Options

27

Options

    Who the fuck is it? It’s the crack of dawn! “Hullo!”

    So this fake-meek voice goes: “Hullo, Dot, it’s me. David.”

    Right. He never went to bed at all; what the fuck is the ti—Oh. All the same, what time was it we got home this morning? “What?”

    “Um, I seem to have picked up someone’s watch, and I’ve rung Ann: she swears it isn’t hers.”

    “Must be Nefertite’s.”

    “No, it’s some time since she wore anything not solid gold and encrusted with sapphires or amethysts, Dot.”

    Very funny. It can’t be mine, cos I remember putting it the bedside t— Did I? “Hang on, this ruddy phone’s in the front passage, I’ll have to go upstairs and check, why the Hell didn’tcha ring me on my mobile?”

    “I didn’t know you had one, Dot. I mean, if I’d thought about it— Um, sorry. This was the number in the book.”

    If I was awake I might admit that that was possibly genuine but I’m NOT AWAKE! “Yeah. Couldn’t it of waited? Hang on.”

    So I crawl back upstairs. Silly bugger, my watch is sitting smack, bang in the middle of my dressing-table. And it is the crack of dawn, yeah. Crawl back downstairs—it’s a wonder I didn’t fall down before, the fucking phone gimme such a fright! “It’s not mine, mine’s on my dressing-table. What’s it like?”

    “Small, silvery, with, um, cut things, I think pretending to be something else.”

    Shit! Grandma’s watch!

    He’s going: “Dot? Are you all right?”

    “Um, yeah. Sorry, David. It’s Grandma’s watch. I mean, ’tis mine, she left it to me. My grandma on Dad’s side, the Mallory side.”

    “Right, not the one you share with Rosie and Molly that went gaga and ended in a home—or is she still in it?” he says with a smile in his voice.

    “Grandma Leach. Yeah, she is.” Me knees have gone all weak, now I see why people like Aunty Kate have them fancy spindly little chairs or stools next to the flaming Telstra-installed phones that are real handily placed in the passage like this stupid thing. Think I’ll siddown, actually. Grunt, pant, phew! “Sorry, hadda sit down, what with the fog and the— Yeah. I was wearing it last night, I remember now, cos my other fancy watch, that Deanna gave me, it looked all wrong with that frock. Thank God ya found it! Like, I can’t even remember her, but she left it to me in her will. It’s a wind-up one, I hardly ever wear it.”

    “Mm. I think the catch might be loose.”

    It fucking must be, yeah. “Eh?”

    “I said, I’ll bring it over.”

    What, now? Before I can say it, he’s saying that he’ll bring something for breakfast, too, and he’s rung off. Silly bugger: breakfast? At this hour? Blast, now I’ll have to get dressed and have a shower. Not necessarily in that order. Boy, do I feel fuzzy. What was that muck Daffy made me drink last night?

    … Later. I’m not saying I feel awake but I do feel marginally less fuzzy and once I’ve got a cup of coffee down me I might—What? That can’t be him already! Look, if it’s the fucking Jehovah’s Witnesses I swear I’ll—Uh, no, hang on, it’s Sunday. Right, in that case I’ll slaughter—

    “Dad! What are you doing here?”

    “Calm down, there’s nothing wrong at home.”

    “I wasn’t thinking that: if there hadda been you would of been at home dealing with it, you wouldn’t of come over here.”

    “Must you be so relentlessly logical?’

    (Yes.) “What are you doing here?”

    “Aren’t you gonna invite me in?” he says tiredly.

    “Look, if it’s Grandma Leach popped her clogs, I don’t c—”

    “Nobody cares, Dot: she was a spiteful old bat before she went gaga and she’s still a spiteful old bat!” he shouts.

    Right. Exactly. “Is it?”

    “NO! Will ya for Pete’s sake let me in, or do ya want ya neighbours to hear the REST?” he bellows.

    I don’t mind—they’re welcome. Though actually, on the right (as you face the road) it’s Ole Ma Jackson, talking of spiteful, gaga old bats: she wouldn’t hear World War Fucking Three, and on the left, it’s Bruce McAllister and Shelby Martin, they wouldn’t hear the War of the Worlds at this hour on a Sunday, they’ll of been clubbing till at least five this morning. In fact their outside light was still on when I got home.

    “All right, come in, if ya must.” So he comes in and goes: “What were you doing last night? And dare I hope it was something normal, unconnected with computers?”

    “Look, if you’ve only come over to earbash me about taking that contract with Double Dee—”

    “No, it wouldn’t do any good,” he says heavily, making for the kitchen.

    Ya right there, mate. Cos it isn’t any of your fucking business. And what’s the betting what ya come about isn’t any of your business, either?

    Only I don’t get to know this yet, cos first he has to go: “What were you?”

    “I went to a concert, if it’s any of your business, and then I went round after and saw Nefertite, um, Aphrodite Corrant. And then her and her, um, mate, well, the baritone she’s touring with—”

    “Daffyd Owens, I do read something other than the sports pages!”

    “Yeah, all right, ya know it all already, so why I am bothering to tell ya?” He just gives me a dirty look, so I’m more or less forced to go on: “We went out for supper after, and then they wanted to, um, drive around a bit. The harbour at night, kind of thing. Don’t look at me, it wasn’t my idea.”

    “The magical view of the chains of jewels on black velvet and the reflections in the fathomless black glass that’s the harbour at night? No, it wouldn’t have been.”

    Silly idiot! Glare, glare. And yes, that is more or less what Nefertite said it looked like.

    “What was the concert like?” he goes, opening cupboard doors.

    “The singing was good, but I didn’t like the modern pieces, and that’s all I can tell ya.”

    “Got the programme?”

    “No! It cost a flaming fortune!”

    “How do you expect to learn anything if you don’t at least know what you’re listening—”

    “I don’t expect to learn nothing: I didn’t go to learn, I went to listen, and anyway, I looked at Ann’s and it was all glitzy shit and nothing about the music at all!”

    “Who’s Ann?” he goes, putting Instant into two mugs.

    “Help yaself to my last spoonful of Instant, won’t you? Nobody you know. Um, well, she’s the reporter from The Sydney Morning Star that come up to Queensland with the film lot.”

    “Eh?”

    “I told— Um, I told somebody about her, anyway.” –Lamely. “Um, I think Deanna actually met her at the studios.”

    He takes a deep breath. “Well, that would certainly explain why I’ve never heard of her!”

    Eh?

    It sinks in that I’m just standing here with my gob open because he says with a sigh: “It appears that she’s had other things on her mind, of late.”

    Uh—dishy little Aaron, yeah: only she won’t of let on about him to them, she’s not that mad. Not that there’s anything wrong with him as such, and yeah, since they come round to dinner at Aunty May’s that time the whole family will of heard about it anyway, but there was absolutely nothing in it, he’s still hung up on the film-star shit and convinced that if only he could get D.D. to let him read for a part he’d be next year’s answer to Tom Cruise. And she’s not mad enough to believe he’d pick her for his Nicole. Well, yeah: skinny, female, and Aussie, but even Deanna wouldn’t conclude that’d mean she’d be in there with a chance. And to do her justice I don’t think she’d really want that sort of life.

    So he pours the coffee and says: “Come through into the lounge-room.”

    All right, if you say so. But this doesn’t mean I’m prepared to take your side in whatever it is, Dad. –No, ’course I don’t say it, do I want to provoke an explosion?

    So we sit down, he’s forgotten that the foot thing on the Lazy-Boy won’t go down, but after a bit of swearing he puts his feet up and leans back and shuts his eyes and sighs.

