Summer Delights

21

Summer Delights

    Christmas Day had come and gone. Trisha made an anxious phone call to Harriet on Boxing Day—having previously checked up on her on Christmas Eve, it being no good expecting to get a call through in Australia on the day itself. The response to her query was that yes, of course they’d had turkey like she’d promised and of course Hughie and Joel had come over for it like they’d said they would. And yes, it had been okay, because Crispin had checked the book very carefully and made sure she put it in at the right time and got the temperature right and everything. And Trisha had been right about not putting the stuffing inside it, because the book also said that, so she’d just made stuffing balls, but there wasn’t any parsley. Josh had found some coriander in the garden—he’d thought it was parsley but Crispin had rubbed a bit in his fingers and sniffed it and said it wasn’t, so she’d sniffed it herself and thought it was coriander, so she’d taken a bunch down to Isabelle—there was lots—and Isabelle had said it definitely was coriander, it must have self-seeded, but it wouldn’t really go with turkey, and she’d better just use a bit of dried thyme and sage. Which she had, and the stuffing balls had been lovely. And everybody had liked the cranberry jelly. Gravy? Yes: Hughie had done that, he was a dab hand at gravy, and he’d come over in good time to lift the hot turkey out of the oven, because she was afraid she’d drop it and it was too heavy for Crispin to risk it. Um, well, he reckoned his arm was getting better, but the shoulder joint was still awfully stiff, he couldn’t really lift things. Or the arm, she added. Trisha bit her lip but conceded valiantly that the stuffing balls sounded good. But where was Josh? Her sister returned blankly that he’d been there. No, not that: why didn’t he lift the turkey out? Oh! He’d taken Brindle for a run: he was really good with him!

    Replying somewhat limply that that was great, and not working up the courage to ask if Crispin was also good with him, Trisha let Harriet tell her about the rest of the meal. Avocados for starters, Crispin loved them—no, not prawns with them, she knew he didn’t fancy seafood in the hot months. Trisha swallowed a sigh and didn’t point out (a) that the rest of Australia had either avocado and prawn cocktails or crayfish for starters on Christmas Day, or (b) that Harriet had a fridge. Roast potatoes and sweet potatoes with the turkey because blimmin’ Hughie liked them, par for the course, she recognised grimly, and a lettuce and tomato salad because Harriet had thought the hot meal might be a bit much for Crispin and Josh at half-past two in a Queensland summer without air-con—Trisha winced—followed by Aunty Mary’s fluffy jelly because she’d made one before and Crispin and Josh had loved it. What kind? Well, Aeroplane, of course. Oh! The flavour? Pineapple, Josh really liked it. With ice cream, of course. Um, well, it was Christmas… Trisha braced herself. Harrie had gone and bought that expensive fancy stuff, “Belgian Chocolate”, far too rich, she never let Steve have it, just because it was blimmin’ Hughie’s favourite! And Peters vanilla, everybody liked it. To the indignant inquiry: “What about something for you?” she replied—expectably—that she’d had enough treats.

    Sighing, Trisha asked what presents she’d got. The first thing she said was that Josh had given her a lovely new collar for Brindle! Her sister breathed heavily but managed to make an appropriate response. Joel had given her a really lovely book on Australian trees, with gorgeous illustrations: he must have spent far too much on it!

    At this point Trisha was driven to say grimly: “You’ve fed him enough times. I suppose his blimmin’ uncle didn’t cough up anything, did he?”

    “Yes,” said Harriet with a smile in her voice: “a book about whippets. It tells you everything, not just training, but diet and everything. It’ll be really helpful!”

    Well, at least it wasn’t a book about flaming lizards! Trisha managed to say that that was nice, and waited. Nothing. “Well, what did Crispin give you?” she demanded.

    Steve at this looked up uneasily from his car magazine.

    “Um, far too much. Um, some lovely French scent, and some super English soap.”

    So he flaming ought to! Trisha didn’t say it, but it was a near-run thing.

    “And—and some muumuus, they were a joke, really, because he hates that housecoat Aunty Mary forced on me; but they’re cotton, very cool to wear, and super colours—it’s sort of Hawaiian shirt material.”

    Trisha was quite sure the bloke could afford to take her in to Brizzie and buy her something really good from the nice boutiques. Just as she was preventing herself forcibly from saying so, Harriet added: “Um, and some jewellery.”

    “That’s better!” replied Trisha before she could stop herself.

    “Mm.”

    “Well, what is it?”

    “Um, he spent far too much…”

    “Nonsense!” said a male Pommy voice in the background with a laugh in it. Trisha gulped.

    “A really gorgeous pearl necklace, from Broome.” Harriet swallowed. “Huge ones. Not just white: grey ones and black ones as well, it’s absolutely lovely, Trisha!”

    Trisha had seen an ad for those necklaces of huge cultured pearls somewhere. Not on TV. Maybe in an Australian Vogue? Not that she bought it that often, but she sometimes got one for a treat. Nothing much in that mag was under five hundred bucks, and most of the shoes were more: goodness only knew what the pearls would have been! She gulped. “Lovely,” she croaked.

    “Mm. I wore it on Christmas Day.”

    Uh—would this have been with her usual horrible chopped-around blouses of Mum’s, or one of the new muumuus? “That’s nice,” she managed. “Well, I’m very glad to hear it, Harrie.”

    “Mm. That—that’s not all,” said Harriet in a trembling voice.

    “Want me to tell her, darling?” said the voice in the background kindly.

    “Um, no, I’ll tell her… A ring,” said Harriet in a small voice, swallowing hard. “It—it’s very pretty. He said red’s my colour.”

    “It is: I’ve always thought so. You can wear all those red and orange-y shades. Garnets can look very nice, if they’re on the redder side, not too purple,” she approved.

