Aftermath

15

Aftermath

    Kyla having been returned to the bosom of her loving family, Harriet had almost six peaceful weeks on her own after the trip before her relatives arrived for the Christmas holidays.

    The immediate pre-Christmas period was enlivened by Trisha’s burning an unsolicited quiche in Harriet’s “horrible oven”, by Trisha’s discovery that Harriet was (a) “living in rags” and (b) hadn’t “done anything to this place!”, by Trisha’s purchasing some unsolicited ready-made curtains for the main bedroom and forcing Steve to hang them, and by Trisha’s hysterics when Steve accidentally dislodged a gecko when he was pulling back the said curtains two mornings later. It hadn’t even landed on her, it had only landed on the foot of the be— “All right! I’ll get rid of it! …Jesus, it’s only a harmless gecko!” Like that.

    Fortunately he had the sense to lie when she asked him if he’d killed it.

    It did get worse, yeah, because Harriet “hadn’t really been planning anything much” for Christmas dinner—was the woman demented? How long had she been Trisha’s sister? Steve asked himself groggily as his jaw sagged—and so Trisha had to do everything herself. The supermarket in the town proved to be hopeless, of course—this was after Harriet’s freezer had been investigated and discovered to contain one kangaroo tail swathed in plastic which didn’t disguise the fact that it still had its “hair” on. Uh—fur, some of Trisha’s family recognised weakly, not correcting her. Apparently Hughie had given it to her. Trisha took a very deep breath. Harriet supposed that really you could just use a recipe for oxtail stew, she was sure there must be one in one of Ben’s old cookb— “Rubbish!” she screamed.

    “Not for Christmas,” muttered Harriet, subsiding definitively.

    The unsatisfactory local supermarket having failed to produce a turkey or a “decent” ham, Trisha had to fall back on a large hunk of what just looked like a boned leg of ham to her relatives but which was apparently totally unsuitable for baking. Those who hadn’t fancied the thought of the oven on for hours in the swaddling Queensland humidity sagged with relief. All the fruit of course looked stale—and you wanted something more than just mangoes for Christmas, Harrie, don’t be ridiculous! Helpfully Kyla chose a punnet of nice big strawberries. Its bottom and theirs having been inspected, the punnet was rejected bitterly and Kyla crept back into her shell. And there were no cherries! We always have cherries at Christmas! This was ridiculous!

    Possibly there were no cherries because this was tropical Queensland, where European fruit did not do well. Also possibly some had been brought in from two thousand K or so further south where they did grow, at least in the hillier, cooler parts that weren’t at sea level, and pounced upon by all the local moos, but no-one pointed this out. Angrily Trisha chose some strawberries that she was sure were gonna be tasteless and headed for the ice cream.

    Jimbo had found a really nice pineapple. Steve eyed it wistfully. Pity he didn’t have a giant pocket he could put it in until her back was turned, eh? “Give it to me, ole mate: if one of us is gonna be a lamb to the slaughter it better be me,” he sighed. Uncertainly Jimbo gave him the pineapple.

    Steve’s strategy was, he’d lurk behind while she forged ahead to the checkout, get well behind a few large local moos with giant trolley-loads— Or come to think of it, he could give the excuse of buying the grog while she went ahead! Brightening, he shoved the pineapple back at Jimbo, hissing: “Just hang onto it for a mo’, ole mate, while I tell her I’m gonna get the grog!”

    Jimbo beamed, and hugged the pineapple to his “ruined” new tee—a plum consumed on the trip up: the tee was sort of greenish and the stain sort of bluish, it didn’t show all that much, but… Unforgiven and unforgotten until Hell froze over, had been the family’s conclusion.

    Unfortunately Trisha vetoed the grog idea with the reminder that Ben’s cellar was full of stuff and she was not gonna let Harrie give it all away to Hughie or that awful Aboriginal man.

    “Just some champagne—well, fizzy white—”

    “No. –Find the cream, Kyla!”

    Steve crept back to Jimbo. Harriet came with him, looking cowed. “There’s quite a lot of champagne in the cellar, actually,” she offered. “I can’t do those bottles, so you’re welcome to it, Steve.”

    “Righto. Thanks. What’s it say on the labels, Bollinger?”

    “Um, I didn’t look.”

    Right. Trisha had no palate whatsoever, that was one it’d be wasted on, and the kids were too young to know what they were drinking: make that three. To Steve’s knowledge Harriet only drank shiraz, at least that was all she’d ever had in on the rare occasions when they’d managed to get over to Adelaide to visit her. Make that four, then. What a waste. But there was a silver lining: she was carrying a shopping bag!

    So the pineapple went into Harriet’s shopping bag and they all three hung back…

    They got “What on earth did you want to buy this for?” when they got home and the crime was revealed, but you could count at least one score for their side.

    Oddly enough Ben’s cookbooks had no recipes which told you what to do with a large hunk of boned ham minus its outer integument or at least minus enough of it to render it useless for baking.

    Jimbo incautiously voted for ham steaks fried up in butter like what Uncle Ben had done that time and was told it was high time he got some sense and if he remained useless in a kitchen all his life how did he imagine he was gonna cope if he never got married? Helpfully Kyla suggested asking Laverne from the pub. She was talking rubbish again. She hadn’t been talking at all, hitherto, but she got the point and subsided. Desperately Harriet suggested that you might be able to do it sort of like corned beef. She was an idiot.

    Trisha’s relatives slid out of the kitchen, abandoning her and the ham to their grim-faced misery.

    Christmas Day dawned very muggy and humid, not unnaturally in Queensland at this season. Trisha woke up with a migraine, so that was that.

    The rest of them foregathered uneasily in the kitchen, where Harriet boiled the jug and made instant coffee for them all in silence, overlooking Trisha’s prohibition on coffee for Jimbo while he was a growing boy.

    “I’ll make some toast,” offered Kyla at last.

    “Thanks, love,” said Steve with a sigh, sitting down heavily at the kitchen table from Hughie that needed stripping and doing up, it was a disgrace and Trisha didn’t know what Harriet’s guests must have thought.

    Jimbo also sat down, clutching his mug of coffee tightly just in case someone remembered the prohibition and wrenched it off him. “Um, what about presents?” he ventured into the renewed silence.

    Steve winced.

    “Dad, it was a joke about the Bowie knife!” he reminded him in a hoarse hiss.

    “Uh—yeah. Females don’t think knives are funny, ole mate.”

    “No,” he agreed glumly, subsiding.

    Silence reigned again.

    Finally Harriet took a deep breath. “I’ve got you some of that special cherry jam that Ben used to have that you really liked, Steve. The French stuff.”

    He gaped at her. “Where?”

    “In my room.” Steve’s jaw sagged in horror but she added hurriedly: “Not your room: the spare room, I mean.” She went out.