    “It’s her, isn’t it? What’s she done?”

    “Declared her intention of marrying flaming Bob Springer,” he goes with his eyes shut.

    That all? And yeah, I was right, it is something that’s none of your business, mate.

    So he opens his eyes and starts: “Don’t tell me you—”

    “Nah! ’Course I didn’t know! Only heck, what with dragging him off to the gym two nights a week—well, I know she wanted someone to drive her, yeah, only she kept on doing it; and making him eat salads and vegetarian stir-fries done in the non-stick pan without oil;”—he winces, who can blame him—“and going out with him for his birthday and everything: I mean, I’d of thought anybody could of seen it coming!”

    “Funnily enough your mother and I didn’t, because the man’s more than twice her age and he’s known her since she was a baby!” he shouts.

    “Yeah. Doesn’t necessarily mean he’s past it. And he is a pretty decent type. And what’s the alternative? Some dim little nerd like that zoot-suited Aaron that’d put her last after his so-called career and his fancy car and all the other fancy junk that nerds like him think’s important? At least Bob’s old enough to know what’s really important in life.”

    “Possibly—yeah. But is she?”

    Er… “Well, yeah, she must be, Dad, or she wouldn’t of chosen him!”

    “Dot, what did we say when she opted to take the job with him?” he goes heavily.

    “Dunno. What did ya?”

    “Uh—oh, of course, you weren’t— No. Well, if we didn’t mention it to you then, I’m saying it now: it was like not bothering to work up a decent portfolio and apply for a solid course at the Art School when that dim moo that’s a mate of Joslynne’s Mum’s offered to teach her useless crap: it was Deanna taking the easy option because it’s offered to her on a plate!”

    Yeah, like the rest of humanity, Dad. “You and Mum both said you were ruddy glad she wasn’t working in town, as I recall it. Round about September—”

    “That’ll DO!” he shouts, bright red.

    Short silence.

    “Of course we did, Dot, fucking 9/11 would make anyone think like that,” he admits tiredly. “That’s got nothing to do with it. It’s her taking the easy option again without thinking is she maybe gonna regret it. Look, in fifteen years’ time Bob Springer’ll be at retirement age, and Deanna’ll still be in her thirties! How’s that gonna work out?”

    Sigh. “I dunno, Dad, but I can’t see that they’ll have less of a chance than the thousands of pairs of young morons that get it together when they’re both in their twenties. Well, look at ruddy Wendalyn and the unlamented Shane, to name only two.”

    He opens his mouth. Then he shuts it again. Yeah. See, there is no essential difference between Shane and any other young male moron that Wendalyn might of picked, not to say no essential difference between him and Bryce. The point is they were a pair of young morons that never paused to think did they even like each other and what, apart from the sex and the fact that marriage with a giant suburban palace and a humungous great mortgage is the norm, were they doing it for?

    So after a minute I go: “Has he actually asked her, then?”

    “Uh—sort of. Well, asked her to think about it, yeah. –Some hope,” he notes sourly.

    “Well, did she say to you and Mum that she’s thinking about it, or that she’s decided?”

    He passes his hand over his hair—what’s left of it, shit, poor old Dad, maybe I have been a bit hard on him. But heck, it is none of his business, and it’s none of mine, either! “She said she’s gonna move in with him and she thinks it’d be nice to be married in early April and have the honeymoon in the Blue Mountains, that definite enough for ya?”

    Yeah, ’tis, actually. “Mm.”

    “And the only reason she hasn’t chosen Bali—”

    “Yes! Jesus, Dad!”

    “Sorry,” he goes grimacing. “I suppose we can be thankful she didn’t get herself engaged to a young footballer. Harry Darling’s boy bought it, did ya know?”

    Shit. “Um, no. That’s awful, Dad.”

    “Yeah,” he says heavily “Yeah. And young Jase Pencarrick’s in hospital with burns, they don’t seem to know how bad. Uh—Gordy Pencarrick’s second son, Dot: from the office.”

    “Mm. I’m really sorry, Dad.”

    “Yeah. Well, these things happen… Actually, I don’t think that is the only reason she’s opted for the Blue Mountains; she muttered something about looking at B&B’s. He’s not serious about that idea, is he?”

    “Um, well, back when he dragged us to the Lowenbrau he was going on about it… Um, but so was Euan, I thought it was just pipe-dreams of the middle classes, Dad.” Shit, didn’t mean to put it like that, actually; it just slipped out.

    “Ya would do, yeah,” he goes, staring at me. “Euan Keel?”

    “Um, something about trout, think it’s a Scotch thing.”

    He passes his hand over his hair again and goes in a mad voice: “Next you’ll be telling me he’s planning to open a trout-fishing B&B with your cousin Molly!:”

    “No, I won’t, cos he hasn’t even sent her a postcard, the selfish shit!”

    “Mm. Um,” he says, eyeing me warily, “we did get the impression from Rosie that he’s the sort of type that only thinks about himself, Dot.”

    “Yeah, yeah. Don’t look at me like that: I mean, sure I fancied him, the female half of the entire world population fancies him, but I was never serious about him for an instant. And the thing with Molly was just a—a kind of holiday thing on both sides. In fact, she said herself just recently that it had been a real ego boost. Um, maybe you can’t see it, but he is a dish.”

    “Yeah. Well, I admit for me the selfishness and the not even sending her a postcard far outweigh whatever it is the distaff side sees in him, but your mother assures me you’re right on that one. Though I don’t say she’ll go so far as to write Buff a breathless account of Molly’s holiday fling,” he notes drily.

    Gee, no! What an awful thought— My God! “Ya don’t mean Aunty Allyson has?”

    “Put it like this, Dot: she undoubtedly will should she get wind of it, so just don’t open your big mouth to anyone who might possibly tell her. Wendalyn being at the top of the list.”

    “No,” I croak.

    I think he’s quite pleased that he’s managed to throw a scare into me, cos he sits back and finishes his coffee, looking smug. “No,” he concludes. “Well, I’m glad it’s done Molly good. But we were talking about Bob’s B&B fixation.”

    Eh? Oh! So we were! “Um, well, I haven’t spoken to him for ages, Dad. Um, well, if Deanna’s really keen on it, I can see him doing it,” I admit reluctantly.

    “Yeah. Hiving off to somewhere really inaccessible,” he notes sourly.

    “It couldn’t be too inaccessible, or the rich doctors and top lawyer townees and their wives wouldn’t—”

    “Yes! Don’t be so fucking LITERAL!” he shouts.

    All right, I won’t.

    “All I’m trying to say is, five’ll get ya ten it won’t be the Blue Mountains or anything like it, because all the possible B&B places round there have long since been snapped up.”

    Ugh, he’s got a point, actually. Maybe I won’t tell him that half the trout places Bob mentioned were down in Tazzie, cos—

    “Were any precise locations mentioned for this trout-fishing crap?” he asks sourly.

    Ouch! Cos that’d make it worse. See, Deanna always has been pretty much Dad’s little pet. Like, pretty little doll, ya know? –Yeah. There’s a fair bit of it about.

    “Um,”—swallow—“wherever they have trout, I suppose, Dad.” –Lamely.

    “Tasmania,” he states grimly.

    Yeah, go on, spell it out, that’ll make it so much—Shit!

    “Who the fuck’s that?” he goes.

    “You may well ask. It’ll be flaming David Walsingham, cos he found Grandma’s watch, it musta fallen off my wrist.” He’s just staring blankly at me. “Nefertite’s brother. He was with us last night— YEAH! Will ya hold ya horses, I’m COMING!”