    “Um, no,” said Harriet, still in the small voice. “It’s a ruby.”

    “What?” gasped Trisha.

    “Mm.” She swallowed again. “Quite big—not as big as the pearls. Um, well, about the size of a tinned chickpea, really. He says it’s a cabochon.”

    “Eh?”

    “That means it’s not cut, no facets, it’s just polished. With a small diamond at each side. Like little leaves.”

    Trisha by now was scarcely capable of speech. “Ye-ah… Uh—Harrie,” she managed to croak: “that sounds like an engagement ring.”

    “Mm. It was his granny’s. He said it can be an engagement ring, but if Antipodean society deems it inappropriate at this juncture we’ll pretend it isn’t, for a while.”

    “You’re talking rubbish,” said her sister limply.

    She heard Harriet say to Crispin: “Now she’s saying I’m talking rubbish. I told you she wouldn't believe it.”

    Then he came on the line and said, sort of warmly: “Trisha? This is Crispin. I can assure you it is an engagement ring. She took a bit of persuading, mind you! I know it’s a bit soon, so we won’t advertise it for a while. Besides, we don’t want to pre-empt Kyla’s twenty-first!”

    “Yeah—no. Um, you do know Harrie’s never really had to share her life with anybody, don’t you?” she said faintly. “I mean, on—on an everyday basis.”

    “Yes, of course. We’re just taking it slowly—one day at a time. Well, one moment at a time, really! She’s discovered I’m completely hopeless round the house, that helps.”

    “Um, yes, Ben was very competent,” Trisha admitted, swallowing hard. “She found it a bit hard to take. Can you cook?”

    “No,” said Crispin simply.

    She sagged. “Thank goodness! Um—I mean, that sounds silly, but he was a superb cook. I mean, he could do everything, really.”

    “Right. Understood all about the insides of cars, too, did he?”

    “Um, well, I dunno, but I’m sure he must of, he went bush often enough in that heap of his, it was the sort of thing you’d need to be mending every other day. And, um, he could build things. He did lots of stuff to the house and he made that stupid cellar under the shed—have you seen that, yet?”

    “Yes; in fact I’ve been helping to empty it,” Crispin replied smoothly.

    “But isn’t it supposed to keep the stuff cool?” she fumbled.

    “Oh, yes: it does. I’ve been emptying the contents into me!” he said with a chuckle.

    Trisha smiled limply. “I getcha.”

    “Mm. Now, you mustn’t worry, Trisha. I love Harriet just as she is. I’ve no desire to change her, or make her change her habits or way of life. Of course I do realise it’s a different lifestyle here, but I’m quite happy to fit in. And I don’t mind the climate—in fact she feels it more than I do. We’ll work it out. You’ll see, when you come up next month.”

    “Yes. Good. Well, we’ll see you then!” said Trisha brightly, hanging up.

    Steve eyed her warily. “Have I got this wrong, or has ’e actually popped the question?”

    “Yes. Well, he’s given her a ring… I mean, he’s nice, but he’s just so English, Steve!” she burst out.

    No argument there. “Yeah, but she seems to be on ’is wavelength, love.”

    “Um… I suppose she is, really. Well, she came out with some garbage he said about pretending not to be engaged if, um, society, no, Antipodean society, thinks it isn’t appropriate—at this juncture!”

    It seemed to be the “juncture” that was sticking in her craw as much as the “Antipodean”. Steve cleared his throat cautiously. “You mean she, um, kind of said that with approval?”

    “Yes! I mean, people just don’t talk like that, Steve!” she wailed.

    True. Well, not people in Australia—no. “Nah; well, there you are. They suit each other,” he said, refraining with a huge effort from saying: “Both as mad as snakes.”

    “Yes, I suppose so,” she said with a sigh.

    “Um, taking it seriously, is ’e?” he ventured.

    “Eh? Well, from what he said he does seem to be, yes.”

    “Good,” said Steve mildly.

    Silence fell. Steve eyed his car magazine sideways and wondered if it’d be taken the wrong way if he re-immersed himself in it, and Trisha just stared dully in front of her…

    “Steve!” she gasped, bolt upright. “How awful!”

    “What?” he said in alarm.

    “I completely forgot to thank him for the lovely presents!” she gasped.

    In spite of his normally equable temperament Steve’s nerves had been on edge about Harriet and Crispin, too. Completely losing it, he roared with laughter.

    “Don’t laugh!” she cried in agony. “It’s dreadful!”

    Steve went on laughing. When he could finally speak, he gasped: “Ring ’im back!”

    “I can’t!” she gulped, bursting into tears.

    Oh, boy. Steve was just about to offer to do it for her when Jimbo came in and shoved his great foot right into his gob by asking: “Why’s Mum bawling? Is it the menopause, again?”

    “Get out,” said Steve unsteadily.

    Jimbo looked lofty. “Give her some of that camomile tea muck, Dad, that’ll calm her down. Mind you, it’ll probably go on for years, yet, I read up about it on the Internet.” With this he strolled out, looking lofty.

    “Oh!” cried Trisha furiously. “The cheeky little sod!”

    Alas, Steve lost it again, and broke down in further gales of laughter.

    Trisha walked into Harriet’s lounge-room and gasped. “You’ve got air-con!”

    “Yes,” said Harriet happily. “Reverse-cycle. There’s one in each room. And proper ceiling fans. Not great big ones, they’re just right. They’re from Jack Carter at Carter Electrical. I thought we’d have to go to one of those awful big air-con firms, and it’d take months to get it put in, but Laverne said that she got her fans and reverse-cycle from Jack—you know, he sold me my TV and DVD player and the freezer.”