    The Drinkwaters waited in a state of suspended animation. The toast popped up but no-one noticed it.

    Harriet came back with a large carton. She produced a smallish Santa-wrapped parcel from it and handed it to Steve. “It’s not a Christmas present, it’s a disguise.”

    “Hah, hah,” he replied weakly, unwrapping it. It was the jam, all right. “Thanks, Harrie,” he said weakly.

    “I’d say any time but I don’t know that you’d want the aggro,” she replied drily. “There’s some strawberry for you, Jimbo, and some of that American grape jelly for you, Kyla,” she added, producing two more disguised jam jars.

    “Get any for yourself?” asked Steve on a dry note once the kids had thanked her and Kyla had come to with a jump, retrieved the toast and put some more slices in.

    “No. I usually have sliced mango on ricotta when they’re in season.”

    Steve cast a hunted look over his shoulder but conceded: “Might be safe. Can’t stand ricotta meself, but yeah, go for it. –Boil that jug up again, Kyla, wouldja, I could do with a refill.”

    Jimbo’s verdict was that it was a really good Christmas breakfast! And, um—very cautiously—since Mum wasn’t up, maybe they could do a barbie for lunch with, like, ham steaks, if ya cut it up, Dad, and the pineapple?

    Oh, why the Hell not! You could only die once. And they might as well have the presents now, but, uh, not in the lounge-room—no. So Steve and Jimbo bravely retrieved the presents from the lounge-room, tiptoeing past the main bedroom’s closed door, and they had them.

    Later on they had what Jimbo declared to be the best Christmas dinner ever. Barbecued ham slices each nearly two centimetres thick, barbecued pineapple rings, barbecued sausages, since Harriet had got plenty in, knowing he loved them, and well buttered white bread, Steve having earlier found a packet of forbidden butter in the fridge, which had already added its mite to the breakfast. Washed down with Coke by Jimbo, Harriet having got in far too much, nobody needed that much refined sugar and caffeine, with cranberry juice by Kyla, and with Veuve Cliquot by Steve and Harriet, with a glass each for the kids. Merry Christmas! as Steve concluded.

    Boxing Day was the sort of day that you were gonna draw a veil over for the rest of your life, but it had been worth it, on the whole.

    Things improved slightly in the New Year when Trisha allowed them to go to the Big Rock Bay pub for dinner and Jimbo pronounced Laverne’s excellent Apricot Chicken to be “good, but not as good as yours, Mum.” None of his relatives could convince themselves that he’d said it on purpose, but never mind: Harriet, Steve and Kyla all mentally awarded him medals on the spot.

    A new cloud appeared on the horizon when Kyla came back from a trip to Big Rock Bay beach with a breathless account of a “gorge-ous” guy who looked exactly like Never Heard of Him in Never Heard of It, who was staying at the hugely up-market and expensive Big Rock Bay Ecolodge, but as it was then revealed that he hadn’t even spoken to her, Trisha relaxed somewhat. She relaxed even more when, the family all having gone down to the beach and Kyla, having declared jauntily that she was just going for a swim and then wandered casually in the shallows along to the end of the bay where the ecolodge had its up-market fancy white canvas deckchairs and fancy white canvas sun umbrellas, was seen to be being ordered off by an officious-looking personage in well-ironed white slacks, a crisp white safari shirt with a large logo on one pocket, and a large Panama hat.

    A trifle unfortunately the very next day Steve went down to the said Big Rock Bay and suborned Scott Bell into deserting his responsibilities at the motel and getting out in Ben’s old tinnie with him—that was, with him and a six-pack he’d disinterred from Ben’s cellar. The trip didn’t result in any fish but it did result in bitter recriminations from both Trisha and Isabelle.

    Strangely enough Trisha didn’t soften much towards Hughie, though she did thank him very nicely for taking Harriet and Kyla on the caravanning trip to the Outback. Jimbo then put his foot in it by asking eagerly if Hughie still had his lizards in his other caravan—the answer being “Yeah, ’course. Wanna see ’em?”—but after all it wasn’t a perfect world, was it? Those thought rays his relatives were sending Jimbo didn’t work, because having gone off happily with Hughie to view the stuffed lizards he then apparently had a look at the live lizards Hughie kept inside in big glass tanks and arrived back full of bright ideas about how he could keep a lizard in his room, they didn’t cost much to feed, he could afford it easily now he was doing his paper round, and they only ate— Steve felt forced to veto the proposition very loudly at that point.

    Some might have thought the whole pets motif had better remain dead and buried for some time after that, not to say the whole Hughie motif, but no, Jimbo’s next, after a self-invited second visit to Hughie’s place, was: “Hey, know what? This mate of Hughie’s, well, his neighbour’s dog, she had six pups this year and there’s still two left and Hughie, he reckons—”

    “Are you MAD?” cried Steve, rising from his position semi-supine in one of Ben’s sagging deckchairs that Harriet should have got rid of long since according to her sister.

    “But—”

    “Come over here,” he sighed, putting a heavy arm round his misguided offspring’s skinny shoulders and propelling him forcibly away from the sitting-room windows.

    “But Dad—”

    “Just shut up and listen, matey,” he groaned. “I’ve nothing against the idea of a dog, provided it doesn’t grow into a giant monster that’ll cost a bomb to feed, but you’re old enough to understand that at this point in earth history your mother doesn’t need to hear anything else on the subject of pets, after the lizard horror.”

    “But a dog’s different!” the misguided boy cried.

    “Yeah. Just take my word for it, the women are like that.”

    After a moment he burst out: “I don’t see what’s wrong with lizards, anyway!”

    “No,” Steve agreed heavily: “no. It’s a phobia. Like some people get the heebie-jeebies at the mere idea of spiders, geddit?”

    “Arachnophobia. Yeah. Some people can’t stand flying, either: there was a documentary on it,” he remembered.

    Steve winced. If it was the one he was thinking of, he’d rather not have been reminded of it, thanks all the same, the thing had been bloody sadistic. They might well have called it aversion therapy or something—or was that the other way round?—anyway, the point was, they’d made their poor bloody victims do it. Revolting. “Uh—yeah. Right,” he agreed feebly. “But—well, a dog’s totally different from a lizard, you’re not wrong there, but the pet connection was too much for her, geddit?”

    “I suppose,” he conceded, scowling. “It’s totally illogical, though, Dad!”

    “Yeah. Well, that’s not just a kind of hangover from the lizard phobia, it’s her bloody age as well.”

    Jimbo looked completely blank.

    Steve passed his hand over his forehead. “The flaming menopause. Ya musta heard of it! Hits women in their forties.”

    “Aw, yeah,” he said vaguely. “We did it at school. Their eggs start to dry up.”