    It is him, of course.

    “I’m not flaming deaf, why are you battering the door down?”

    “I thought you might have gone back to sleep, Dot.”

    Right, because I didn’t answer the door within two split seconds. Did he imagine I’d be standing there breathlessly awaiting his arrival, or—Forget it. “Yeah.” Gimme the watch, then, and push off. He’s giving me this sheep-like look, boy, does that ya drive ya ropeable! And why is it, please note, only the opposite sex that does it?

    Deep breath. “Ya better come in, only be warned, Dad’s here.”

    “I think I can cope with that,” he goes, very la-de-da. Cripes, he’s actually shaved, and that looks like a clean shirt under this totally putrid hairy tweed coat. Probably the original Pommy tweed coat, are those actual leather buttons on it?

    “Eh?”

    “I said,” he murmurs, “though not if he and your mother are in the throes of a marital row.”

    Sigh. “No, so ya can stop whispering. Deanna reckons she’s gonna move in with Bob Springer and get married next April.”

    “Of course! Very clear!” he says cordially, coming in.

    “My sister. And Bob’s—”

    “Mitre 10: I remember,” he says calmly, stepping into the sitting-room. “Hullo: it’s Andy, isn’t it? David Walsingham. Your sister-in-law Kate McHale’s former neighbour.”

    “Dad, he’s taking the Mick,” I warn.

    “Leave it out, Dot,” he warns in return, getting up and holding out his hand. “Hullo, David, good to meet you. Was that Mum’s watch she went and dropped last night?”

    David shakes hands, looking wry. “Mm. I’m afraid it’s stopped, too. I didn’t dare to wind it, I thought I might be blamed.”

    “Very wise,” he notes drily. “Fancy a coffee? I was just gonna make a second round.”

    “Ya weren’t, Dad, I been trying to tell ya, that was the last of the INSTANT!”

    So the bugger goes—see, he’s inviting David into his flaming male peer group—“Sorry, David, I’m afraid we’re having a slight family crisis here, not to say, a disagreement about whether it’s actually a crisis or not.”

    “I gathered that,” he agrees, smooth as silk. “Deanna and Bob Springer of Mitre 10 fame, is it?”

    “Yeah. Well, he’s a decent bloke, I’m not saying he isn't—Oh, good, you’ve brought some coffee,” he recognises as David delves into this ruddy carrier bag he’s got in his mitt.

    What? Sweet flaming bloody Norah, of all the cheek!

    “And a coffee-pot,” he notes, producing a brand-new shiny one.

    So Dad collapses in hysterics, bashing him on the back into the bargain, and they take the male peer group into the kitchen, and as far as I’m concerned, they can choke on it! Jesus!

    … Later. Yeah, Dad, he makes ace coffee, ’tis because he’s part Greek, yeah, yeah… Okay, these croissants he’s brung aren’t bad, likewise those Greek biscuits, or would they be little cakes? Halfway between—whatever. I know them, they’re the ones that start with K, it’s a very long word, unpronounceable, and they’re like, made of these wound-up shreds of the dough. Likewise the baklava’s ace, yeah. Just right as a reviver after a night on the town? Very funny, Dad. Witty, even. Gee, one of us is interested in all the gory details of exactly what Nefertite and Daffy sung last night, David, but it isn’t me, and if ya that interested, Andrew Mallory, why didn’t ya go to the flaming thing, and if ya can’t see that’s exactly what David’s thinking you’re even dumber than Deanna. The man has never met Bob, Dad: why’d you imagine he’ll wanna be dragged over to tea with them tonight? Shit. Well, want to or not, he’s accepted.

    So I wait until Dad’s pushed off to the bog and then I go: “David, you don’t have to come to tea at their place. Like, the only reason he invited you is so as there’ll be a buffer between the family and Bob, I should of thought you’d be bright enough to spot that.”

    He eyes me real drily and goes: “The only reason? I sincerely doubt it, Dot.”

    “Why the Hell else do ya reckon he asked you?”

    “I reckon he asked me,” he goes, yeah, very funny, Pom, “because—let me see, how shall I put this?”—Gee, don’t put it at all, for mine.—“I reckon he asked me because when a bloke’s visiting one of his daughters around midday on a Sunday with the news that his other daughter’s got herself engaged and another bloke turns up at the daughter’s place with a carrier bag full of food in his fist, the natural assumption is that that daughter would want him along when she’s asked to dinner at the parental home.”

    What? The cheeky bugger! “Very funny.”

    “No, think about it!” he says with a laugh.

    I am thinking about it, and that’s why I’ve gone red as a beet. This is ludicrous! Just because Deanna’s got herself tied up to a bloke more than twice her age— How old is he, anyway? Like, back when I was in Adelaide he struck me as old as the hills, but I admit I was just a kid then. Um, well, the ubiquitous five o’clock shadow didn’t help, did it?

    “What are you thinking about?” he says uneasily.

    “Ubiquitous. Eh? Oh, sorry, David, not you!” He’s gone very red, oh, shit, poor joker! Well, I mean, he’s not all bad, and it was a nice thought to bring over something to eat, though the coffee-pot was totally on the nose. “Um, no, I meant the five o’clock shadow.”

    “But I shaved,” he says weakly, touching his jaw.

    “Yeah, um, actually I was thinking you look younger without it. Like, back in Adelaide,”—now I’ve gone red again, for Pete’s sake, Dot Mallory, this is flaming D. Walsingham, here—“um, you always had it. Except for the actual Chrissie dinner with Aunty Kate, of course!”

    “Forty-two,” he drawls.

    So I go sourly: “Thanks.”

    “I can’t help it, Dot,” he says with a sigh.

    “I know that!”

    “No, I meant being forty-two to your twenty-five.”

    Gulp. Um, no, course ya can’t, how did this conversation ever get started? So after a bit I croak: “So how old is Nefertite?”

    “Oh, half as old as time!” he says with a sudden laugh. “Forty-four, actually. The Terrible Infant’s all of twenty, now.”

    “Yes, she said she was demanding a huge twenty-first,” I remind him.

    “Mm, well, she’ll get one if she can persuade the Unlamented Corrant to unzip his hip-pocket—I suppose there’s always a first time,” he notes drily. “But Nefertite certainly can’t afford to throw giant parties for five hundred in enormous marquees: the money runs through her fingers like water.”

    Actually I’m not all that surprised to hear it. She certainly doesn’t seem to of got anything much out of the Unlamented Corrant at the divorce. “Yeah. Um, I know it’s none of my business, but how long can she go on? I mean, most singers retire fairly early, don’t they? I mean, ya can’t count those ancient tenors.”

    “You certainly can’t!” he agrees, shuddering. “The voice is still good, Dot,” he says, suddenly smiling at me. “Richer than ever. It tends to be sopranos who retire relatively early—and please don’t mention Dame Joan in that regard!”

    Wince, cringe. “I wasn’t gonna!”

    “When she was at her peak she was magical—I’ll send you a CD. Don’t panic, I had it made from an old recording! In fact, would you like a copy of the Ring with her singing the—”

    “No, she wouldn’t: she wouldn’t appreciate it, David, but I would!” Dad interrupts eagerly.

    “All right, Andy, I’ll send it over the minute I get back to Adelaide!” he says with a laugh.

    He won’t, see, he’ll forget, because other people’s lives are not important to D. Walsingham. “Don’t get ya hopes up,” I advise sourly. “Anyway, singing the what?”

    So David says something in German, stupid nong. Serves me right for asking, doesn’t it?

