Project Lead-In Time

 27

Project Lead-In Time

    “He was on the way home to you,” reiterated Joanna anxiously, long-distance to Tokyo.

    Hattie had got that. “Yes,” she said in a small voice.

    “Mm. Um, Allan thinks we oughta get it official about Gordon, Hattie,” said Joanna anxiously. “Mum has married Kevin, you know.”

    Amanda had sent them the wedding pics, so she did know, yes. As they’d arrived just before she and Hill had to set off for Colin’s and Penn’s wedding Hattie hadn’t taken much in except that Kevin, a burly, freckled man of Irish descent, had looked uncomfortable crammed into a white summer suit with a pale blue flower in his buttonhole, Amanda, who was about three times her beautiful eldest daughter’s girth, had looked as mountainous as ever and sort of upholstered, in a pale blue satin suit with a very fancy hat, and little Diana and the other little flower girl, who must be Kevin’s granddaughter, had looked putrid, if very smug, in matching bright blue satin outfits. Shelby hadn’t featured and both she and Joanna had had no trouble in concluding that that was because he’d refused to let Amanda cram him into whatever fancy garbage she’d dreamed up for him. But she certainly hadn’t taken in any of the implications of the marriage.

    “Yes. Um, she doesn’t want him back, does she?”

    “No, I don’t think so. I mean, she’d take him if you can’t cope, Hattie, but she knows he doesn’t want to go.”

    “Yeah. Um, well, Ken says that I can be his legal guardian without having to actually adopt him.”

    “Can you?” she wondered doubtfully. “I’ll ask Allan. His lawyer’ll know, if he doesn’t.”

    “Mm. Um, Joanna, are you sure about Allan?”

    “Yes, very,” she said firmly. She lowered her voice. “He lost ’is nerve, yer know. I mean, first ’e let Louella put ’im ’orf and then ’e realised ’e’d done the wrong thing, only ’e couldn’t face me. ’E’s not that strong a person, really, not like Hill. That bitch of an Iras, she really knocked the stuffink aht of ’im.”

    “Yes, I can see that’d be right. Um, but is that what you want? Um, I mean, you might have to, um, push him a bit.”

    “I can do that if I have to,” said Joanna firmly. “Only I don’t think I will. See, you’ve got the wrong sort of idea about the sort of life the Tarlingtons lead. ’Tisn’t posh, it’s all cows and milking and fields of organic stuff all day. He’s on top of all that, he doesn’t need pushing. S’pose the house could do with a bit of brightening up, but ’oo cares?” she ended cheerfully.

    “Yes, um, what about his mother?” asked Hattie fearfully.

    “She’s lovely!” said Joanna with a laugh.

    “Oh,” she said limply. “Um, but she lives there, doesn’t she?”

    “Yeah, but I don’t mind. We’re gonna share stuff out between us. She’s not much of a cook, neither, so I’m gonna show her that potato bake you showed me, and your vegetable lasagna—you said I made that quite good,” she reminded her, “and she’s gonna teach me her special chicken recipe and ’ow to use the slow-cooker, she uses that a lot, it’s easy, you just chop the meat up and it makes a casserole all by itself! She’s miles more interested in the garden and the poultry than in doing the cooking and looking after the ’ouse anyway, see? They got ducks; you ever ’ad ducks?”

    “Um, to eat?”

    “Nah, to keep!”

    “No, we never had any livestock or pets. But Ken’s got ducks: his dad died so he inherited the old house from his grandma complete with the ducks.”

    “They’re lovely, eh? Lovely faces,” said Joanna happily. “She’s gonna learn me up about them, too!”

    “I see. They are nice. Um, but talking about looking after the house, haven’t they got a housekeeper?”

    “Nah! See, you got the wrong idea, Hattie! Mrs Jessop, she’s just their cleaning lady: she just comes in three times a week. Same like what Lorraine used to do for your Granddad Perkins, and yer can’t say ’e was posh!”

    “No,” said Hattie with a smile in her voice: “posh is the last word I’ve ever use of Granddad. Well, I’m glad, Joanna, if—if you’re sure about it?”

    “Yeah! ’Course! And listen, Allan says we’ll take Gordon, if that’s what you want.”

