that he’d forced a very large cold beer into his not unwilling fist, and Dot and Lucas, looking very fresh and newly showered, in fact her hair was still wet, had just joined them with Molly in tow looking happy but appalling in her old brown tee-shirt over a pair of shorts that were surely as baggy as anything the Royal Navy had ever forced its personnel into, except that they were a faded magenta, not white, when Euan emerged from his cabin and made his way over to the group.

    “Holiday snaps?” he said with his cosiest smile.

    Those who were less used to Euan Keel than Rosie and John presumably were might have been observed to stagger—well, Ann’s knees certainly felt funny and it couldn’t have been the margaritas, because she was only drinking beer. True, this was tropical Queensland. But for God’s sake, it was Australia, and never mind the 21st century: real men did not get about in tropical sarongs welded to the manly form—it was certainly that, and Ann Kitchener for one felt her eyes were on stalks—with a flower stolen from one of Dawlish’s sacred hibiscus bushes behind his ear. It had apparently dawned on no-one from Double Dee Productions until they actually got up here and started filming that these glorious tropic blooms lasted only one day. So if your shots from the previous day weren’t all you’d hoped the bush would not have a flower in just that position the next day—no. So technically speaking, or perhaps botanically speaking, there was nothing wrong with Euan’s pinching one—but really—! All the other blokes were of course in droopy tees over daggy shorts or at the very least Hawaiian shirts open over daggy shorts.

    After a moment Rosie said on a weak note: “Are you having a Jamaica, Euan?”

    “Of course, darling! It was fun, wasn’t it, even with the preggy! Talking of Jamaicas, where is Rupy?”

    “Him and Gray went over to the internal courtyard set with Bernie, to persuade him that D.D.’s sudden inspiration about having a chorus of dancing Chinese clerks would be entirely appropriate,” she said drily. “After that they were planning to take him over to Pete and Jay Lee’s place, the excuse being a Chinese meal but the real reason being that the sons and daughter and their teenage sons and daughters would all make splendid dancing clerks. And an extra reason being Rupy’s crush on Damian Lee.”

    “That’s wonderfully clear, darling!” he said with a laugh. “Well, I’ll have to be Jamaican by myself, then.”

    “Ye-ah. I hope you’ve smothered yourself in Dimp, Euan.”

    It must have dawned she was serious, because all the other Antipodeans, in fact especially Georgy, were now looking at his blank expression in unconcealed horror.

    “What?” he said limply.

    “Mozzies. They’ll eat you alive.”

    “You mean mosquitoes? Och, it’s no’ that bad, is it?” he said with an uneasy laugh.

    “Yes,” said Molly baldly into the awkward silence. “Weren’t there loads of mozzies in the Caribbean when you made Robinson Crusoe?”

    It hadn't of course been called that, but Crusoe’s Rescue, and most of their audience were now pretty obviously hoping that she’d said it on purpose and that it was getting up his nose.

    “Well, no, Molly, I didn't go on location: I did my bits in the studio. On Gilligan’s Island,” he said, twinkling at her.

    Nobody laughed and Molly just looked blank.

    “E-er… What is this Dimp?” he asked weakly.

    Molly replied simply: “It’s stuff you put on to keep the mosquitoes away. I don’t know what it is, but it comes in a spray bomb.”

    “Aerosol,” translated Dot kindly. “It’s not a leg-pull, Euan: you better put some on.” She eyed his chest drily. “That or a shirt.”

    “I—would the motel shop have it?” he bleated.

    “Bound to,” agreed Dot, sounding bored.

    Georgy was prudently wearing a long-sleeved cotton shirt over a full-length cotton skirt. “It smells horrible, but at least it works.”

    Adam put his arm round her. “Mm. I’ve got some, if the shop’s run out, Euan.”

    “Oh,” he said limply. “Thanks, Adam. Well, I’d better go and investigate, then.”

    Nobody stopped him, and he hurried off towards the motel office.

    After a moment Craig, who had simply stood there with his mouth open throughout, said weakly: “Was that that Robinson Crusoe joker?”

    “Yes,” replied Molly succinctly.

    “But I thought—” He broke off.

    “There was quite a lot of kick-boxing in it, wasn’t there?” said Rose kindly. “Most of it was a stunt double, but he isn’t gay, he’s simply—uh—”

    “An actor,” finished Molly kindly.

    “I geddit,” he said limply. “Well, uh, shall I bung a steak on for him, or not?”

    Nobody else was capable of utterance but John said nicely: “I would, yes; he’s fond of your wonderful Australian steak,” so Craig, smiling very weakly, bunged another hunk of steak on the barbie.