    Now Dad’s telling me I oughta go to this German dump if I’m heading for Europe and they start blahing on about Germany and uh, Sweden? Operas in Sweden? Oh, who cares!

    “Listen, about fourteen hours back you were gonna tell me what Nefertite’s gonna do with herself!”

    “What? Oh, so I was—sorry, Dot. Well, as she mentioned, she is getting very fed up with the touring. Mother wants her to settle down in Greece, just give a few concerts a year, and if it was only Mother, I think she would, but unfortunately the whole kit and caboodle of the sisters and the cousins and the aunts goes along with her.”

    Dad suddenly bursts into song, boy, is this embarra— No, ’tisn’t, cos David’s joined in. What in God’s name is it? I’m not gonna ask, they’d be only too pleased to tell me.

    “His sisters and his cousins and his aunts!” Dad finishes, panting. “Yeah! Never knew I remembered all that—Dad knew most of the patter songs off by heart. Has your sister thought of maybe settling somewhere near but not actually in Athens, David?”

    “I think the nearest she could bear, long-term, would be the south of France, Andy!”

    Yeah hah, hah. Rave on, it was me that asked, in case you’ve forgotten. Scowl.

    “Sorry, Dot. Actually, she has got a cottage in France—northern France, though. Lovely in the summer but the winters are pretty bad. No, well, at the moment she’s decided she wants to slow down and settle down, but she can’t decide where,” David finishes on a glum note.

    “She should come out here, Sydney’s not bad any time of the year!” Dad invites jovially.

    Something like that, yeah. If you don’t mind the humidity

    “Or why not Adelaide, near you? Don’t they say it’s a Mediterranean climate?”

    “Part of the time, yes,” says David drily. “Forty-three-degree heat’s a bit more than she can take. Unfortunately that tends to coincide with the coldest part of the northern French winters.”

    Dad can solve that one, no sweat! “Well, most of the year out here, nip over to France for our winter, and a month or so with your mum for the worst of the SA summer?”

    “Dad, you’ve just suggested two round-the-world trips a year for the poor woman! –Yes! Work it out!”

    He must of worked it out because he goes lamely: “Oh.”

    “The Blue Mountains with Bob and Deanna’d be the answer,” I note drily, getting up. “I’m going to the bog, you two can have a real peer group while I’m gone.”

    The expected retorts of: “Yeah, for three hours or more!” arise behind me but I’m ignoring them totally, see? A person can’t help their biology.

    … Forty-two. Well, that’s younger than I thought, actually. Only heck, that means he’s seventeen years older than— Take a pull, Dot Mallory! Just because the man come over to bring your watch back and brought some croissants and stuff does not mean he’s suddenly gonna propose! And shit, if you imagine it’d be impossible to live with Lucas, how much more impossible would it be—

    Yeah. Exactly.

    Ya might think, that is, if all you knew of Earth was the TV transmissions you’d picked up from somewhere in Outer Space, or if you’d lived in one of those bubbles all your life, or like that, that an unofficially engaged girl would be unable to talk about anything but their plans. Nope. She bends our ears unceasingly on the subject of Miff’s ruddy wedding dress. Well, yeah, I like Miff, she’s brainless but entirely well intentioned, not a spiteful bone in her beautiful bod, and if Kenny’s what she wants, good luck with it, but cripes, the wedding isn't until next February, and do I care—do any of us care except Deanna—whether she chooses same-material little roses to go round the hem and possibly on the bodice if it wouldn’t look too top-heavy—even Dad didn’t choke, it’d been going on for so long—or real-looking little roses, not plastic, Dot, silk! All right, silk—or not roses at all, embroidery— Oh, beg ya pardon, embroidered roses, and if so should the embroidery be raised… Dad still doesn't choke, in fact he’s just sitting there looking totally glazed. I can’t take it any more: I get up and walk out to the kitchen. Like, they’re in the family-room, Mum’s got a new mania that we all gotta call it the sitting-room and the twins are NOT to clump around in there with their great boots on. And she’s got the sofa to prove it. Blue, it’ll fade like billyo, the sun comes right in through that window all summ—Forget it, God knows she deserves a new sofa, she’s had enough to put up with all these years, and now— Yeah.

    So she goes glumly: “Is she still at it?”

    “Yeah. Roses on the tits, or some such.”

    “Yes,” she says dully. “I suppose Bob does know what she’s like.”

    “Yeah. Well, every time I’ve been into Mitre 10 either he’s been boring on about what’s selling or not selling or she’s been boring on about clothes or make-up, so yeah: I’d say he knows.”

    “They’re all like that, Dot,” she says heavily.

    “You said it!”

    “Um, David seems nice,” she offers.

    ’Course he does, you idiot, you’re a middle-aged female and he’s turned on the charm for you! “Mum, you’re about as blind as Aunty Kate.”

    “Yes? In my experience of her, that’s only about thirty years more than yours,” she notes snidely, “that’s certainly a compliment.”

    I don’t think ya got the grammar of that sentence right at all, Mum, but I know what ya mean. “She’s middle-aged and female, and D. Walsingham specialises in winding them round his little finger.”

    Cripes, she's gone rather red. “Shut up, Dot, you’re a little idiot. And this habit of yours of calling people by their initial and their surname is getting to be a mania, you wanna watch it.”

    A mania, eh? That’s flattering, from a person that’s told the twins forty-two times in my hearing to keep their great boots out of her sitting-room, and that’s only this evening. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. I dunno what spy material Aunty Kate might of sent you in microdot form under that exact postage of hers, but he’s a gourmet as well, so whatever he might say about the tea’ll be a lie, however convinc—Now what?”

    “Shut up, Dot!” she gasps, bursting into tears.

    Oh, boy. So I put an arm round her and go: “Bob’s okay. At least he’ll look after her. She’s pretty dim, ya know: don’t think she’d cope all that well with a young nong like Shane or Bryce for a husband. Or Tim, come to think of it.” –Him and Narelle couldn’t come over for tea because it’s Sunday and of course they have to go her mum and dad’s—rain or shine, bush fires or electrical storms, family engagements on the other side… Right.

    “Yes,” she says, sniffing. “He is wet, isn’t he?”—I never said that, but yeah, “wet” puts it real well. I just make a vague noise that’s not quite an “Mm.”—“I think I did too much for him, because he was the first,” she goes soggily. “Never let him stand on his own feet, really. Kept him in cottonwool too long.”

    Yeah? Ya made up for it with me, though, didn’tcha? Or, put it another way, we’d of both turned out like that anyway, because, let’s face it, Tim’s about as soft as Dad, he not only needs to be bossed around by his life-partner, he wants it, and I’m—well, at least as managing as you are, Mum, I can see that if you can’t.

    “Personally I don’t think any amount of cottonwool’d change a person’s essential character, Mum. But ya don’t need to worry about him, him and Narelle suit each other down to the ground.”

    She gives me a watery smile. “Yes, they do, don’t they? I was afraid he’d chosen her for her looks, at first.”—Of course he had, Mum, he’s as blind as the rest of them!—“But really, she’s just what he needs.”—Right, talked herself round in a circle. Never mind.

    “Yeah, and Bob’s what Deanna needs. ’Member when she was going out with that Guy Hutchins?”

    “Hitchins,” she says, blowing her nose on a piece of paper towel. “You always get that wrong, Dot.”

    Whatever. “Yeah, him. I was thinking of that time they borrowed his uncle’s boat and it broke down.”

    “Oh, good Heavens, yes! In the middle of the inlet—well, it is pretty isolated, but there were those holiday homes on the ridge, in clear sight, and pathetic little Guy didn’t even think of swimming to shore, he just panicked!”