    Steve coughed slightly. “Uh—yeah. Right. Plus and loads of hormonal changes that go with it, don’t know why: seems unnecessary, eh? But anyway, there are the hot flushes, and the night sweats—had one the other night, tried to claim it was only the Queensland humidity,” he revealed glumly. “And what the experts call the ruddy mood swings, that from the receiving end just look like she’s having a dummy spit, geddit?”

    “Aw, yeah, like she had about the lizard.”

    “Yeah, they can’t help it. Us blokes have just gotta put up with it and cut them some slack.”

    “Ye-ah… I geddit. You’re always cutting her some slack, eh, Dad?”

    Trying not to wince horribly—it had got so blatant it had actually registered with a kid in his teens?—Steve admitted: “Yeah.”

    “Yeah… Aunty Harrie’s not like that,” the percipient lad offered.

    Steve winced. Not bloody half. “Uh—just let’s say it doesn’t show as much because she’s always been a bit mad, eh?”

    “Aw.”

    “Like deciding to live up here on ’er tod miles from anywhere,” Steve added morosely.

    “Yeah, that’s what I was gonna say, Dad! See, Hughie, he reckons she could have the other pup! They’d be about six months now, and they’re house-trained!”

    “Says who?” replied Steve before he could stop himself.

    Inevitably the answer was: “Hughie’s mate.” Steve sighed heavily.

    “But it’d be a good idea!”

    “You know that, Jimbo, ole mate, and I know that and even Hughie knows that, and in fact the whole male half would agree with ya, but just let’s shut up about it for now, eh? There may—now I’m not saying there will, so don’t take this as a promise—there may be a point in the future when we can risk mentioning it. But not now.”

    “No,” he said sadly. “I geddit.”

    “Are they cute?” asked Steve with a last, faint, flickering glimmer of hope.

    “Dunno.”

    No. There ya were.

    Steve looked at his son’s glum face, swallowed another sigh and put his arm round his shoulders again. “Listen, what say we liberate those surfcasting rods of ole Ben’s that ’e was hiding down the cellar from them light-fingered Abo mates of his and get out—”

    Jimbo’s face had lit up like all his Christmases had come at once, which after this year’s do, they needed to, poor kid. “Yeah! Can we, Dad?”

    “Yeah—well, not today, it’s a bit too late. Tomorrow first thing, eh? Uh—” looking at the size, general gangliness and horrible eagerness of Jimbo—“better see if Joel’d fancy it too, I think: just in case I fall off a rock, eh?”

    Laughing happily at this witty sally, Jimbo agreed tolerantly that Joel could come. He then had the brilliant idea that if Mum asked they could say they were just getting out in the tinnie! Feebly Steve amended this to no, better just say they were going for an early swim.

    Maybe the fishing gods were smiling that day or Joel had brought them good luck or—well, possibly the fish were running and the tide just happened to be right, but whatever it was they ended up with half a dozen huge ones, at which point Steve thought feebly they’d better stop.

    He looked feebly at the catch.

    “How are you gonna explain these away, Steve, mate?” drawled Joel.

    “Shuddup, ya bugger. Uh…”

    “We’ll have to say we caught them from the tinnie, Dad!”

    Steve winced.

    “Can Mum cook real fish?” was next.

    “Shut up, Jimbo! Lemme think! Uh…”

    “She’ll believe us if we say we caught them from the tinnie, Dad, she doesn’t know anythink about fish!”

    “Jimbo, ya nana,” he sighed, “after the last tinnie do I’m not up for another, geddit?”

    “Aw, right: the menopause, eh?”

    “Eh?” choked Joel.

    “Ladies get it in their forties,” Jimbo informed him kindly. “We did it at school in Social Awareness, Mr Cunningham, he told us about it. Dad reminded me about it the other day. Mum gets sweats at night, too, and, um, what was the other one, Dad? As well as the dummy spits, I mean.”

    “Hot flushes?” suggested Joel delicately, his eyes twinkling.

    “That’s right! Hey, does your mum get it, too?”

    So much for Mr Cunningham. Steve just waited, a very dry expression on his face, as Joel attempted to make it clear that it was only ladies of a certain age that “got it” and that his mum had had it, yes, but she was over it now, she was an older lady.

    “Congrats,” drawled Steve. “Bit more of that—aw, and of the bog crises when she’s blocked it with a flamin’ pad because the tampons were a no-go because of why don’t ask, not to mention the gynaecological stuff ya gotta mug up when the first kid’s on the way, and you’ll be almost fit for marriage, mate. They might even give you a certificate as a New Age man.”

    “Thanks,” replied Joel mildly.

    “Kyla blocked up the bog, too,” offered Jimbo valiantly. True, his ears went rather red as he said it.

    “Yeah, and that was a tasty do, while it lasted. The bawling went on for about three hours. Mixture of guilt and embarrassment, I think,” said Steve thoughtfully.

    Jimbo gave a snigger but Joel merely replied unemotionally: “Par for the course. I can take a couple of these whoppers, but Uncle Hughie and me can’t get through more. And the freezer’s full. He’s shoved a whole sheep in there.”

    “He told me it was two sides of lamb,” protested Jimbo.

    Joel eyed him thoughtfully. “Two halves make a—”

    Steve had a coughing fit. “Yeah, well, dunno that we can get through four marine monsters that quick ourselves—”

    “Hey, we could do them on the barbie, Dad!”

    They’d probably have to, thinking of the ruddy burnt quiche do. “Yeah. Well, one today, and the others can go in Harrie’s freezer. But where did they come from?”

    “I gave them to ya,” said Joel heavily. “And then I gave ya back them rods what I’d borrowed off ya, just in case she spots ya coming back, oke?”

    “Yeah—no—thanks, mate. No, well, don’t think she’ll wear the rods, actually. You better hang onto them.”

    This being agreed to, the macho men returned with their catch.

    Oh, gee, neither Trisha nor Harriet was up for (a) cleaning four giant marine monsters or (b) cooking same. In fact the phrase “Why didn’t you ask him to clean them for you?” was used. Shortly after Harriet had ascertained: “Ugh, they’ve still got their innards in, haven’t they?”

    Steve was past it by this time, but the noble Jimbo spoke up gallantly: “Ya can't ask a bloke to clean the fish he’s just given ya, Mum!”

    And, amazingly, the ladies were silenced.

    “They in?” asked Hughie cautiously from the back door.

    He meant was her sister in, Harriet recognised silently and not unsympathetically. “No: Steve’s taken them to see the Big Pineapple.”

    He scratched his head. “That’s a fair drive.”

    Mm: there and back. “Yes. They left straight after breakfast.”

    “Right.” He came in and sat down. “That Isabelle rung you?”

    “Isabelle Bell? No: why?” replied Harriet in surprise.