    “Um, no. I mean, it’s very kind of you both, but I want him. If—if he wants to stay with me.”

    “Well, yeah, ’e does. Kicked up a Helluva fuss when I said did ’e fancy coming down to Guillyford for keeps. Wouldn’t even come for the rest of the holidays.”

    “Heck, don’t say you’ve wished him on poor June for the rest of August!”

    “Nah, ’course not. Hill’ll look after ’im,” replied Joanna cheerfully. Cheerfully but with something of a firm note to her voice.

    “What?” said Hattie limply.

    “Yeah! I keep telling yer, ’e was on the way home to you!”

    “I—I thought you said he was in hospital?”

    “Yeah, but they’re letting him go home tomorrow. Well, tomorrow here, dunno what it’d be over there in Japan!”

    Hattie had sagged with relief. After a moment she managed to say: “Joanna, what about Chipping Abbas?”

    “’E doesn’t want to live in that ruddy flat, Hattie, you’re daft!” she scoffed.

    “Not that. The project.”

    “He’s taking sick leave, see, and with that and the annual leave what they owe ’im anyway, he won’t be back at work until term starts, geddit?”

    “Um, yes,” she said faintly.

    “He is serious about you, Hattie, love. Everyone has stupid rows, it doesn’t mean nuffink.”

    “No. Thanks, Joanna,” said Hattie faintly.

    “Um, Allan’s mum wants to talk to you.”

    “No! I mean, first you tell me Hill’s been in an accident and—and then there’s you and Allan, and—and— I need to think,” ended Hattie faintly. “Thanks for ringing. I’d better let you go, this must be costing Allan a fortune.” She hung up.

    Joanna looked numbly at the echoing receiver in her hand. “Oh, lumme.”

    “I was on my way home,” reiterated Hill anxiously, long-distance to Tokyo.

    “Mm,” Hattie agreed. “I’m sorry I was beastly to you.”

    “No, darling, it was my fault! Ma and Allan have chewed my ear good an’ proper about not taking you as seriously as my bloody projects! And—and I told them about you being Col’s daughter and Ma’s thrilled. She remembers your christening. Yards of old lace amidst the icy chill of Ditterminster Cathedral, evidently! Oh, and your father’s old pig of a grandfather glaring at your poor mum because she was wearing warm slacks.”

    “I never even knew I was christened,” said Hattie feebly.

    Hill swallowed.

    “See? That sort of thing matters to your lot.”

    “Balls, darling. It mattered to your great-grandfather, but I’m as much of a heathen as you are.”

    “It’s not religion as such, Hill, it’s the social norms of your class.”

    Hill almost said Yes, and she was blaming him for them again. “Um, well, I honestly do very little of that rubbish. And at least I recognise it is rubbish! Couldn’t you put up with a little bit of it?”

    “I don’t think I can spend the rest of my life pretending I subscribe to it,” replied Hattie seriously.

    Ouch. “No, I see your point. Well, when I’m cretinous enough to suggest we, uh, participate, remind me that I’m a brainwashed idiot and we’ve given it up.”

   “What if Allan and Joanna have kids and they want us to go to the christening?”

    “I think they're both sensible enough not to take offence if we don’t turn up. And he’s definitely planning a registry office wedding. So, um, do you forgive me?”

    “Mm,” said Hattie in a small voice. “But there’s more to it than that. I—I need to think about it. Um, I said before that, um, that you were going too fast for me. Um, well, I can’t remember what I actually said but anyway that’s what I feel. I mean, we hardly even knew each other before you moved in. And—and when I’m with you the sex sort of gets in the way and I—I can’t think.”

    Hill made a horrible face. In his male simplicity he’d sort of thought she wasn’t meant to. “No, okay, darling. I won’t rush you. And don’t worry about Gordon, I’ve got him well in charge.”

    “Yes. Don’t let him eat too much junk food, will you?”

    “You’re joking! Wholemeal bread, muesli, yoghurt and salads and a nice run to the bridge and back before brekkers is what he’s gonna get this summer!”

    Hattie gulped.

    “No, well, the very occasional pizza or Indian takeaway!” conceded Hill with a laugh.