    “Yeah, well, he’s not much of a swimmer, any more than she is, only he never even thought of testing the water to see—”

    “––how deep it was!” she joins in with a laugh. 

    “How deep was it?” asks an interested Pommy voice from the doorway and we both yelp and spin round.

    Can’t the man keep out of any ruddy kitchen? But then he goes: “I’m afraid I’ve run away.” So I suppose I forgive him. And Mum certainly look as if she does.

    “Go on: how deep was it?” he repeats with a grin.

    Cof. “Like, when Deanna finally worked up her courage and got over the side? Mid-thigh.”

    He collapses in sniggers and Mum joins in.

    Yeah, well, that is pretty good, but it isn’t the whole of the point I was gonna make. “Yeah. Acksherly the point I was gonna make was that instead of hauling the boat in with the perfectly good rope the uncle kept in it, the pair of twits abandoned it—still panicking, see? Fortunately the man in the nearest house up the ridge took one look at the pair of them and asked them where it was, and shot out and rescued it.”

    “Yes,” Mum admits limply. “Oh, dear. Yes, he was hopeless, poor Guy.”

    “Exactly. She doesn’t need another one of them. Bob’s a really down-to-earth, practical joker. And more than that: he thinks all that quilting cra—um, quilting and cut-out-out stuff and crochet and everything that she does is the cat’s whiskers, he won’t mind how much cra—um, stuff she fills the house with. In fact he’s the sort of bloke that expects a girl to fill a house with juh—um, stuff.”

    “I’d stop while you’re ahead, Dot!” says David with a laugh at this juncture.

    “Yes. Just,” notes Mum in a hard voice. “Most normal women like to decorate their own homes, Dot.”

    “Yes. It’s interesting, isn’t it? You can call it nesting, but in the animal kingdom it’s not always the females that build and decorate the nests, by no means. Like with birds, it’s often the pair that build the nest.”

    “Yes, and sometimes the male does it all: what are those birds that build, um, is it bowers? Since Double Dee gave me that huge television set I’ve been watching a lot of nature programmes,” David admits. How he manages to sound sheepish and still grin don’t ask me, but it goes down real well with Mum.

    “Bowerbirds, of course, David!” she goes, smiling like anything. It’s about a million to one he had remembered that, Mum, wake up to yourself!

     “Of course: thank you, Sally!” he goes, laugh, laugh. “Well, there you are, Dot!”

    “Eh? Aw. Yeah. Yeah, maybe it’s only the female humans that take it to extremes.”

    “Just drop it, Dot,” says Mum with a sigh. “If you made an effort and did something about that place of yours, possibly you’d realise that normal women get some enjoyment from it.”

    “My place is all right. And I don’t mind the foot on the Lazy-Boy, I’m used to it. I mean, if ya buy a thing—not that I acksherly bought it, of course, it was on the verge, but same diff’,”—David has to cough and put his hand over his mouth at this point; gee, does he imagine I’d care if he broke down and had hysterics?—“but if you get a thing to lean back on and put your feet up, then its foot thing doesn’t need to go down, does it?”

    “Very logical,” says Mum grimly.

    At this point David does give way and has hysterics all over the kitchen.

    “That serves you right, Dot!” she goes loudly. Gee, can’t she see I don’t give a shit?

    “He can laugh, you oughta see his dump. Think the carpet—what’s left of it, round them huge holes—is as old as the house. You want a hand with the tea?”

    “Uh—oh!” she goes, looking weakly at the bench. “Oh, help, I haven’t even started!”

    “Let us do it, Sally. Why don’t you go and sit down? Come on, Andy can spare a belt of his precious Johnnie,” he says, taking her arm.

    “Um—yes!” she goes with a silly laugh. “I mean, no, you mustn’t, David, we didn’t invite you round to make you cook!”

    “He’ll do a better job than any of us, I’ll say that for—”

    “Shut up, Dot,” he says mildly. “Can’t you see your mum’s just about all in?”

    “Um, yeah.  She doesn’t much like whisky,” I go feebly.

    “A sherry, then,” he says soothingly, leading her out.

    Cripes. She’s let him. Oh, well, if it worked on Aunty Kate, God knows it’ll work on her, she’s a miles softer touch. Let’s see… Mince. Admittedly hamburgers are about the twins’ favourite food but was she gonna make them for an almost-engagement dinner? And I don’t think there’s enough mince here for hamburgers for the mob, on second thoughts. Whaddelse? This here onion sitting here in solitary splendour unpeeled was probably meant to do something in combination with the mince… Was she gonna make what Dad calls spag bog? The twins’ll eat it, this is true. She hasn’t put any pasta out, though. Is there a jar of pasta sauce in the pantry? No. No tomato paste, either. How about the fridge? No opened jars of pasta sauce. There is bag of tomatoes. Only they’ll be wasted in a sauce. Hang on— Yeah, couple of tins of tomatoes in the pantry, she must of got them on special. They’ll do. Pasta? Pasta? Shit, this here’s the spaghetti jar, the tall one, and it’s empty!

    David’s come back so I go: “Hey, looks like they’re out of pasta.”

    “Oh? She told me she was going to do spaghetti bolognaise.”

    She probably did say that, yeah, in view of your accent, mate. “Spag bog, she meant. Well, there’s no spaghetti: see, this here’s the spaghetti jar.”

    He investigates the pantry but there are no packets of penne or like that, either. Then he checks the fridge. “These look nice!”

    A couple of eggplants, she must of bought them for Dad to do his so-called ratatouille, he learned to do it back in the Seventies, according to this ancient cookbook they’ve still got it was very In, back then. These days you’d call it stir-fried veggies with a bit of water added. “The twins won’t eat eggplant.”

    “I can almost guarantee they will, but we won’t tell them what’s in it,” he murmurs. “I’ll have to eke it out with potatoes, I think—well, even the Greek aunties have been known to descend to that!” he admits, grinning.

    “Look, just be warned, Mum and Dad think Greek food’s too oily and the twins won’t eat anything that looks even faintly like cuisine.”

    He’s ignoring me, of course, and he gets on with it. Right, even I can be trusted to chop the onion quite finely, David. Though apparently not to stir it without letting it burn, he’s gonna do that himself. Oh, I can add the meat? Right, add the meat, break it up, stir it—not like a whirlwind! All right, slowly, this better? Ugh, what’s he making in that little pot? I’m not gonna ask.

    By the time Mum comes in with sheepish grin on her mug and a sherry-glass in her fist the result is in the oven.

    “Moussaka! You shouldn’t have bothered!” she gasps, peering in at it.

    “Nonsense, Sally, it was no bother.”

    “Actually it didn’t seem to be,” I admit.

    “You!” she scoffs. “What did she do, David? Grate a bit of cheese for the topping?”

    “And chop the onion,” he says sweetly and she collapses in sniggers.

    Yeah, well, noddall of us are cooks. Or wanna be. I mean, most of those cookbooks of mine, even the ones that do tell ya whether the thing oughta be served hot or cold, and sliced up or not (and most of them don’t), they require hours slaving over chopping and stirring and whatever, all for something you’re only gonna eat! And in my case, let’s admit it, for a pretty poor result.

    Right, well, next thing will be, will the twins eat it? Not to mention the salad he’s making to go along with it. Olive oil? They won’t eat no hand-made dressing, David, they only eat salad dressing out of a bott—

    They’re lapping it up like lambs. Just as well he used all the mince and added them sliced potatoes to the sliced au-ber-gines, eggplants to some, and put the thing into the big roasting pan, eh? Otherwise there wouldn’t have been enough to go round and as it is Dad and Bob just about come to blows over the last spoonful.