    “But— I mean, just after Christmas?” she croaked. “The Lydgates down the road were told they’d have to wait until March at least for their new reverse-cycle. Not for the house, they’ve got fully ducted, of course: it’s for the loft over the garage, they’re turning it into a granny flat. Julie Lydgate reckons they might get one of those staircase lifts when her mum gets stiffer, but at the moment she’s quite sprightly, still.”

    “Jack was pleased to get the custom, Trisha,” said Crispin smoothly, not betraying how fascinating he’d found this sidelight on suburban Australian life. “He’s a qualified electrician: he wired everything in himself. The fans especially are a great boon—we were struggling with Harriet’s little ones.”

    “Yes, blimmin’ Ben didn’t seem to notice the humidity, you really need a fan up here… The air-con’s not water-cooled, is it?” she asked uneasily.

    She’d lost Crispin, there, but his semi-official fiancée was able to field this one, with a quick: “No, ’course not, nobody buys those in Queensland.”

    “Good.” The rest of the sitting-room then registered. “The room’s looking really good!”

    “We think so,” Crispin agreed with a smile, putting his arm round Harriet. “Harriet’s wonderful surrealist pre-Raphaelite cushion cover was the inspiration, but we’ve tried not to go overboard with the tropical colours. The blue tones of Kyla’s pretty sofa and curtains add a lovely cool touch, don’t you think?”

    Of all his hearers, only Steve was fully capable of appreciating this speech. Harriet had been so nervous at the thought of Trisha’s reaction to the done-up lounge-room that she still hadn’t relaxed, never mind Crispin’s supporting arm, Kyla was happily smirking at the compliment to her taste, Jimbo was supremely uninterested in interior décor, and Trisha was completely occupied in taking in the details. They’d added more cushions, covered in bright tropical prints. Well, they looked as if they might have been dress material or possibly Hawaiian shirt material, actually, but they weren’t overdone: they looked really good! There were two new easy chairs, upholstered in an unobtrusive heavy navy-blue fabric that toned well with the sofa and curtains, and under the front windows a new— It wasn’t a sofa, actually, it was a single bed, she realised, but some clever person had made a tailored cover for it, big tubular cushions for each end, and a couple of oblong ones for the back, all complete with piping, so that it looked really like a sofa! The navy fabric had been used again: very smart.

    “Where on earth did you get those big cushions? They look great!”

    Harriet beamed at her. “Maureen did them, and the mattress cover. You know: Maureen Shelby from Boutique Furnishings. She was really glad to do them, she said January’s always a slack month.”

    “Who?” replied Trisha blankly.

    “Mu-um! The lady in the shop where I got the duna covers!” cried Kyla. “I told you about her!”

    “Oh, yes,” she agreed weakly. “But—but whose idea was it all?”

    “You may well ask,” her sister admitted.

    “It’s very tasteful, Crispin,” said Trisha quickly.

    He grinned. “Well, yes, but none of it was my idea, I tend to buy brown leather or dark green leather, and old oak. Josh thought it all up.”

    “He thought of the navy at first, because he said we needed to throw the blue sofa into relief, not smother it, and then he said why not, um, pick up the tones in my cushion, I think that was how he put it. So he decided to get some material for more cushions that’d, um, work,” added Harriet. “Um, go with it.”

    “Of course!” cried Kyla. “They look fabulous! –Where is he?”

    “And where’s Brindle?” added Jimbo on a cross note. “Mum doesn’t mind whippets, she’s not like that silly ole Mrs Montgomery, he can be inside.”

    “Josh has taken him for a run; they should be back soon,” Harriet explained. “He’s wearing his new collar that Josh gave him: he looks awfully smart!”

    Hopefully, thought Steve, it wouldn’t register with Trisha that she sounded miles more enthusiastic over the ruddy dog’s new collar than she did over the lounge-room! He didn’t ask who was looking after the two large tropical-looking plants in pots that the room now sported, given that his sister-in-law had a black thumb. Oh, well, if the things croaked presumably Crispin could afford to replace them, if he could afford to throw expensive pearl necklaces at her.

    “Had the floor sanded, eh?” he said to the bloke as Trisha bustled off to unpack their cases and Harriet explained to Kyla that the “sofa-bed”—mercifully it wasn’t, it was a real bed, no huge gaps in its middle—was for her, and she thought it’d be comfortable, Josh had tested it properly before they bought it, but if it was too hard for her there was a padded thingo that could go on top of the mattress on the top shelf of the wardrobe in the spare room. Rolled up.

    “Well, yes, but not professionally, it was a DIY job. Scott Bell from the Big Rock Bay Motel wised us up on the place that hires out huge machines for anything you care to name, indoors or out, evidently, so Josh and Joel between them hired one and did the floor. Then discovering that huge floor-sanding ingins don’t do corners or edges too well.” Crispin’s eyes twinkled. “But Joel was on top of that. Does the phrase ‘Black and Decker’ mean anything to you?”

    “Yeah, mate, and to most blokes out here,” replied Steve drily.

    “Well, that was what it was. Hand-held.”

    “It would be. Well, they done good,” he conceded. “Polyurethaned the lot, eh?”

    “Er—I think that was the name of the varnish, yes.”

    Steve opened his mouth to correct him and thought better of it. “Yeah. Well, it’ll be easy-care, that’s for sure. And you don’t need ruddy body-carpet or rugs, up here. Just as well. You got any idea what doin’ your lounge-room out in new body-carpet’ll set you back these days?”

    “None whatsoever, I’m afraid,” replied Crispin politely.

    Steve shuddered. “Don’t ask, mate! She’s started dropping hints, but I’ve gone deaf. Aw, and if she tries to get you and Harrie on her side—or young Josh, if he’s the interior dee-cor expert—do us a favour and put the kybosh on it, will ya?”