    He made a face. “Scott rung us. ’E’s double-booked some people or somethink. Dunno what, exactly: it was Joel answered the phone, not me. Uh—maybe it was an extra pair or somethink that ’e got mixed up with the ones that had already booked—yeah, think it might of been. Wanted to know if they could camp on our place. Joel give ’im a flea in ’is ear.”

    “Good on him!” said Harriet with a laugh, failing to draw the obvious conclusion.

    “Yeah, only look out, next thing’ll be, they’ll be asking—”

    The phone rang.

    “Ignore it,” he advised.

    “I can’t do that! What if the family’s had an accident?” she gasped, bouncing up and grabbing it. It was handily placed on the bench, being charged at the power point Harriet normally only used for the electric jug, because Trisha had discovered angrily last night that she’d let it “run down”. “Hullo? Oh. Hullo, Scott.”

    “Hang up on the bugger!” advised Hughie loudly.

    “Ssh!”

    Hughie glared, as the subsequent conversation consisted of her giving in and letting the bugger sucker her.

    “What the Hell ya wanna go and do that for?”

    Harriet smiled at him. “Because I think that underneath being very tall and looking very capable, Scott’s pretty well as hopeless as I am! Wouldn’t you have thought that any reasonable human being would understand that if two lots of people called McIntosh rang up asking for a caravan slot you’d think it was the same ones, like he did?”

    “Huh!”

    Quite. Isabelle Bell wasn’t reasonable, she was completely organised and superlatively efficient. And unlike Trisha she didn’t have the excuse of her age for the dummy spits.

    “One lot’s arrived, you see,” Harriet explained, “and they’re a young family with two little kids, and the last lot Scott spoke to on the phone, they were definitely an elderly couple, because she asked whether there were any easy walking tracks and said that he had a walker—you know: one of those frames.”

    “Doesn’t mean you gotta have them here.”

    “They’ll only want parking.”

    “And water,” he reminded her heavily. “When they due?”

    “Um, around lunchtime, actually, Scott said,” she reported, biting her lip.

    Hughie sighed. “I’ll bring Foster over. Ya realise your sister’s gonna do ’er nut the minute she claps eyes on ’im, do ya?”

    “On— Oh. On Foster.” Harriet swallowed hard. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

    “If I don’t bring ’im they’ll be nicking your water,” he warned.

    Mm. Which meant that Kyla would do her nut. And come to think of it, probably Trisha as well. Which didn’t mean she’d want Foster. “Oh, dear,” said Harriet lamely.

    “Well, let’s have a cuppa first, eh?”

    She jumped. “Yes, of course, Hughie! Um, they’ve eaten all the nice biscuits. Um, would you like some bread and jam?”

    “Make it toast,” he decided, getting up to make it.

    So Harriet and Hughie had very stewed dark orange tea with toast and a selection of expensive fancy French and American jams that were actually the property of Harriet’s relatives. Oh, well.

    Then Hughie went home and fetched Foster.

    “ARF, ARF, ARF! GRR-rrr! ARF, ARF, ARF!”

    Harriet sprang to her feet. “Help!”

    “Siddown again. Thadd’ll be them trying to nick your water,” Hughie advised laconically.

    “Yes, but the man’s got a walker! What if he falls over?” she hissed.

    “Good.” He took a look at her face and relented slightly. “No reason ’e should, it’s flat, out there.”

    “Tuh-trying to get away from Foster,” she explained.

    “Serve ’im right. Well, all right, let’s take a dekko.”

    They went outside.

    “ARF, ARF, ARF!”

    “Shuddup, ya silly bugger, it’s me,” Hughie addressed his faithful watchdog.

    “Grr-rrr-rrr….”

    A thin male grey nomad—no walking frame in sight, incidentally—had backed well off from Foster and was standing there with his bucket in his hand, looking foolish.

    “Thought I told you water was five bucks a throw and ya pay in advance?” Hughie said grimly.

    The grey nomad stuttered.

    “If you’d of come over to the house and paid up we’d of told ya ya can’t just go up to the tap, ya gotta fill it from the hose.”

    Harriet clapped her hand to her mouth in dismay. “Hughie, we forgot to connect it!”

    “Yeah, well, if he’d of come over to the house and paid up, we’d of connected it for ’im,” returned Hughie stolidly.

    The grey nomad stuttered.

    “Grr-rrr-rrr….”

    “Down, Foster,” Hughie ordered mildly. “Don’t go any closer, ’e’ll take a bite out of ya, no worries,” he added mildly.

    The grey nomad stuttered.

    Hughie held out his hand. “Five bucks. Per bucket.”

    The grey nomad made a feeble attempt at protest, asked feebly if they accepted credit cards, got the thoroughly deserved reply, and grudgingly paid up.

    “Stand back, Mr McIntosh,” advised Harriet faintly as Hughie then grabbed the hose and approached his pet.

    “Grr-rrr-rrr….”

    “Shuddup! Geddown!”

    Foster didn’t get down, he approached, though he did shut up. Insouciantly Hughie fended him off with his foot and attached the hose. “There ya go,” he said, turning the tap on. “Just mind ya switch it off at the nozzle, or you’ll be liable for wastage,” he advised. He tossed the end of the hose more or less in Mr McIntosh’s direction.

    “Yuh-yes,” said Harriet faintly, by this time not really knowing what she was saying. “And—and don’t try holding Foster back with your foot like that, will you, Mr McIntosh? Hughie’s got tough boots on and—and Foster… knows him,” she ended faintly as the grey nomad directed a bitter look her way.

    Funnily enough he didn’t then suggest he make two trips like Keith Arvidson had done—you had to admit, Harriet reflected, that the loathsome Keith was quite strong-minded, in his way. No, he just took his bucketful of water and departed.

    Grasping Harriet firmly by the elbow, Hughie pulled her willy-nilly round to the front of the house, where they could watch Mr McIntosh descending the drive.

    Hughie sniffed. “No flamin’ walkin’ frame,” he noted, not particularly quietly.

    Harriet bit her lip. “Um, no,” she agreed in a strangled voice.

    “Don’t think he’ll be back for more in a hurry.”

    “Stop—it—Hughie!” she gasped, breaking down in a helpless gale of giggles.

    Hughie smirked. “Foster done good, eh?”

    “I’ll—say!” she gasped.

    And they adjourned to the house and, since it was lunchtime, a couple of cold ones and the majority of the eggs Harriet had sort of been thinking she might make a frittata with on the travellers’ return. Fried, Hughie didn’t like omelettes or scrambled eggs, she and Kyla had had more than enough time to learn on their Outback tour.

    “ARF, ARF, ARF!  ARF—”

    A terrific scream drowned the rest of the fusillade.

    Harriet fell out of bed and rushed out to the back door, just in time to meet a trembling Trisha.

    “Terrible—dog!” she gasped, bursting into sobs.