    Deanna wants the recipe.

    “Look, it’s got oil and meat in it, for a start. And that sauce he puts on it, I admit it’s extra, but it’s got—”

    “Stop it, Dot!” she cries, very flushed.

    Glare. “Eggs and milk. And he woulda put cream only fortunately for our cholesterol count there wasn’t any.”

    “Eggs and milk are full of protein and calcium,” she goes grimly, “and everyone needs a balanced diet.”

    “Yes, of course,” he agrees quickly. “I’d be very happy to give you the recipe, Deanna. Only I can’t guarantee it. I mean, I’m not sure about the balance of ingredients: I just, um—”

    “Fling stuff in,” I supply helpfully.

    “Shut up, Dot!” the rest of them cry, even the twins, help. But he does! Far’s I could see he never measured anything!

    “No, no: in this instance you’re doing her an injustice!” he goes, laughing. “I was ten when my Great-Aunty Antigone taught me that recipe—or her version of it, she usually puts a bit of rosemary in with the meat, she’s got a huge bush of it in a pot on her balcony.”—Balcony? Like, I was imagining it growing just outside her cottage door. And I’d of thought that teaching a boy to cook was a real no-no, in Greece, aren’t they all too macho for that?—“Her cooking is almost entirely instinctive: though it was possible to discern a pattern: two heaped spoonfuls of flour from her funny old spoon to two rounded spoonfuls of butter; that sort of thing! But I’m afraid she and Great-Aunty Aphrodite almost came to blows over whether to use a pinch of cinnamon or a pinch of mixed cinnamon and allspice.” He shakes his head, and everybody giggles like anything. “But I’ll write it out for you to the best of my poor ability, Deanna.”

    So I go thoughtfully: “Like, you could describe it proportionately. If two heaped of her spoonfuls go with two rounded, then you could say that that would be proportionate to two ditto of a standard tablesp—”

    “Dot, stop now!” he gasps, collapsing in hysterics, silly wanker! I was only trying to help!

    “Dot can’t cook much,” explains Danno helpfully.

    “I—know!” he howls.

    “She can do ace stir-fries,” contributes Jimbo kindly.

    “Proves the point,” concludes David limply, mopping his eyes.

    “No, ’cos hers are better than Deanna’s,” he explains, tiny pointy-headed twit!

    “Better in his terms means contain more oil,” says Mum briskly. “Take those plates through, twins, they won’t take themselves.”

    Jimbo gets up and collects up plates but he isn’t squashed, far from it, cos he goes: “Didja make any pudding, David?”

    “No: it’s just ice cream. There wasn’t time to make pudding,” he says with a smile. “Greek puddings are usually of the cake or biscuit kind and they take hours, Jimbo. And then further hours to cool and soak in a heavy syrup, usually. There is a Greek version of rice pudding,” he adds with a twinkle in his eye, “but I didn’t think—”

    “Ugh, YUCK!” they both cry.

    “Quite,” he finishes smoothly and all of us adults collapse. Absolutely collapse.

    And somehow we end up drinking some of Dad’s precious brandy in the lounge-room, beg ya pardon, sitting-room, and listening to Bob’s long, boring stories about holidays he’s taken in the Daintree, or the Top End—very humid, surrounded by crocs, ’ud just about sum them all up—and David’s long, boring stories about his holidays with the Greek aunties and great-aunties. Most of them do live in flats in town (with balconies, yeah), but they got a holiday home in the country, sounds a real dump. Very hot, surrounded by flies and dust. No wonder he feels right at home in SA!

    He come in a taxi but Dad thinks I can drive him home. I can if he can direct me, yeah, but can he? All I remember is it’s a flaming palace on the waterfront filled with over-ornate crap of the worst kind. Bob dashes out to the 4WD, comes back with a map. Here we go! Yeah, Bob. real easy, if I take that route and avoid that and don’t get myself stuck on that road, it’ll take me over the Harbour Br— Look, if the man hops on a train he’ll be practically there, all he’d have to do is grab a taxi from the station, it’ll take ten min at this hour of the night with nothing on the roads! True, it’s Sunday, there probably isn't a train, but I’m not gonna point any of it out, cos no-one’s listening to me, the experts have taken over.

    So after some time of silent driving, I can feel the wanker’s trying not to laugh, he goes: “Is this the way Bob ordained, Dot?”

    “No.”

    He collapses in sniggers.

    “Yeah, hah, hah. Well, there’s no point in arguing with types like that when they got the bit between their teeth. Why do they always think they know it all when they manifestly don’t?”

    “No idea,” he says weakly, blowing his nose “Isn’t it supposed to be Y-chromosome linked?”

    “Dunno how you can say that when ya lived next-door to Aunty Kate for years!”

    “Don’t start me off again,” he warns unsteadily. “No, well, I’m glad you realise there’s no point in arguing with them.”

    Um, are ya? Yeah.

    Drive, drive… He just stares into the dark and after a bit he starts to hum. Dunno what, but it’s pretty. Not anything from the film, thank God: I had that ruddy Sisters thing on the brain for weeks.

    “Hey, you know the film?”

    “Mm-mm?” he murmurs.

    Dunno why, but when he makes that noise it makes me feel real peculiar. Swallow. I am not gonna bawl! “Uh—like, after Rosie’s managed to do the tapping bits, will ya have to go over to England to, um, finish off the score?”

    “Yes. In fact if Derry’s on form I may have to go over to accompany Rosie during the tapping bits.”

    “I see.”

    “Why?” he murmurs.

    “Eh? Oh! I was just wondering how they finish it off.”

    “I see,” he says with a smile in his voice. “Not checking up to see whether I’d lost interest?”

    “No.” As a matter of fact, having seen him at work for weeks, I have sort of revised my opinion of D. Walsingham a bit. “Acksherly I think you’d see it through, even if you had,” I admit.

    “Mm. I would try to. Though I admit there were points during Ilya, My Brother when I almost chucked it in.”

    “Yes. Only you hadn't got used to the stupid way they make films, at that stage.”

    “Exactly. Or to the stupid way they cut the music about at the dictates of the director. But—well, I suppose I don’t mind how they cut the Fifties songs about! But it isn’t just that… It’s a challenge,” he says slowly. “Not a challenge that I expected, the first time, and very different from anything I’d ever had to do. But fitting the music to the demands of the scene, while at the same time being aware of the overall thematic structure the thing has to have if it’s going to work at all… Mm. Plus trying not to fall back on film clichés! That’s really hard! I mean, imagine if you were asked to write the background music for a chariot race, or a fight. Or something eerie, perhaps: a young girl alone in an ’aunted ’ouse,” he says with a leer.

    “Ugh! Don’t do that, I’ll have us off the road! Yeah, I do see what you mean. Like, eerie music, it’s always the same in films, isn’t it?”

    “Exactly.”

    “I was watching this thing on TV a while back, it was late at night and I was letting it get to me, y’know? Dumb, cos I knew it was just a film. So I turned the sound off, and ya know what? There was nothing to it! It was just this lady, like walking round her bedroom! Well, maybe she wasn’t a very good actress. But it wasn’t eerie at all. Then this man come up behind her and grabbed her, ya see, and I didn’t even jump.”

    “Shows we musical hacks will be in work for some time to come!” he says with a laugh.

    “You can’t be a hack, if you try not to fall back on clichés. Anyway, you said yourself it’s not your real work, didn’t you?”

    “Did I? What a pretentious prat,” he mutters.