    “My pleasure!” said Crispin with a laugh, as they wandered out to the kitchen.

    “Haven’t changed this, eh?” noted Steve.

    “No, she loves it,” replied Crispin placidly.

    “Salmon pink, Ben reckoned this colour was,” he noted, eying it with disfavour.

    “Mm.”

    “Well, if you can stand it, mate—”

    “Of course. To tell you the truth, I don’t usually notice my surroundings, really. Always been like that. Used to be accused of always having my head in a book, when I was a kid.”

    “Yeah? Well, ya got that in common: Trisha reckons that’s what ’er bloody mother always used to say to Harrie. That and ‘You’re as bad as your father.’”

    “Shit,” replied Crispin simply.

    “Puts it well,” Steve agreed. “Have ya got any books?”

    “Uh—yes.” He rubbed his nose, looking rueful. “Oodles. Been trying to figure out where the Hell to put them, if I bring them out.”

    “Well, there’s all those shelves of Ben’s in the lounge-room. –Cleared out all ’is old fishing mags and engineering crap, Harrie didn’t want ’em and nor did anyone else,” he explained. “Aw—and the religious stuff: what did Harrie call it? Uh—theology, that’s it! ’E musta been into that at one stage, though ya wouldn’t get any of ’is rellies to believe it. And Jimbo grabbed the car mags—a whole ruddy shelf of them, dunno why, he drove a broken-down ole heap, ’imself. Hellishly out of date, don’t think he’d bought any new ones in thirty years—more—but the kid reckons they’re classics. Anyway, given you a fair amount of space there.”

    “Yes,” agreed Crispin, registering that ‘lounge-room’ must be the common term in Australia, not just, as he’d initially assumed, some odd sort of genteel usage by the distaff side, or, his second supposition, confined to Queensland. “They’d take about a quarter of them.”

    “Gotcha. Well, built-in shelving in the passage? I’d say buy bookcases, but they’re like hen’s teeth plus and cost the earth—no-one wants them these days, see? It’d be throwing yer money away. Well, wanted a small one for Jimbo’s room, there were his schoolbooks as well, ya see, but we hadda junk the first one we bought: sagged like buggery. Turned out it was flamin’ particle board. Hadda look all over till we found one that was solid wood, and then it cost an arm and a leg, so that was no-go. Finally got a second-hand one for less than half the price. Some nit had painted it lilac, and put bloody stickers all over it—flowers, couldn’t inflict the thing on the poor kid like that. So I got him going on getting the flamin’ things off—they musta used superglue or somethink, hadda sand them in the end—then I slapped a coat of white on it.”

    “I see. That’s a cautionary tale, Steve,” Crispin admitted, smiling at him. “May I ask how much it cost?”

    “Well, yeah, mate, but ya won’t like it.” He told him. Crispin’s jaw sagged.

    Steve shrugged. “Cheap, compared to the new ones. Like I said, no-one wants the things, these days.”

    “Yes, but— Shouldn’t that bring the price down?”

    Steve eyed him tolerantly. “No, mate: seller’s market, ya see. If some mug does wanna buy the thing off you, you hang out for what you can get. Likewise the bloody manufacturers: they can set their own price, them as do want the things are so desperate they’ll pay practically anythink. Besides, if you’re not making them in bulk, it’s not worth tooling up for them unless ya do charge like a wounded bull. Basic law of supply and demand, geddit?”

    “Yes,” said Crispin ruefully. “Damn.”

    Wondering just how much of his capital the bloke had thrown away on that bloody pearl necklace, Steve inspected the contents of the fridge. “Aw, good, ya got some in!” he discovered with relief, opening a coldie.

    “Of course. We may be Poms, but we’re not unnatural! I say, those ‘slabs’ they sell here weigh a ton, don’t they? Yours truly couldn’t lift the bloody things—luckily Josh was with me, that trip. Dunno how I’ll manage when he goes home.”

    Steve scratched his head with the hand that wasn’t holding the can. “Ya don’ wanna buy beer by the bottle, mate. Well, dare say Hughie and Joel could always grab a slab for you when they’re getting theirs.”

    “Mm,” said Crispin ruefully. “They’ve both done so much for us already, I don’t like to ask.”

    “Shit, they won’t mind!”

    “Nah,” agreed Jimbo’s voice from behind them, and they both jumped. “See, buying beer, it’s a natural preoccupation of the Aussie male.”

    “Preoccupation yaself,” retorted his father weakly. “–Thinks ’e’s funny,” he explained redundantly. “May I help you, Sir James?”

    “Yeah, um, am I in the sleep-out, Crispin?”

    “Of course, Jimbo,” he said kindly.

    “Yeah, um, but whaddabout Josh?”

    “Come and see,” replied Crispin, grinning. The enclosed sleep-out, once part of a side verandah, ran along the side wall of the kitchen, encroaching onto the end of the sitting-room wall, and stopping short just before the part that had been detachable—and which Steve had grimly made non-detachable, once the boat had gone. It had its own narrow sliding door at the end of the kitchen. Some people might not have found this arrangement particularly convenient but Crispin would have taken his dying oath that such a thought had never crossed Jimbo’s mind.

    “Hey-ey! Ace!” he breathed. “Look, Dad: bunks!”

    Steve came and peered. “Aw. Yeah. Good on ya, Crispin. Only where does Josh put ’is feet?”

    Crispin laughed. “You’re right, Steve, we did have that problem! No, these are full-size, not kiddie-size.”

    “Yeah, ’course they are, Dad! Cool! Hey, c’n I have the top one, Crispin?”

    Those who had told Josh that Jimbo would inevitably want the top one had been quite correct. Crispin’s eyes twinkled but he agreed: “Yes, that’d be fine.”