    Ooh, heck. “It’s only Foster,” said Harriet lamely, putting an arm round her. “Come and sit down, Trisha.”

    The trembling Trisha sank onto one of the despised not done-up kitchen chairs from Hughie. It was quite some time before she was able to sit up straight, wipe her eyes groggily with the paper towel proffered by Harriet, and ask soggily: “Why didn’t you warn me?”

    Harriet very nearly said because it hadn’t crossed her mind. “Um, you got back pretty late last night, I thought you’d want a sleep-in this morning,” she offered lamely.

    “It’s so humid: I didn’t sleep very well,” replied Trisha dully.

    Yeah, well, according to Steve it wasn’t just the humidity, it was the bloody menopause, and Harriet could fully sympathise with that, only why wouldn’t Trisha break down and admit it? “Mm. Well, I’m sorry. He’s on guard. That grey nomad was trying to steal water yesterday,” she said, glossing over the details.

    Trisha blew her nose wanly. “I thought you’d stopped taking them?”

    “I had, but this was an emergency, they’d double-booked two lots of McIntoshes.”

    Astoundingly, Trisha seemed to accept this. “Oh. How long are they staying for?”

    Ouch: Harriet had forgotten to ask Scott. “Just a couple of days,” she lied.

    “No, well, you don’t want to risk running out of water,” she allowed, blowing her nose again.

    “That’s right,” Harriet agreed in relief. “Um, why did you go out there, anyway?”

    “What? Oh. I thought there might be some tomatoes in the garden,” she said dully. “Sliced tomato on toast is nice for breakfast: quite refreshing, really.”

    “Um, I think the tomato plants died while I was away,” Harriet admitted.

    Trisha sighed. “I see.”

    “I haven’t got a green thumb. More like a brown one,” she added gloomily.

    This was true. Trisha sighed again. “Mm.”

    “I’ll boil the jug,” said Harriet quickly, going over to the bench.

    “Thanks,” she said dully. “It seems even more humid than the first time we came up,” she added dully.

    “I think it is. Isabelle Bell was saying it’s climate change. They’ve noticed quite a difference since they first came here. It’s not getting drier like you might’ve thought, it’s getting muggier. Queensland seems to be getting even more floods than usual, too, over the last few years.”

    “Yeah. Our summers are getting hotter in NSW, and we’re getting more bushfires, but it’s muggier there, too, I’m positive. I thought the idea was the whole country was gonna be really arid.”

    “Like the Red Centre: yeah. Evidently not.”

    “Mm. Um, Harrie,” she ventured, “I hope that trip with Hughie hasn’t meant he feels he’s got a right to foist himself on you even more.”

    Over at the bench Harriet raised her eyebrows at the toaster. Evidently Richard was himself again. “I suppose he does come over fairly often now that Joel’s taken a lot off his shoulders, but I don’t mind. Most of the time he just watches TV.”

    Trisha sighed. “That or inflicts his blimmin’ lizard DVD on you, I presume.”

    Harriet smiled a little. “I’ve seen it loads of times, I think he only brought it over last time for Jimbo.”

    “It’ll be a new obsession,” she predicted heavily.

    Uh— Oh! “For Jimbo? Well, it’s a relatively harmless one. Um, it’s better than that rocket one he had, you don’t want him haring off to Woomera with that nutty teacher that does toy rockets.”

    Trisha winced. “No, well, the head teacher put his foot down, thank goodness! Something about personal injury—no, what was it? Personal liability insurance, I think.”

    “I bet!” Harriet agreed feelingly.

    “Yeah… Anyway, it does seem to’ve worn off, thank goodness, but there’s no way I’m having a lizard in the house.”

    “No, of course not. Actually,” said Harriet, “I think Steve might have talked sensibly to him, because the other day he came out with something about phobias.”

    “Ya mean Steve said I had a phobia?” she said indignantly.

    “No!” replied Harriet quickly. “Jimbo said something about having to understand that a person can’t help a phobia and it’s no worse than arachnophobia.”

    “Oh,” said Trisha limply.

    Briefly Harriet debated the wisdom of saying he did seem rather keen on having a dog, and decided against it.

    Trisha then got herself round a mug of instant and embarked on a slice of toast without apparently realising it had expensive French strawberry jam on it, Harriet meanwhile making a mental note to apologise to Jimbo for using up his jam, not to say a mental note to see if she could get away with buying the poor kid some more next time they drove in to the supermarket.

    Apparently this sustenance was revivifying—well, mollifying and revivifying, really: Trisha then asked whether Harriet was going to feed Foster. Well, “that dog”, not his name, but it was a great concession.

    “He does deserve it,” Harriet admitted: “he was wonderful with that horrid grey nomad. But it’s not safe to go near him with food. What did Kyla say? Oh, yes! She threw it at him! I could do that!”

    Trisha just sat there numbly as her sister opened a tin of dog food, spooned out its entire contents onto a plate and approached the kitchen door. Managing just as Harriet was about to vanish, skimpy cotton nightie and all: “Won’t that plate break if you throw it at him?”

    “Probably!” agreed Harriet cheerfully, vanishing.

    Trisha waited in fear and trembling.

    “ARF, ARF, ARF!”

    “Stop it, Foster, you silly!” cried her sister’s voice gaily. “Here! Ooh! Good boy! Clever dog!” Then there was a burst of giggles.

    Harriet reeled backed in, shaking. “I threw it like a frisbee, and he caught it!” she gasped.

    “Hah, hah,” said Trisha very weakly indeed.

    “If you come outside you’ll be in time to see him sitting up and begging for more!” she promised.

    “That isn’t funny!”

    “Um, no, he does. It’s his one trick,” said Harriet lamely.

    “I’m not going out there again while he’s here,” she said definitely.

    Well, good, possibly that’d mean she’d never realise the lettuces had also died while Harriet was away, likewise some thingos that Joel had reckoned were eggplant plants, um, that sounded peculiar, well, eggplants, then, and some lacey stuff that was supposed to be parsley, she seemed to remember Ben once saying that it was a parsley patch and it self-seeded like billy-o, nothing’d kill it once it got started. Hah, ruddy, hah. Should’ve taken a bet on that! Smiling, Harriet boiled the jug up again and made them both second mugs without asking if Trisha wanted one.

    Things then went slightly downhill because her sister registered the labels on the strawberry jam and its mate the cherry jam and had to tell her she was throwing money away and they were no better than our Australian jam—a blatant lie—but it was pretty mild, really. Added to which she then gave in and had some more toast with the aforesaid on it. Not butter, though, that had been the last of it on Christmas Day and they were all now eating healthy marg.