    “Yes. Um, I’m glad you weren’t seriously hurt, Hill,” said Hattie hoarsely. “I’ve gotta go. Bye-bye.”

    Hill looked numbly at the echoing receiver in his hand. Shit.

    “He was on the way home to you, my dear,” reiterated Marina Tarlington warmly, long-distance to Tokyo.

    “Yes,” said Hattie faintly. She did sound nice, and if Joanna liked her she must be, only that was an awfully posh voice.

    Marina took a deep breath. “Hattie, my dear, I don’t want to pry, but when you and Hill decided to live together, what exactly was the situation?”

    “Um, I’d broken my ankle,” said Hattie feebly. “Um, he came out to the airport and then we stayed the night in his flat and then he drove us home.”

    “Yes, I’ve heard about little Gordon running off to meet you. After that, Hattie.”

    “Um, well, we were at the cottage,” she fumbled. “Joanna stayed at work that night. Um, he said it wasn’t a valedictory, I think. He meant that he wasn’t going away. But I didn’t want him to, actually. So, um, we had the boys of course, so we just went to bed that night.”

    Marina bit her lip. “Of course, my dear: but that wasn’t what I meant. Did you actually ask Hill to move in with you?”

    “Not really. He just… did,” said Hattie faintly.

    “You mean he took you over lock, stock and barrel, without so much as a by-your-leave,” said Hill’s mother flatly. “Let alone anything that could be categorised as a courting period!”

    “Um, when you come to think about it… Well, yes. I did want to—to go on seeing him.”

    “Yes, of course, but suddenly having a virtual stranger living in your house is quite different from spending several months getting to know each other!”

    “Ye-es… People do live together,” said Hattie uncertainly. “I—I did try to say that we hadn’t known each other very long and—and it might seem like a long time to him, ’cos he was thinking it started back on that stupid war-gaming course, but it was only a couple of months to me. Only that was when we had that row, so, um…”

    “He always was a bull at a gate. But no wonder you feel he’s been taking you for granted!”

    “Um, sort of,” she admitted.

    “I’m afraid that’s Hilly, Hattie. When he gets a fixed idea into this head it doesn’t occur to him that other people may not see the thing as he does. It must have been very difficult for you, what with taking on your brother and little Gordon, and then having yet another complication in your life without preparation.”

   “Um, ye-es…” she said, sounding very vague. “He bought an extra wardrobe… I think Gordon was a bit jealous, actually.”

    “Naturally, poor little soul!” said Marina warmly. “Hill told me about the episode with the mobile phone. I said to him, didn’t it occur that if he’d given the whole thing more lead-in time, just spent time slowly with you and the boys over a couple of months, getting to know you all, they’d have had time to adjust? And so would you. If nothing else, my dear, get used to each other’s styles.”

    “Styles?” said Hattie in a confused voice.

    “Get used to Hilly liking everything to be cut and dried, for a start. To that ‘Right, that’s done, on to the next project’ thing. He’s very like his paternal grandfather, in many ways. He’d deny it hotly—neither of the boys could stand the old so-and-so—but he is.”

    “Yes, I see. So—so that’s where he gets it from. I did try to talk to June about it, but she said he wasn’t the only one and I—I was expecting him to be more like a woman.”

    “This is your elderly friend from the village, is it? –Yes. She sounds like a very shrewd person, Hattie. I think she was right, in a way. I know it sounds old-fashioned, but when one hasn’t lived with a man before it is a difficult adjustment to make.”

    “Yes,” said Hattie in a tiny voice. “I see. I sort of didn’t think— I mean, I’ve known Joanna since she was quite little, so I just thought that that, um, was why it didn’t make any difference when she moved in.”

    “It would be partly that. But I think there’s the other factor, as well.”

    “Mm. He—he rushes off and does things,” said Hattie in a trembling voice.

    “Without consulting one—exactly. It’s partly Hilly himself, but it’s the male thing as well, Hattie. Even Jolly often used to take a decision and rush off and do whatever it was. In fact even Allan’s capable of it!” said Marina with a smile in her voice. “There was the dreadful episode of the new fridge—lovely in itself, but Mrs Hawkins—our daily before we found nice Mrs Jessop—had never encountered one of those before, and she kept putting the frozen goods in the refrigerator part and the milk and so on in the freezer. –It’s one of those side-by-side things. Typical male choice, of course: if it’s bigger it has to be better!” she ended with a little laugh.