    No-one was particularly surprised when Euan didn’t reappear. A great deal of steak was eaten, along with, of course, mountains of chops and sausages, loaves and loaves of fresh white sliced bread—fresh out of one of Isabelle’s enormous freezers this morning—and a pretty token amount of salad. After this John and Rosie voted for an early night without waiting for pud—she was yawning her head off, Dawlish had spent most of the day trying to get the precise quality of the Queensland light reflecting off her face on the verandah of the hideaway. Adam and Georgy, also yawning, admitted the Queensland humidity had got to them, and crawled off to their cabin and its air-con. So Dot and Lucas gave an unconvincing show of following their example and, first kindly ascertaining that Molly didn't want a lift back, vanished in the direction of their bedroom.

    Isabelle’s puds were usually pretty good, so Ann had no intention of go to bed yet, especially as she had only the prospect of watching the same rotten TV programmes they got back home while she wondered what sorts of exotic dishes Bernie was eating and looked very half-heartedly through her notes for next Saturday’s two-page spread. “I can drive you back later if you like, Molly,” she said kindly. “I’ll borrow someone’s car.”

    “That’s okay, it’s a lovely walk. Would it be greedy to have cheesecake and pav?”

    “Gee, is there pav as well? Uh—well, yeah, but let’s!”

    Eagerly they helped themselves to cheesecake, pav and, since they were there, fruit salad and ice cream as well, and retired to sit on the grassy slope with them.

    “I wonder where Euan went?” said Molly after some time of just peaceful eating.

    “Mm? Oh—sulking in his tent, I suppose. Silly thing. Who did he think was gonna admire him in his sarong, for God’s sake?”

    “Dot, I think,” said Molly in a small voice. “I think he’s awfully jealous because of the thing with Lucas.”

    “Um, I dunno what she’s told you, but we all had the strong impression that when she wanted to, he wouldn’t, Molly,” she said cautiously.

    “I know, and that proves he’s got decent instincts, doesn’t it?” she said fiercely.

    “Uh—well, yeah.” She eyed her dubiously. “Doesn’t mean he isn’t silly, though.”

    “Couldn’t you see?” returned Molly, staring at her.

    See what? Was she clairvoyant, for Pete’s sake? “Eh?”

    “He was very nervous and he got it all wrong: he wanted to make an impression but it was the wrong thing!” she said fiercely.

    It had been that, all right. “Um, yeah. Oh! I think I get it. Um, yeah, I’d say he is pretty, um, highly strung, Molly. Um, but he’s been out here for a while now, and none of the other blokes ever wear sarongs.”

    “That’s what I mean. I think he gets so worked up that he can’t think straight, so he does something really stupid. My Micky’s a bit like that. Sometimes he gets so overexcited that he throws up.”

    Ri-ight. How old was the kid? Eightish? Euan Keel must be thirty-three or -four.

    “I bet he hasn’t had anything to eat at all!” added Molly on a cross note.

    “You mean he’s sitting in his motel unit cutting off his nose to spite his face?”

    “No,” she said with a sigh. “I mean he’s lost his nerve completely. Dot looked at him as if he was a snail.”

    “Yuh— Think you might mean slug.”

    “Is that the expression? She can’t stand snails: she was telling me she had a plague of them in the garden at her flat, so every time it rained she used to go out and stamp on them.” Possibly it dawned that Ann wasn’t a gardener, because she added: “They come out after the rain, you see. But I always feel sorry for them, even though I know they’re a menace.”

    Boy, that summed it up in a nutshell, didn’t it? So Ann looked at her very kindly and said: “We could pop over to his cabin and make sure he’s had some grub, if you like. So long as we can do a detour on the way back via that fruit salad,”

   “It is nice tonight, isn’t it? She’s used up those big tins of lychees that Sharon Wong got her wholesale. Um, yes, let’s,” she said, getting up.

    Talking of losing one’s nerve, Ann hadn't really thought the girl would. Well, apart form this evening, had she even spoken to the fellow directly? Or was she expecting her, Ann Kitchener, a mere reporter of other people’s glamorous and exciting lives, to take the lead?

    The cabins were very quiet, apart from some really horrible music coming from Varley Knollys’s one. Singing. Sort of booming. Not pop. Opera?

    “Ugh!” said Molly as they passed it. “Which one’s his?”

    Unfortunately Ann knew that and didn’t think fast enough to disclaim all knowledge. “That one, next to ours.”

    Calmly Molly went up to it and knocked.