    Two days later the Drinkwaters took off on another expedition—from what Jimbo had let slip Harriet had an idea that Steve was after a sight of the Big Mango, having been all fired up by the successful quest for the Big Pineapple. The McIntoshes had left the previous day but Foster was still in residence, Trisha having eventually admitted, in the wake of the experience coming back very late from the trip to the Big Pineapple (or rather, from the side-trip to somewhere well off the highway where, after getting lost three times they’d managed to find a place to have dinner), that it was a bit eerie around here late at night and Harrie might be safer with him out there.

    Harriet was just sitting peacefully in the kitchen, thinking she might make another cup of coffee and maybe go and check out the mango trees, later, when—

    “ARF, ARF, ARF!  ARF, ARF, ARF!  ARF, ARF, ARF!”

    Ooh, help, surely not another lot of grey nomads?

    Then a cheerful loud male voice that certainly didn’t sound like any grey nomad so far experienced said: “Shuddup, Foster, ya nong! Ya know me!” And a large figure that wasn’t Hughie or even Joel loomed in the open back doorway.

    “Gidday, Harriet!” beamed Scott Bell.

    “Oh—hi, Scott,” said Harriet, smiling weakly at the young man. “I’m sorry about Foster. He barks at everyone.”

    “Yeah, I know. He done good, way I heard it!” he grinned.

    Harriet winced. Help, that’d mean everybody knew. “Uh—yes; um, but they were your guests,” she faltered.

    “Sort of! Only had a booking fee out of them, and they kicked up about that! Hey, I hope ya did get your twenny-five bucks out of them?”

    “Yes, well, they stayed another day, so fifty, actually.”

    “Good-oh.” He pulled up a chair, sat down and dumped the strangely-shaped parcel he was carrying on the table. “Tried to steal ya water, did they?”

    “Um, sort of.”

    Scott sniffed. “Yeah. Ya get a few like that. Most of our campers are decent sorts, mind you, but some of them’ll get away with murder. Got a knife?”

    “Um, yeah, loads, Ben was into real knives. They’re really sharp, though. I mean, they’re quite dangerous. Um, what for, Scott?”

    He grinned. “Open this here. It’s for Foster. Bit of a reward, see? Only Muggins done it up real tight so’s he wouldn’t go mad if he got a sniff of it—don’t think it worked,” he noted thoughtfully. “Can’t get the ruddy string and all that tape off it. Well, could just biff it at ’im,”—Harriet nodded numbly—“yeah, only then he’d eat the string and the tape and the lot, might clog ’is gut.”

    “I see. Um, well, there’s the kitchen scissors,” she faltered. The thing was about as long as her arm, what on earth— Help, not another roo tail?

    The feeble feminine suggestion of scissors was rubbished with a robust: “Nah, a good knife’ll fix it!” and Scott got up and went over to the knife block on the bench that Harriet stupidly hadn’t hidden in a cupboard because she was so used to seeing it there that she’d sort of forgotten about it.

    The string was soon cut, the tape was off—Harriet having shut her eyes for that part of the operation—and the contents of the parcel were revealed as—

    “Help!” she gasped. “It’s huge!”

    “Yeah: beef bone,” explained Scott happily.

    “He’ll love it, but—but just don’t get too near him, will you? Throw it at him, we always throw him his dinner.”

    Shaking slightly, Scott agreed: “Right!” and went over to the door with his gigantic beef bone.

    Harriet followed him, she couldn’t stop herself.

    “ARF, ARF, ARF!  ARF, ARF, ARF!”

    “Here ya go, boy!” Biff!

    Leap!

    “Clever boy, Foster!” cried Harriet as he grabbed the mighty bone a second before it hit the ground.

    “Grr-rrr-rrr… Grr-rrr-rrr…”

    “Come on, better leave ’im to it!” said Scott with a laugh in his voice, taking her arm. “Thinks we might grab it off ’im, ya see!”

    “Grr-rrr-rrr… Grr-rrr-rrr…”

    “Help, yes! He’s very territorial, isn’t he?” she gasped.

    “Somethink like that!” replied Scott, his wide shoulders shaking, as he steered her indoors.

    “That bone,” said Harriet as they sat down again, “is simply enormous, Scott! Are beef bones always that big?”

    “Yeah, sure! Well, a bullock’s not small.”

    “No. Where did you get it?”

    Scott, it appeared, was good mates with one, Craig Magson, who ran the SunnyVale Supermarket in the nearest town. When they’d had the film mob staying at the motel, Craig had provided some great steaks for a special barbie for them.—Yeah, that was right, they’d done catering for the film mob, the motel had just been getting started, it had given the business a bit of a head start, ya see, bit of extra income.—Anyway, Craig had rung up the other day—he always let them know if he had any good specials on—and since good ole Foster had come up trumps, Scott had asked him if he had any bones going spare.

    “I see,” said Harriet, smiling. “It was very thoughtful of you, Scott.”

    “Heck, that’s okay! –So where are the others, today?”

    “What? Oh! They’ve gone off to Bowen: I think Steve and Jimbo want to see the Big Mango.”

    “Ri-ight. Taking the Bruce Highway, are they?”

    “Um, I suppose so, doesn’t it go all the way up?” replied Harriet vaguely.

    “Yeah—well, right up to Cairns, yeah. Steve does know it doesn’t actually go to Bowen, does ’e?”

    Harriet cringed. “I don’t know,” she said faintly.

    Scott scratched his chin. “It’ll get ya near it. Have to turn off.”

    “I see. Um, so how far north is it?” she faltered.

    “Halfway between Mackay and Townsville,” replied Scott promptly.

    Harriet gulped.

    “You can expect them back pretty late, then,” the young man concluded cheerfully.

    “ARF, ARF, ARF!”

    Harriet roused, blinking. She’d stuck it out until half-past twelve, then crawled off to bed. What was the ti— Ooh, help: half-past two!

    Er… a proper hostess—Nicole Ferguson came clearly to mind—would get up, assume a proper dressing-gown, and go out to make sure her guests were okay and see whether they needed sustenance.

    On second thoughts, no way. Quickly she switched her bedside lamp off again and pulled the sheet up over her head. After a few minutes of what sounded like recriminations from the direction of the front door the bedroom door opened and Kyla hissed: “Are you awake, Aunty Harrie?”

    Harriet hunched down under the sheet. Kyla tiptoed in, got ready for bed and tiptoed out again, presumably to go to the bathroom. Harriet just waited.

    Kyla tiptoed back in again and got quietly into the other single bed. Phew!

    Next morning Harriet woke up around seven-thirty. Her niece was still dead to the world. She had to have a pee, so she crept out to the bathroom. She didn’t go back to the bedroom, she just tiptoed into the kitchen, closing its door very quietly behind her, and made herself some coffee and toast as quietly as she possibly could. Sleeping dogs could be let lie. And talking of which, Foster would probably need a drink, she ought to go out and fill his water bowl with the hose, but it’d have to wait, he'd make too much noise.