    “Great! I’ll get my bag!” He shot out.

    Crispin returned to the kitchen. “Well, that seems to be that,” he said. “Now, what would be the proper etiquette for the macho men at this juncture, Steve?”

    “One more juncture from your direction, mate, and you’ll learn where ya can put it.”

    Crispin looked at him in bewilderment. He didn’t think he’d been scattering  junctures hither and yon.

    “Yeah—no, sorry, Crispin; Josh did warn me you can take the Mick like nobody’s biz when you’re in a good mood. But if ya really wanna know, the usual thing is to take a couple of coldies out to the verandah—if ya can get away with it before the womenfolk catch ya. Saw ya left ’is old deckchairs there, good on ya.”

    “Of course, Steve,” he replied, all smiles. “Ancient saggy deckchairs that are almost guaranteed to give the distaff side the horrors are endemic to the traditional British way of life, too. Usually feature on badly-mown back lawns, though; we don’t go in for verandahs, so much. Oh—and on village cricket grounds. You a fan, Steve?”

    “Uh—well, I watch the Tests, yeah. Not a fan of the way the modern lot carry on, though: pack of prima donnas, eh? Well, ole Warnie’s still real popular here—great bowler, mind you—but talk about making a world-wide tit of yaself! Thought that cricketing git that went on TV advertising ’is bloody strand-by-strand job was bad enough—you get that in Pongo? –Nah?” he said as Crispin merely looked confused. “Think ’e was English, actually. Well, it was a while back, but once seen, never forgotten. Yeah—no, but ’e was nothink in comparison to Warnie with ’is bloody white lipstick and frosted flamin’ hair! Saw ’im on the News when we were watching it with Harrie, and she called it a froufrou do—good, eh?”

    Crispin wouldn’t have said that “froufrou” was particularly accurate—but on the other hand… He collapsed in horrible sniggers.

    “Yeah,” Steve agreed, grinning widely. “Well, grab one, mate, and come on!”

    Shaking, he duly grabbed one and came on.

    It rained and it rained and it rained. Crispin began silently to wonder if they should retreat to the trees with their honey pots, like Pooh Bear. Except that here it would have to be the mango trees, not the pine trees of the Hundred Acre Wood. Cyclone Oswald had circled over the Gulf of Carpentaria and then, just as the Drinkwaters arrived, dived inland and southeast. By now Crispin had taken, though perhaps fielded would have been a better word, innumerable phone calls from assorted anxious neighbours, relatives and friends, as the flooding brought on by Oswald got worse throughout eastern Queensland. Aunty Mary Harrison—he knew her, of course, she was the kindly lamington lady—rang from Sydney to make sure they had plenty of clean water and a four-wheel-drive, plus an evacuation plan in place. He tried to explain they were on a rise, they wouldn’t be flooded here. But the road might be flooded, Crispin, he didn’t know what Queensland could be like! Actually, as it got wetter and wetter as January wore out, and stickier and stickier, and the sky remained grey and miserable, he had a feeling he was beginning to. But did they have plenty of supplies in? Not frozen things, Crispin, dear, if the electricity went out they’d be no good. Dry goods. Tinned things. And a manual tin-opener, she knew they were old-fashioned but if the electricity— Quite. Tell Harriet to put them in the top cupboards. And plenty of spare bedding, keep it high up, too—don’t store anything under the beds! Uncle Don Harrison then came on the line to make sure he had a four-wheel-drive… At least a dozen of Kyla’s friends rang to ask if the party next month was going to go ahead. Isabelle Bell rang to make sure they had plenty of tinned stuff and knew to keep their spare bedding— Quite. And if their road was washed out don’t worry, just give them a bell—Crispin blinked, but the young woman was sublimely unaware of her own turn of phrase—and Scott’d nip over any time with anything they needed, they had plenty of stuff, they’d been through it before! He didn’t feel strong enough to ask when, exactly, and at what intervals they could expect this sort of thing.

    Aunty Daphne (who the Hell was she?) rang to say that parts of Brisbane were flooded but don’t worry, they were perfectly okay where they were, but Phil (who the Hell was he?) was pretty sure it’d be the drinking water next, did they have plenty in? And to be very careful about the drains, Crispin. Sewage in the house was the last thing you needed. But was it a Queenslander? She couldn’t remember, though she wouldn’t be surprised if Ben hadn’t had that much sense. She’d completely lost Crispin by this time. The able-bodied complement having headed down to Big Rock Bay to help Laverne at the pub sandbag—the road really dipped where she was, and they’d been flooded before—he was reduced to asking her limply to hold on, what time he asked Kyla, on the sofa-bed with a headache (read, menstruating, he gathered), who Aunty Daphne was and what she meant by a Queenslander. The response being a cross: “Dad’s aunt. Mad as a snake! Whaddaya mean, Queenslander?”

    “I think she was referring to the house,” he said cautiously.

    “Aw! A Queenslander! This dump? Huh! Well, it’s got kinda stilts, yeah, I mean, ya gotta go up the steps to the verandah, eh? But I wouldn’t call it a Queenslander. Like, they’re like, um… gracious,” she produced.

    “Er—I see.” Feebly he reported to Steve’s aunt that the house was, more or less, on stilts. But it was at the top of a rise, they wouldn’t be flooded here, Daphne, he assured her, wondering if it was okay to call her that, but as she hadn’t mentioned her surname… This answer seemed satisfactory and she proceeded to give him a long lecture on the virtues of tinned peaches—not those newfangled ones in the plastic pots, half the time they were threequarters empty, you’d risk poisoning yourself. And a manual tin-opener, Crispin! Quite.