    Ann had now decided the whole bit was a big mistake and the suggestion had been entirely due to the amount of beer she’d ingested. She stood just close enough not to be accused of rank cowardice.

    After an appreciable pause the verandah light came on and the door opened, revealing Euan in his dressing-gown, with what looked like a glass of whisky in his fist.

    “Hullo,” said Molly calmly. “Sorry to disturb you. We were just wondering if you’d got anything to eat.”

    “No,” he said lamely.

    “Well, all the steak’s gone but there’s some sausages left. And there’s loads of salad and quite a lot of fruit salad.”

    “With lychees,” said Ann hoarsely. “Not everyone likes them.”

    “Tinned, I suppose,” he retorted on annoyed note.

    Weren’t they always? Didn't they come like that?

    “Yes, of course they are,” said Molly calmly.

    “It’s ludicrous!” he said crossly. “They’d grow like weeds in this climate: why in Christ are you no’ growing them instead of damned boring English apples and strawberries?”

    “The apples’ll be from Tazzie or South Australia,” said Molly, unmoved. “I didn’t know strawberries were English.”

    “Yes!” he said impatiently. “Och, it’s the bluidy white man’s grave thing, is it no?” Suddenly he burst into song: “Should Australians pick lychees, the farmers say No, ’cos no-one but a Chinaman would stop so low! –To quote bluidy Derry,” he added sourly.

    “Do they grow lychees in China?” asked Molly clinically.

    “According to Derry—yes.”

     “I see. Well, Isabelle’s are tinned, and the fruit salad’s really lovely.”

    “Aye,” he said, biting his lip. “I’m sorry, I didna mean to be rude—it is your country. Thank you both for—for caring.”

    “That’s okay,” said Ann quickly. “I’m sure Scott’ll do you a sausage, if you ask him. Though it’s not guaranteed to counteract half a bottle of Scotch.”

    “It a kind thought, Ann, but after making a fool of maself in my sarong without my Dimp—the office was out of it, of course,” he noted sourly, “I’ve no’ got the guts to face up to a decent Aussie bloke with no pretensions about him—who can’t even understand a pretension when it ups and hits him in the face—and ask him to cook ma dinner.”

    “That’s understandable, though it is his job, and he’s very good-natured, I don’t think he’d think twice about it,” said Molly.

    “No, but he’d feel sorry for me,” he said tiredly.

    “Yes,” agreed Molly, still calm. “I’ll go and grab you something: I can cook it on your stove. I won’t be a mo’.”

    Forthwith she turned on her heel and forged off towards the barbecues.

    “I’d accept that offer. Think she’s pretty much the salt of the earth,” noted Ann. “See ya.” She didn’t wait to see if he was gonna reply, she just hurried away.

    There was a stunned silence under the sun-umbrella. Then Bernie croaked: “Why didn’t you say?”

    “Mm? Well, not all that vitally interested, Bernie. And if you recall, by the time you got back you were so full of My-ties, or whatever they call that Chinese muck, you could barely stand up.”

    “Yeah,” he admitted, grinning foolishly. “God, did I have a head this morning! –Not Mai Tais, but I’m damned if I can remember the name; some sort of Chinese wine. Or quite possibly fortified wine,” he added thoughtfully.

    “But Ann, you can’t just leave it that!” cried Georgy. “What happened next?”

    Ann’s attention had wandered to where the McIntyres’ little boy was building a very elementary sand-castle. “Mm? Oh—dunno, Georgy. Well, she did grab some raw sausages out of Scott’s esky and a plate of salad and stuff, I saw that much.”

    “Ann, did she spend the night with him?” asked Adam clearly, grinning.

    “Now I see what Dawlish means by diction!” returned Ann, grinning back. “Well, dunno. She hadn’t come out by the time I’d finished my third helping of the fruit salad, and there was no sign of this drunken sot, here, so I gave it away.”

    “But good God, woman, why weren’t you outside his cabin waiting breathlessly with your Polaroid camera poised at crack of dawn this morning?” asked Bernie. “They’ll blackball you from the Paparazzi Club!”

    “Eh? Oh—very funny. Wasn’t actually awake at crack of dawn, for one thing, and for another thing, I never thought of it.”

    “And for a third thing, you wouldn’t have done it if you had thought of it!” added Adam with a laugh. “Oh, Lor’, I don’t know whether to hope they did or they didn’t, if you see what I mean!”

    Possibly the famous film star hadn’t phrased it very well, but they all most certainly saw what he meant. In fact they all felt exactly the same way about it. In fact the more they thought about it, the more they— Yeah.