    Steve was the first to surface, looking very baggy-eyed. “Hullo. Not dressed?” he said to the spectacle of his sister-in-law sitting at the kitchen table in her nightie.

    “I didn’t want to disturb Kyla.”

    “On her track record so far she’d sleep through anythink, but good on ya. Any eggs? I’m starving.”

    “Um, I think there might be one or two.”

    Steve investigated the egg carton. “One. Oh, well, it’ll have to do. No bacon, I suppose?”

    “Not unless the bacon fairies brought some last night while Trisha was asleep, Steve.”

    “Hah, hah. –Hang on; I know!” He leapt at the freezer and retrieved the remains of the giant hunk of Christmas ham.

    “That’ll be frozen,” Harriet warned.

    “Frozen slices,” he grunted, investigating its plastic wrapping. “Sliced it up before I bunged it in here, see? Ah! Gotcha!” Triumphantly he detached two giant slices—each about two centimetres thick.

    “It’s your funeral,” Harriet conceded.

    Not pretending to misunderstand her, her brother-in-law replied: “She’s gotta catch me, first.”

    Harriet was just about to predict she would, she’d smell it cooking, when the door opened, and they both gasped.

    But it was only Jimbo. “Ooh, ham and eggs! C’n I’ve some, Dad?”

    “Not eggs, sorry, mate, there’s the only one and I’ve got dibs on that. But there’s plenty of ham.” He detached two more giant slices.

    “Fried bread?” suggested Jimbo with super-optimism.

    Harriet’s and Steve’s eyes met. “She’ll—kill—him,” she mouthed.

    Steve cleared his throat. “Ya know what ya mum thinks about fried bread, Jimbo.”

    “You said that muck she took last night was gonna knock her out for hours, Dad,” he reminded him.

    “Uh—yeah. Well, hopefully—yeah. Well, okay, if you wanna risk it.”

    “It’s only olive oil, anyway,” said Harriet helpfully.

    Steve raised his eyebrows slightly at this one, but got on with it. It did take a while to cook the frozen ham steaks, but he managed it, and the macho men sat down to their sustaining breakfast, washed down with copious amounts of instant coffee that nobody told Jimbo wasn’t suitable for a growing boy.

    Steve sighed deeply. “Boy, that’s better!”

    Harriet finally nerved herself to ask the question that had inevitably posed itself, some time back. “Didn’t you have any tea last night?”

    The Drinkwater males exchanged glances. Steve wasn’t speaking up, so finally Jimbo offered: “She wouldn’t let us go to the McDonald’s in Mackay, she said it was far too early for tea and their food’s too fattening.”

    Oddly enough nobody told him that “she” was the cat’s mother, as his late grandmother would certainly have done, or even his mother, if in a bad mood. Steve just sighed and Harriet said sympathetically: “Oh, dear.”

    Neither male Drinkwater volunteered more, so she then ventured: “Um, I’m not very sure of the geography, but was that the last big town?”

    Steve began: “The Bruce Highway—” and broke off.

    “Um, yes, Scott Bell explained it, um, more or less goes to Bowen.”

    “Did ’e?” he replied dully. “Yeah. Yonks since I was last up that way…”

    Jimbo swallowed hard. “Um, see, they’ve started making all these by-passes, Aunty Harrie. Mum kept saying we didn’t want to waste time turning off and there was bound to be somethink, um, closer. Um, she wouldn’t let us stop in Rockhampton, eh, Dad? See, we seen this sign and Dad thought the place looked okay, but, um, she didn’t like the look of it or somethink. Um, and later on we saw a sign for Bundaberg—I mean, we weren’t there yet, it was advertising it—and Dad made a joke about having a few Bundies in Bundy—well heck, anybody would, eh? And she got real mad and said don’t you dare stop there. So we didn’t,” he ended mournfully, if redundantly.

    “I see.” Harriet had had the impression from Hughie that Bundaberg wasn't all that far away, in fact the rum distillery had been mentioned as a choice destination for a nice drive. “Um, so that’s south of Rockhampton, then?”

    Not evincing any horror at her lack of geographical knowledge, the Drinkwaters, père et fils, confirmed dully: “Yeah.”

    Harriet looked at them uncertainly. “Um, so what’s the next big town on the Bruce Highway, then?”

    “Maryborough,” said Steve sourly.

    “But isn’t that south of us?” she gasped.

    “Yeah.”

    “Um, yeah. ’Member that first time we come up here, Aunty Harrie? We come through there.”

    Harriet nodded numbly.

    Silence fell.

    Eventually Jimbo ventured: “Um, after Bundy it’s the Fraser Coast really, eh, Dad? But Mum kept saying we were nowhere near the coast and we were gonna miss our turnoff, and, um…” He ran down. “Like that,” he ended glumly.

    “No wonder you were starving!” she said warmly.

    They nodded gratefully.

    Steve was just deciding he might boil the jug up again and Jimbo had just discovered the fridge contained only the cranberry that Kyla liked in the way of juice and was looking at it dubiously, when the passage door opened and they all jumped.

    But it was only Kyla. She closed the door carefully, beaming. “Ooh, I thought I could smell bacon!”

    They winced.

    “Um, ham, actually,” offered Jimbo.

    They eyed the door uneasily….

    “Must be still asleep,” conceded Steve at last.

    “Um, yes, I could hear her snoring, actually,” Kyla admitted.

    Again no-one pointed out that “she” was the cat’s mother. Though Harriet did look dubiously at Steve, wondering just how much of just what muck he’d let Trisha take last night: she wasn’t usually a snorer.

    “Um, can I have some, Aunty Harrie?” asked Kyla into the silence.

    Harriet jumped. “Uh—oh! Ham. Yes, of course, Kyla. Um, Steve put it back in the freezer, I think. There’s not much left, Steve, you might as well leave it out.”

    There were in fact two mighty slices left, which Steve generously offered to his daughter. Kyla gaped at them. “I can’t get through that much, Dad!”

    “We were starving,” noted Jimbo. “C’n I’ve some of your juice?”

    “Yes, sure,” she said kindly. “Um, I am hungry, but those slices are huge!”

    “I’ll bung this one in the fridge,” Steve conceded heavily, wrapping one up again, “but there’ll be some reason she won’t let us have it, you can bet ya boots.”

    Again no cats’ mothers were mentioned and Harriet boiled the jug and Kyla made toast while Steve kindly cooked up the gigantic ham slice.

    “It would of been nice with pineapple,” noted Jimbo as it vanished down his sister’s gullet.

    “Hah, hah,” replied Steve.

    “See, Aunty Harrie, the thing is—” Jimbo stopped.

    “Pineapples. Millions of ’em. Every five K. Not a bar of ’em,” Steve explained shortly.