    Someone called Kika (was it?) phoned in a panic because she’d just heard on the news about the dreadful flooding in Bundaberg and the evacuations there, and how close were they, Trisha hadn’t been very clear about it… Aunty Daphne rang again in a panic because they’d just heard about the dreadful flooding in Bundaberg… A chappie identified as Dean (possibly) Barraclough (possibly—the man had a strong Sydneysider accent) phoned sounding very grim, the situation in Bundy sounded pretty bad, was Harriet okay? How high were the floods near their place? Crispin reassured him that they were up on a rise and there was no river very near. The fellow then launched into a very professional-sounding list of the correct precautions to take. Crispin thanked him limply. Still sounding grim, the putative Dean Barraclough replied: “No worries,” and rang off. Crispin looked limply at the phone. “Don’t—ring,” he mouthed at it. Again, Kyla was the only other person home—sandbagging down at Big Rock Bay Motel, this time. The camping ground was under water and the remaining campers were either huddling in their caravans and campervans wishing they’d never come, or, in the case of two intrepid young couples who’d brought tents, using stretchers or sleeping-bags in Isabelle’s lounge-room. He went through to the sitting-room, though without hope. “Um, dunno,” was the expectable reply to his query in re Mr Barraclough. He didn’t ask how far away Bundaberg was, he was quite sure he knew what the answer would be. Instead he crept out and looked it up on Harriet’s computer. Er… near in Australian terms, presumably.

    Someone called Bella rang from Tazzie—he knew it was Tazzie because she said so—because they kept hearing about the awful Queensland floods on the news, and were they all right? Because Mum reckoned they were, but he knew (apparently) what she was! And—before he could draw breath, or even think, really—was it true that Bundaberg had had to be evacuated? Crispin of course only knew what he’d heard on the news—true, the ABC did give excellent coverage, complete with all the current warnings about danger levels, when to evacuate, etc, and you could also pick them up online. He hadn’t asked any of the locals what good these warning services would be if the electricity went out and people were unable to charge their mobile phones. Er—rely on the batteries for their transistor radios? Batteries didn’t last forever, either… It was far too late to ask Bella who she was. “Um, well, I think it was only part of Bundaberg,” he fumbled. “But that’s a fair way from here, you know.”—Did she? Possibly not.—“Er, and the house is on a rise, we’re not in danger from fl—” The road could be flooded! Quite. He managed to assure her that they had plenty of provisions, including bottled water, and they had a tank—and at that point Harriet came in, so he was able to hand the phone to her, utter the mystic rune: “Bella, from Tazzie” and stagger into the sitting-room, where he flopped heavily onto the famous pale blue sofa and just stared dully in front of him…

    After a little Brindle came in and pushed his nose into his hand. Feeling he needed comforting? Undoubtedly. Crispin fondled his odd but silky ears, and sighed.

    Eventually Harriet came in. She looked at him dubiously. “Are you okay?”

    “No, I’m going mad,” he sighed. “Who in God’s name is Bella from Tazzie?”

    “Aunty Mary’s Bella, of course,” she replied on an intonation of mild surprise.

    “Uh…”

    “Our cousin. She lives in Tazzie. I thought you knew.”

    “No,” he sighed: “no. Or if I did, it’s lost in the mists of time… Why do they never identify themselves?” he added savagely.

    “Don’t shout,” replied Harriet placidly. “They all assume that you know who they are, of course. Fancy a coffee?”

    “Not a brown dust, thanks all the same.”

    “Well, if you want real coffee, you can make it, mine’s not as good as yours.”

    “I don’t think I’ve got the strength, quite frankly. If just one of them had bothered to say who the Hell they were… Try filling the little cup thing right up with the coffee, darling, I think that’s where you’re going wrong, you’re being too mean with it.”

    “It’s awfully dear,” replied Harriet uneasily.

    “What is?” asked Kyla from the doorway.

    Crispin jumped violently but Harriet just replied calmly: “Real coffee.”

    “Oh. Mum always buys instant.”

    “That’s why. Well, I’ll give it a go, but it’ll take ages, I’ll haveta do it on the stove, no way am I up for using that camping-gas thingo.”

    “Mm. Turn the element on first, darling. Tamp the coffee down a little in the cup, too,” murmured Crispin.

    Harriet eyed him drily. “Sometimes I feel I oughta video you for posterity, Crispin Narrowmine.”

    “Eh?”

    “The word ‘tamp’ is in my recognition vocabulary—just—but I’ve never heard an actual living human being utter the word until today. On second thoughts maybe you better pinch him, Kyla, and see if he reacts.”

    “Hah, hah,” replied Kyla uneasily, going very red.

    “Would you like a cup, too? That pot’ll do three, easy.”

    “No, thanks, Aunty Harrie,” she croaked.

    “Have you still got cramps?” her aunt asked kindly if tactlessly.

    Poor Kyla was now a sort of purple shade. “They’re not so bad!” she gasped.

    “Well, how about a nice of cup of tea?” said Harriet kindly. “That’d be soothing.”

    “Um, thanks! I’ll make it!” she gasped, disappearing.

    “Do you think she could manage some toast, if I make it?” Harriet asked her semi-official fiancé.

    “‘You talkin’ to me?’” he replied faintly.

    “Very funny. White bread, of course.”

    She was looking at him expectantly. Crispin attempted to gather his shattered forces. “Um, well, if it’s like an ordinary tummy upset… I think if you make it and she smells it toasting, she might feel like it, yes. Actually I wouldn’t mind some myself. Coffee and toast, with some of that delicious strawberry jam? Er, or is it the wrong time of day?”

    Suddenly Harriet smiled at him. “Any time’s the right time for toast and strawberry jam! Righto, good idea!” She hurried out.