    Uh—yeah. Think that’s a Pommy word. I have heard Rupy use it, come to think of it. Oh, and Uncle Jerry: he said it about Tony Blair, of course! Yeah, must be a Pommy word, not a gay word. “I expect you were in a bad mood.”

    “Mm.”

    “When would you call a person a prat?”

    “What?” he says blankly. “When they are one, I suppose.”

    “No, um, I mean, only English people say it.”

    “Oh? No, come to think of it, I haven’t noticed it in the Australian vernacular. Um… roughly equivalent to ‘wanker’, I suppose, Dot, but in politer usage. Implying… a useless person, with, I think, definite overtones of pretentiousness… Yes.”

    “Uncle Jerry said it about Tony Blair.”

    “There you are, then!”

    “Yeah. Hey, Adam McIntyre, he said that twenty years back Tony Blair wouldn’t even have been called Labour, he’d of been a middle-of-the road Conservative! And he wasn’t joking, cos Ann said he said the same thing to her!”

    “Yes,” he agrees, smiling. “I don’t advise you to solicit John’s opinion of the man!”

    “Don’tcha? But he’s the head of the Government, would John say anything rude about him?”

    “Only in a very private capacity, Dot, not with his uniform on.”

    “Goddit. You seen their wedding pics?”

    “Er—no. Why?”

    “Only that he wore his uniform for that. No wonder Rosie fell for him like a ton of bricks. Hey, didja hear about her Marine?”

    “What?” he croaks.

    “Sure! I’m pretty sure he sent her a get-well card; thought you mighta seen it that day you were helping her sort them out.”

    “What sort of Marine?” he says faintly.

    “Eh? A U.S. Marine, of course! Maj—” He’s gone into hysterics. “Major,” I finish feebly. What’s so funny?

    So he blows his nose and goes: “My darling Dot, can’t you see the funny side?”

    No, I flaming can’t, and what’s with the darling shit, and don’t DARE to claim it’s the English vernacular, David Walsingham!

    “Oh—sorry; that just slipped out.”

    And the rest!

    “Don’t be angry,” he says after a bit. “It was funny. Of course Rosie had to have a Marine, and of course it would have to be a full-blown Major.”

    Um…yeah, I think I get it. “I thought it was interesting,” I go limply.

   “Mm. Did you ever meet him, or was this after she went to England?”

    “You’re not really interested.”

    “I am if you are, Dot. When was it?”

    “It was the year before she went to England. It was, um, just when she’d finished her thesis. Like, I was working at the servo, see? And they bowled up in this huge great Yank car. Real late, it was. Think they’d been to the beach. Anyway, he was a nice guy: she brought him to lunch next day at Leila’s.”

    “Of course! This was when you still had your two jobs! So was it before Sally packed you off to Adelaide?”

    “Um, yeah. Just before.”

    “I see,” he says with a smile in his voice.

    Yeah, I can see ya see, David Walsingham, only what do ya see? “What?”

    “Don’t be cross, Dot; it was a whole five years back and you were a different person, really. What I see is little inexperienced Dot, very impressed by her glamorous cousin’s Major of Marines in his well-pressed American uniform.”

    “Um, yeah. Well, it sure was well-pressed at lunchtime, yeah. Um, I wouldn’t of called Rosie glamorous, exactly, back then… She was wearing this, like, pale apricot thing that Wendalyn passed on, it was at least two sizes too small for her. No, be fair, three.”

    “I’m going to laugh again!” he warns unsteadily.

    He does laugh so I say: “You wouldn’t of laughed if you’d of seen her in it, and I can tell ya, he wasn’t laughing!”

    “No, of course! It’s perfect, Dot!:”

    Is it? Uh—well, good. I think.

    “How much of her murky past does John know about, do you think?” he murmurs after a while.

    “Well, exactly! You gotta wonder, don’tcha? Granted he wasn’t thrown by all them get-well cards from the ex-boyfriends, and she reckons he’s had hundreds of girlfriends himself, new names keep cropping up all the time, but heck! I mean, does he realise how far it went?”

    “I should think,” he says slowly, “that he must do. You’re right, Dot; he is the masculine version of the same thing, isn’t he?”

    “Um, well, yeah. Like, both of them always had to fight them off with a stick only usually they never bothered to fight.”

    “I get precisely that impression.”

    “Yeah,” I say with sigh of relief. “Gee, I’m glad you think so, David! I mean, he’s so smooth on the surface and, um, I admit I never really met his type before: not, um, well, I suppose what I mean is the English upper-class version. Like, there’s a fair bit of camouflage there, isn’t there?”

    “Yes… I see, the Australian male doesn’t go in for camouflage.”

    “Not the most of them, no. They either run like rabbits or come straight onto ya.”

    “Mm. And what’s your reaction to that?”

    Um, me? Were we talking about me?

    “Is it boring? Or, er, enticing, I suppose,” he murmurs.

    Enticing? What a word! “I suppose you at least know where you are… No, boring.”

    “That’s good,” he says lightly. “Though not if you see Lucas Roberts as the alternative, of course.”

    “Eh? No!”

    “That’s very good!” he goes, now he’s trying not to laugh again, the wanker!

    “Look, anything that smooth and button-down could never put up with me, long-term, and I know bloody well I could never put up with him! Can you see him ever losing his temper?”

    “I—Well, no. You mean, losing it and betraying the fact that he’d done so, Dot? –No. Cold control, is all I’ve ever seen in him.”

    “Yeah. It’d freeze me to death,” I admit.

    “Nefertite would certainly agree with you on that one!” he says cheerfully.

    “Really? Has she ever met him?”

    “Yes; when I was working on Ilya, My Brother and Derry realised who my sister was, he insisted on throwing a horrible dinner party for us: Lucas was at that.”

    After a moment I go, very cautiously: “Was this a horrible dinner party where he, like, hired the whole restaurant, only it wasn’t very big, maybe big enough for, um, a dozen couples. Ann told me about it, she got it off Bernie, I think. She said the wine cost five hundred, um, I’ve forgotten if it was pounds or dollars. Like, per bottle. A lot,” I end lamely.

    “No, I think you’re thinking of another horrible occasion entirely, Dot.”

    “Um, yeah, come to think of it, I don’t think there were any ladies at that.”

    “Oh? Oh, good God! That’s right: Lucas was at that frightful dinner. Well, the dinner itself was superb—miraculous! You’d have classed it as just food, Dot!”

    “I would not! I thought that dinner you did in Adelaide was extra! And the moussy thing tonight was great!”

    “Moussaka. Thank you. It’s pretty much the housewife’s standby in Greece. –Both Euan and Lucas were at the frightful dinner you’re referring to, I think?”

    “Yeah. And I think it’s criminal to spend so much on a bottle of wine!”

    “So do I,” he says ruefully. “It was good, but certainly not worth the price. I know Derry doesn’t look it, but he does give quite generously to charity, I believe.”

    “Um, does he? Good.”

    “Mm. And unlike many celebrities he doesn’t do it in a blaze of free publicity,” he adds drily.

    “Rock concerts broadcast all round the world—right. Not to mention all the flaming chat shows that spin off from them for years after.”

    “Mm. Life as we know it does tend to be like that,” he says, putting his hand on my knee. Gulp!

    “Um, yeah, um, don’t do that, David,” I croak.

    He takes his hand away. “Distracting?”

    “Yeah, of course it is, you wanker, don’t pretend!”

    “I’m glad to hear you admit it, Dot!”

    “What total bullshit!”