    “Goddit,” Harriet agreed.

    Kyla finished her coffee and sighed. “Anyway, we saw the Big Mango.”

    Harriet looked at her dubiously. She didn’t sound too enthusiastic. “Was it good?”

    Her niece smiled suddenly. “Yeah; you’d of loved it, Aunty Harrie! It was really, really silly! It’s like, standing up on end.”

    Harriet nodded eagerly. “I see!”

    “Better than the Big Pineapple, really,” said Steve thoughtfully. “Mind you, that’s better, um, artistically, I s’pose. I mean, much more to it and they’ve done the, um, prickles, really well: it does look just like a real one. Only you expect a pineapple to be standing up on end, don’tcha?”

    Abruptly his sister-in-law collapsed in ecstatic giggles, gasping: “Yes! Not a mango, though!”

    The Drinkwaters beamed at her. “You goddit,” they chorused.

    Trisha eventually surfaced around midday, by which time, alas, her entire family had vanished. It was subsequently revealed that they’d only gone down the beach; though not that Isabelle Bell had spotted them and on hearing that Trisha was still in bed, taking it easy after yesterday’s trip, warmly invited them to lunch, an invitation which they’d warmly accepted. Even Jimbo wasn’t so silly as to tell his mum about Isabelle’s superb quiche and the salad platter incorporating watermelon slices just like a real restaurant.

    “Um, Uncle Don rang while you were out,” Trisha recalled as the sisters sipped cold drinks on the verandah in the late afternoon in the faint hope that there might be a bit of a cool breeze out there.

    “How are they?” replied Harriet nicely.

    “Okay. It’s a nice day in Sydney. Um, he mentioned there was a really odd phone call, Harrie. Some weirdo looking for you. Did any of those horrible grey nomads you had here sound kind of English?”

    “Um, well, Mr Perkins, I suppose. He wasn’t technically a grey nomad, he was a paying guest left over from the motel.”

    Trisha sniffed. “Right. Uncle Don didn’t catch his name. He didn’t like the sound of him, so he didn’t give him your number, but he took his. Only you don’t want him back, do you?”

    “No. I mean, he was harmless, but I don’t need any paying guests, and anyway, he’d have to book through the motel.”

    Not arguing with that one, Trisha replied: “Good; well, I’ll tell Uncle Don not to bother.”

    “Thanks,” said Harriet in relief.

    “They’ve been getting a spate of weird phone calls lately, evidently,” her sister added.

    “I thought they had one of those thingos on their phone that Telstra was advertising a while back?”

    Not bothering to reinterpret this typical piece of Harriet muddle, Trisha replied: “That’s only for those cold-calling places.”

    “Oh,” said Harriet obediently.

    “Wouldja believe, some creep tried to sell Aunty Mary a hearing aid and it wasn’t even the official people? Mind you, they’ve had a bucketload of them, too! Every time the phone goes and they’re really busy getting tea or somethink, its these blimmin’ hard of hearing people! Them or the flamin’ RSPCA!” she added viciously.

    The Drinkwaters had had a bit of that, Harriet knew. Nobody had any notion how the RSPCA had even got their number. “That’s bad,” she said kindly.

    “Yeah. There doesn’t seem to be anything anybody can do about it. I must say the government’s useless!”

    Not asking whether she meant the state or federal government, Harriet agreed: “Too right.”

    And, Trisha diverging onto other well-known iniquities of the government, administrative level unspecified, the subject of the odd phone call inquiring for Harriet was forgotten.

    “Another no-go?” Josh Narrowmine had said sympathetically as his father hung up the receiver.

    Crispin made a face. “Think so. Cagey old chap, a bit deaf: there’s a Harriet in the family and he’ll pass on my number if she wants it but she’s not taking any more paying guests.”

    “That doesn’t sound like her,” he said cautiously.

    “Not in the least,” agreed Crispin with a sigh.

    “Well, at least he didn’t snap: ‘We don’t buy over the phone!’ and hang up on you.”

    Crispin sighed again. “No. It’s mainly the females that do that, actually, old son.”

    “Um, I suppose they’re the ones that’re at home most of the day and get most of the nuisance calls.”

    “Mm.”

    Josh looked warily at his father’s list. Giant list. He’d already been through all the Harrisons in the online White Pages for Australia once. These were the ones that had been out or had hung up on him last time. Oh, Lor’.

    “Dad,” he ventured uneasily, “don’t you think you should give it away? I mean, it’s been five years since you met her.”

    “Barely four and a half,” corrected Crispin, frowning.

    Well, yes! “Look, even if you find her, she’ll have moved on. I mean, life doesn’t stand still,” he said miserably.

    “I’m not stopping now,” replied Crispin grimly.

    Josh sighed. “No, very well. It’s not that I’m unsympathetic, but…”

    “Uh—look, Josh, why not get on over to Sydney? Take in the beaches: sun, surf and bikini-ed lovelies, eh?”

    “I don’t think I’d find accommodation at this time of year. Besides, I don’t want to go without you,” Josh replied with his lovely smile.

    “We-ell… Can’t get away from Canberra just yet with this flap on at the office.”

    “I know,” Josh agreed. He meant ruddy MI5, of course. Another daft rumour that’d come to nothing. Possibly not entailing his father having to dye his hair and use brown contact lenses, like that last lot. Crispin was now very tanned, so he’d passed fairly easily as someone of Middle Eastern descent, but his Arabic was pretty accented, he’d had to pose as a disaffected immigrant who’d spent most of his life in England. Not that there weren’t a fair few of them, poor bastards. Most of them not of Dad’s age, however. It was just too bloody risky. Uncle John had done his nut when he'd found out about it, and no wonder!—Dad coming home for a holiday with the dyed hair had kind of been a giveaway and he’d forced him to disgorge the lot.—He’d tried to talk sense into him but Dad had only laughed and said if his fellow would-be terrorists thought he was a bit long in the tooth he could always claim it was mid-life crisis. Jesus!

    Crispin was now carefully marking the number he’d just rung with the annotation “Relation Harriet who doesn’t want more PGs; poss. but not likely.”

    Josh sighed. Uncle John’s suspicions had been right all along and Dad had taken the post out here because of the Harriet female. Uncle John was hoping that he’d be able to make him see sense during his holiday. Well—holiday: he’d finished his degree but he wasn’t too sure if he wanted to go on with Renaissance literature. Uncle John had said he should’ve had a gap year before he started it, and he’d better have one now: begin by going out to Australia to see Dad and see if he could persuade him to give up (a) that bloody stupid risky job and (b) looking for a woman he’d met once, five years back.

    It wasn’t going to happen, was it? Nobody ever had been able to talk Dad out of anything, when his mind was made up.

Next chapter:

https://trialsofharrietharrison.blogspot.com/2023/09/vegetating.html