    Crispin looked at his watch but it seemed to have stopped. When the Hell had he last had the battery replaced? Uh… God, in another life! He sat there contemplating the thought…

    Kyla came back. “Aunty Harrie says you might as well hang onto this, she doesn’t wanna be distracted, she’s scared she’ll let the coffee boil or somethink.”

    She handed him something and went out.

    Crispin looked at it weakly. The phone. Oh, Christ!

    On the 30th of January Phil (who the Hell was he?) rang to announce in vindicated tones that he’d been right, Brizzie’s drinking water was contaminated, but Crispin wasn’t to worry, they had plenny of the bottled stuff and in any case they (the authorities, one presumed), were sending round supplies. And had Crispin checked up on good ole Hughie lately? At last, a query that he was able to answer! “Yes,” he said: “he’s got his nephew, Joel, with him, and he’s a very capable chap. Stops him doing too much round the place, and so forth. They were considerably better prepared than we were, in fact. But Steve’s sorted us out, he’s been a tower of strength!” he added quickly.

    “I should flamin’ well hope so! Whose ruddy idea was it, anyway, to have this bloody birthday party up there?”

    “Phil! Don’t swear! Who are you talking to?”

    Crispin heard a muttered reply that seemed to incorporate his own name and then, gee, guess who came on the line? –Right: Aunty Daphne in person. Managing to be both overpoweringly gracious and apologetic at the same time.

    Well, that answered one question, anyway, he reflected as she went on and on and on. The mysterious “Phil” was identical with the “Uncle Phil” who belonged to Aunty Daphne…

    When the workers returned from what one could only hope would be the final lot of sandbagging down at the motel, Steve replied to his query: “Aw, Phil. He’s all right.”

    “Er—yes. Is he? Good. So, um, he’s married to your Aunt Daphne, have I got that right?”

    “Yeah.”

    “So which one is actually your relative, Steve?”

    “Her,” he replied sourly. “She’s a Rivers, same as Ben. Mad as a snake.”

    “Not the same as Uncle Ben, Dad!” objected Jimbo loudly.

    “Ya got me there, mate,” he acknowledged fairly. “’Is sister,” he explained to Crispin. “Proves that the human gene pool’s wider than what we mighta thought, eh?”

    “I’ll say!” Jimbo agreed with feeling. “What’s the expression...? Ooh, yeah, I know! She’s houseproud, Crispin!” he produced—proudly.

    “Got it!” Crispin agreed with a laugh.

    “Not that ole Ben wasn’t mad as a snake, too,” added Steve thoughtfully.

    Jimbo opened his mouth to protest. He shut it again. He gulped. “Um, yeah,” he admitted feebly. Their eyes met and they collapsed in roars of laughter.

    Crispin grinned, silently acknowledging that perhaps he wouldn’t ask just now if there actually was such a name as “Kika”.

    On the very last day of January, just as the authorities had announced that the worst of the crisis was over but that flood relief efforts were continuing, Scott Bell rang sounding desperate to report that the creek that came through up where the Bay road met the main road was flooded further up and if it was like last time she was gonna go and their whole road’d be flooded, not just the bit down by the pub where it was already over twenty centimetres, but the lot. Aw, no, Crispin, ya wouldn’t of noticed the creek when ya drove through, it went through a culvert up there, but if she went further up that’d be all she wrote, and— Eh? Yeah—no, the motel was pretty much cut off anyway, no way was he volunteering to drive through that lot, but it’d mean the deliveries couldn’t get through, but they were okay, they were well prepared, only the thing was—

    The thing was, Scott had just had a panicked phone call from a pair of barmy wrinklies (his expression) who were booked in at the motel and had got as far as the flooded bit before the pub. He couldn’t tell them to turn round and head back to the main road if the creek was about to flood, ten to one they’d be caught in it. So would it be okay if—?

    Oh, God. But what could he say, it was a national—no, the expression here was statewide—statewide emergency, after all. Crispin agreed that it would be okay for the barmy wrinklies (not using the expression) and their campervan to come up to Sandy Cove. And there was a big puddle at the bottom of their drive, yes, but it was only a few inches deep. Scott rang off with heartfelt thanks and the assurance that if they got their flamin’ campervan stuck in it it’d be their own ruddy fault.

    Oh, dear. Oh, lawks. Crispin sat down limply at the kitchen table. At the moment Harriet, Josh, Kyla and Brindle had gone up to see how the mango trees were coping and if there were any edible mangos left after “all this rain” (one way of putting it—yes). Trisha, who had been very green around the gills earlier this morning, was lying down in the spare room with some ice-cubes wrapped in a clean tea towel on her forehead, and Steve had disappeared right after breakfast with a mutter about checking up on the sandbags down the pub. Jimbo had retired to his bunk with a book of Ben’s. Every so often there was a yelp of laughter from the direction of the sleepout, so Crispin, who had previously checked out Ben’s library with slightly raised eyebrows, tactfully wasn’t asking exactly which book the kid had got hold of. Besides, everyone had to grow up some time, didn’t they?

    Um… Well, the puddle would seem to be the most immediate problem. Damn this bloody shoulder! Resignedly he hauled himself to his feet and went over to tap on Jimbo’s door.

    “Yeah?” said a surprised voice.

    “It’s Crispin. May I come in?”

    “Yeah, ’course,” replied Jimbo, sounding astonished.

    Crispin went in, wondering if the lad’s family never bothered to knock. “Sorry to disturb you, Jimbo, but I’m afraid I need some help.”

    “Yeah! ’Course!” he gulped, bolt upright on his bunk. “Are you okay?”

    “Yes, I’m fine, thanks. Uh… well, to cut a long story short, Scott’s had to send an elderly couple with a campervan to us. It looks as if the whole of Big Rock Bay Road’s going to flood, there’s a creek further up that’s burst its banks.”