    “No, it isn't. Most of the male half of the so-called civilised world is at your cousin’s feet, make that slavering at your cousin’s feet, and we know you’re a dead ringer for her: why should I be immune?”

    “I never meant that at all!”

    “What did you mean, then?”

    “I dunno, and SHUT UP!” I shout.

    He does shut up, but I know he’s smiling. I’m not gonna give him the satisfaction of looking at him, though.

    So we pull up at the gate and he goes: “Thanks, Dot. It was a nice evening.”

    “Um, I thought it was pretty average, actually.”

    “I think that’s why I thought it was nice! You can drop me here.”

    “Can you open the gates, though?”

    “Unless a helpful policeman’s removed the rock I stuck between them, yes.”

    What? You moron, David!

    He undoes his seatbelt and opens his door but he doesn’t get out: he turns round and says: “Don’t fall back into Lucas’s clutches when you go to England, will you?”

    “Uncle Jerry hasn’t even agreed to let me go, yet,” I say limply.

    “I’m pretty sure he will. And if you really want the experience, you’ll resign, won’t you?”

    “Um, well, probably—yeah. So?”

    “So you’re right: Lucas is a cold fish who can’t offer you what you need. And I think you already know that Euan, though he can be a very pleasant companion, is pretty much a broken reed. Though I’m not saying you’re not strong enough to prop him up for the rest of his natural.”

    “Thanks. But funnily enough I don’t fancy that.”

    “No. Good. Nefertite will ring you during the week, and I think she’s planning something really horrible for next Sunday: her cooking, or a barbecue, was it? Or both!”

    “Hah, hah. Well, yeah, she did say she’d like to do a barbie. If you wannoo let her use your patio. I mean the owners’ patio.”

    “I do, but I don’t want to let her cook, she slathers everything in olive oil and ouzo. No, I tell a lie: first she puts it on nasty little sticks, and then she slathers it.”

    “You better do something decent as well, then. Hey, can ya do that Greek lamb?”

    “I can do lamb at least sixty different Greek ways,” he says heavily.

    “Right. I think this was roast. Only I think they took the bone out, first. Or come to think of it, was it Italian? Um, sorry: I seen it on TV but I wasn’t paying that much attention cos it looked real hard and ya hadda have this, um, outdoor oven.”

    “Oh, good grief!” He says something in Greek. “I’ll see. Well, I’ll produce something. Don’t want to show her up, though!” he admits with a laugh.

    He isn’t all bad, see? “No, ’course ya don’t. Hey, and don’t let her wear anything floaty, will ya? I mean, that’s a real no-no near a barbie!”

    “You’d better come over early and supervise us, Dot!” he says with a laugh.

    I just might do that. No, seriously, I better: the more I think if that thing Nefertite wore to do her shopping that hot day in Adelaide… “Right, I will. I’ll be here about four, okay?”

    He opens and shuts his mouth. Then he says: “Okay, that’d be excellent, Dot. I actually started to say, since Nefertite has destined us to get together on Sunday if not earlier, I don’t want to do anything that might embarrass both of us.”

    Huh?

    “But I will say this,” he says, suddenly sounding quite grim. Not a trace of the flippant bit, ya know?

    “Um, yeah?” I croak, since he’s stopped.

    “Your database stuff will probably coincide with my finishing off the film music for Derry. And if it doesn’t, I’ll be over there anyway.”

    “Oh,” I croak feebly. “Will ya?”

    “Yes, I ruddy well will!” he says with a sudden laugh, getting out. “Sunday, if not earlier,” he says, bending down to the window on that side. “Fourish.”

    “Um, yeah. Thanks for the lovely, um, moussaka.”

    “My pleasure, Dot!” he goes with a laugh. “Goodnight!”

    Yeah. “See ya.” Well, go on, open the gates. “Open the gates!”

    I can see him in the light of me headlights, he’s laughing like anything, the silly— Yep, there is a rock jammed in the bottom of the gates, by cripes! He grabs it and squeezes in, dunno if I more wanted him to get squashed or the gates to slam shut leaving him outside. Silly wanker.

    Drive, drive… The roads are pretty empty, I’ll be home in no time.

    Hai huh-huh, hm-hm, hm humm… What the fuck am I humming? Hai huh-huh, hm-hm, hm humm…

    It’s from the film. Rosie hadda sing it as a voice-over to a particularly nauseating scene where Daughter, Stepdaughter and assorted other Fifties beauties in very full-skirted frocks with piles of swirly petticoats are dancing at a Whites-only Singapore tennis club. “I enjoy bee-ing a gurl.” Flaming bloody Norah! What brought that up from the murky depths of my subconscious? You may well ask.

    Uncle Jerry’s very red in the face, poor guy. “Dot, I’ve decided. It isn’t fair expecting me to let you waltz off for six months to the other side of he world.”

    “No, I’ve come to that conclusion myself, so I’m gonna hand in my notice.”

    “WHAT?” he shouts.

    Ooh, heck, did he expect me to say I wasn’t gonna go after all? Ooh, heck!

     “Look, Dot, if this is about Lucas Roberts—”

    “No! Why does everybody think that?”

    He eyes me narrowly. “I won’t ask who ‘everybody’ is. I’ll just say, I hope you know what the Hell you’re doing.”

    “It’s the sort of chance you don’t get offered twice. I think I ought to take it.”

    “Yes,” he says heavily. “Well, Rosie and John’ll be on hand to bail you out if you do come to grief.”

    What? I’m not gonna come to grief, for Pete’s sake! “I’ll be right: they’ve offered me a good lump sum.”

    “That’s not what I mean, you little idiot! Look, all right, six months’ leave without pay, okay?”

    “Um, yeah. Thanks, Uncle Jerry. You don’t have to, though.”

    “I’m DOING IT!” he shouts.

    Short silence.

    “Then at least you’ll have something to come home to if you can’t find anything at the end of it. And it’s not like it is here, you know: there’s miles more competition for every job.” He takes a deep breath. “And look out: if Dawlish is on form he won’t miss the chance to earbash you about doing some footling twins act with Rosie, and she’s capable of agreeing to anything when the mood takes her!”

    What total bullshit. And I don’t wanna be a film star, I’ve never wanted to be— “Huh?”

    “Iceland! Don’t ask me what, exactly; all I can tell you is that Rosie said that Iceland would be really interesting and John lost his rag with her, and who can blame him, poor sod?”

    Ouch, did he? Though I admit, I’d like to see Iceland…

    “You SEE?” he shouts. “You’re thinking about it, aren’t you? Boy, does that bugger know exactly what strings to pull!”

    “Yeah. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna dance to his tune, though. Heck, I’ve seen the film bit from the inside, Uncle Jerry, and it’s really, really stupid!”

    “Keep thinking that way,” he advises sourly.

    “Yeah.” I sidle towards the door. “And thanks.”

    “Don’t think you’re not gonna have to work like stink until you go,” he warns. “You can start by teaching Peta everything you know about the system.”

    “Mm. Sure.”

    “From the GROUND UP!” he shouts.

    “Yes. Righto, Uncle Jerry.” And I slide out. Phew! Well, anyway, I’ve done it. And maybe there won’t be any opportunities in Britain for a person that knows quite a lot about one database program but very little about any other systems, but what the heck. If I don’t go, I’ll never know, will I? …Iceland? Bullshit! No way am I gonna get mixed up with D.D.’s mad artistic endeavours again. …I wonder what sort of music he’d need for a film about Ice— Bullshit. Take a pull, Dot Mallory! Just because the man said he’d see you over there— Anyway, he’s hopeless, I know that, why am I even thinking about him?