    “Shit. Well, no worries, Crispin: they can go where Aunty Harrie had the grey nomads!” he said eagerly.

    “Yes, of course. I’m just a bit worried about that bloody great puddle at the bottom of the drive.”

    “Shit, yeah, ya don’t want a huge great campervan getting stuck in it!” he gasped. “Hey, tell ya what! I’ll go down the drive and warn them off!”

    “Er—thanks, Jimbo, I think you may have to, if the worst comes to the worst. But, um, it is rather low-lying down there. It’d be better to get them up to the camping site, if possible. I was wondering if you know of anything we could use to fill in that bloody puddle.”

    “Yeah! Uncle Ben’s gravel!” he gasped, scrambling down from his bunk. “Come on!”

    … Oh, boy. “Uncle Ben’s gravel” turned out to be an enormous heap, at the back of the shed. An enormous wet heap. Jimbo immediately took charge. “I’ll get the wheelbarrow an’ a shovel. You better not help, with your wonky shoulder. You get down the drive and stop them, eh?”

    Managing to remind him not to fill the barrow too full, Crispin went. It was, oddly enough, raining, but he was all right: before they left the house Jimbo had forced him into a yellow plastic slicker. In approximately fifteen seconds it was horribly, horribly clammy inside and sticking to him nastily. Ugh!

    Mr and Mrs Caulfield—Mike and Rosa—were eternally grateful to them for letting them camp on their land! Er—yes. “Camp” in this instance was a bit of a misnomer. They were sleeping in the campervan, true. But the rest of the time… Not that there was anything to object to in Mike and Rosa. In fact, as Harriet privily admitted to Crispin, they were a lot better than the usual run of grey nomads. Though grey nomads, of course, was what they were. Mike was recently retired, and Rosa was about the same age, and, as they’d readily revealed, the campervan had been their dream. They’d sold the house, ya see—certain of their audience wincing visibly at this point—and put a bit into one of those retirement units, well, not very up-market, but they were big in SA and they’d been very lucky to get a place. Only one bedroom, but then, there were only the two of them! Thebarton: did they know Adelaide, at all? Harriet did, of course, and she knew exactly the complex they meant, it was on the edge of the CBD, and she was pretty sure that the other side of its end of the street was zoned industrial: there was a huge great factory producing unidentified stuff directly opposite it. The complex itself was quite pleasant-looking, if a bit sterile, and some of the single-storey units had little back gardens looking onto a reserve, but it also featured a soulless, hideous yellow brick two-storeyed block. Were they…? Phew! They’d been really lucky: one of the units that backed onto the little reserve. Well, a neighbour had told them that it wasn’t safe to grow veggies there, all that soil was contaminated, no-one was admitting it, of course, but that had been an industrial site, that was why they’d just had to grass it over, it wasn’t suitable for housing, and what that kiddies’ playground was doing at this end of it, she’d like to know! (The neighbour, apparently, not Rosa, though she looked indignant as she made the report, so doubtless she shared them sentiments.)

    And they’d put the rest of the money into the campervan!

    Oh—right! The audience nodded groggily and smiled.

    The plan had been, evidently, Queensland as a sort of trial run—well, Mike had cousins in Brizzie, eh, Mike?—“Judy. Mad as a snake. Bill’s all right, though,” Mike admitted grudgingly.—Well, yes, but you had to make allowances, and they’d had a lovely Christmas with them. And Big Rock Bay Motel had been highly recommended by some people they knew back home: Erin and Keith Arvidson, did Harriet perhaps—? Gulping, Harriet admitted that she did know them, yes. So they’d booked in, well in advance.

    Their mistake, was the thought quite clearly going through the heads of most of their audience.

    And if it went okay and they worked out any wrinkles with the campervan—not that there were so far, it had been an excellent buy, and actually Keith Arvidson had recommended it, he was so knowledgeable about these things, wasn’t he?—Harriet might have been seen to gulp again and Kyla’s mouth opened and shut silently—if that trip went okay the next one’d be the big one, right around Australia!

    Everyone had seen this coming, but nevertheless they were all reduced to silence.

    Grey nomads Mike and Rosa certainly were. But experienced and capable grey nomads who’d be likely to navigate themselves safely around the continent? No—way.

    By the time their giant campervan arrived, the sweating Jimbo hadn’t nearly filled in the enormous puddle, which covered the entire width of the driveway crosswise and stretched for about the same distance lengthwise. Crispin having explained about his wonky shoulder and Jimbo having added the unnecessary intel about the single lung, Mike, who was, thank God, able-bodied, pitched in with a will—the campervan did contain a shovel and a spade, along with almost everything else they could conceivably need on a journey which, when you looked at the map, covered half a continent. And another half to get back home—quite. Josh got back from inspecting the mango trees long before they’d finished shovelling and pelted down to help. Rosa meanwhile apologising to Crispin in great detail for not being able to offer him a nice cup to tea, because— Quite.

    Almost everything in the Caulfields’ campervan, it turned out, required charging via the helpful plug-in facilities at the official camping grounds. And they'd been perfectly all right up to now! Quite.

    Well, that was that, wasn’t it? So Rosa, plump, loquacious and obviously normally cheery, though there had been a burst of tears as she’d explained to Harriet how much they’d been looking forward to the trip, and Mike, skinny, apologetic, and not much of a communicator unless lubricated with the customary coldie out on the verandah, joined the company gathered to prepare for Kyla’s twenty-first.

    January duly gave way to February at Sandy Cove. It went on raining…

Next chapter:

https://trialsofharrietharrison.blogspot.com/2023/08/happy-birthday.html