    “Um, yes; they’re very popular in Australia,” said Hattie in a muddled voice.

    “I’m sorry, Hattie: I was rambling on. They do tend to rush off and do things, and Hilly’s worse than most, that’s why I think an adjustment period would have been a good idea.”

    “Yes. Is it—is too late?” she quavered.

    “No, my dearest girl! Of course not! He loves you!” she cried.

    “Yes,” said Hattie faintly. “Not that, Lady Tarlington. For one of those adjustment thingos.”

    Half a world away Marina Tarlington’s mouth opened and shut silently.

    “What?” hissed Hill, scowling.

    She laid a finger to her lips. He went on scowling, but to her relief didn’t speak again. She took a very deep breath. “I think an adjustment period would be an excellent idea, Hattie. See him every so often,”—Hill was glaring but she ignored him—“and let him know if it gets too much for you, mm? He can’t know unless you tell him, my dear.”

    “Yes,” said Hattie in a tiny voice.

    “Let me see… Well, go back to the first day after the drive back from the airport, mm? Let’s say you’ve had your breakfast and the boys are outside playing. Never mind he’s got his great feet under the table and his silly male mind has assumed that that’s all cut and dried and settled, now’s the time for you to say: ‘It was lovely, Hill. I’ll see you soon. Would you like to come to lunch some time?’”

    “WHAT?” shouted Hill, bounding to his feet.

    “Be quiet, Hilly. –Yes, he is here, Hattie, but I’ve warned him it’s only on sufferance and if he interrupts once more, he can leave the room. Or I’ll send him away right now, if you like.” Hattie didn’t reply. “Shall I?” said Marina with a smile.

    “I dunno!” she gasped.

    “Then I’ll let him stay provisionally.” She jabbed her finger at Hill and then pointed at his chair. Scowling, he sat down again.

    “Um, isn’t it too late, though? I mean, you can’t go back in time,” fumbled Hattie.

    Marina perceived, with a thud of relief, that her diagnosis had been correct. The poor girl was just feeling rushed and bewildered and was completely unable to cope with the silly ass. Well, moving in without a by-your-leave, with a different set of notions and assumptions from those she’d grown up with, and when her situation was already very complicated? No wonder they’d ended up having an almighty row!

    “No, not literally. But within the limits of where you are now, go back to that situation, I think.”

    “I’m in Japan… Um, Ken, that’s Kenny's father, he suggested we might all like to stay for a bit, ’cos Mr Watanabe wants me to work in the Tokyo office for a while. It’s not only the consortium with the Germans: his father’s involved in discussions with some Arabs and I can speak Arabic as well. It’d be very good for Kenny’s Japanese. And there’s lots of maths coaches in Japan, he wouldn’t fall behind.”

    “I see. And little Gordon?”

    “What’s she on about?” hissed Hill. Marina gave him a glare.

    “I think he’ll want to come, ’cos Roger Biggs, that’s Sean’s dad, he’ll of finished his rocket project by the end of the summer holidays. They’re going to fire it off on the thirtieth of August ’cos that’s Jill Biggs’s birthday. –Sean’s mum, but she isn’t dead.”

    “Er—Oh! I know! Like that delightful television programme, Rocket Man! So that’s why Gordon didn’t want to go to Japan with you and Kenny! His little friend’s dad’s building a rocket!”

    “Bloody Roger Biggs. The thing’ll blow up,” said Hill sourly.

    “Ssh! Well, that should work out, Hattie: it’ll give you a little breather, and Hill can move into that flat at Chipping Abbas, just in the meantime—”

    “WHAT?” shouted Hill.

    “Be quiet, Hill! And then when you come back, just see each other as it suits you. Give yourselves at least six months, my dear, and don’t let him move back until you’re quite, quite sure you can take him on a fulltime basis.”

    “Thank you very much, Ma!” he cried bright red.

    “That’ll do. Doing it your way didn’t work, did it? –What do you think, Hattie?”

    “Um, yes. It—it sounds like it might work out. I’ll ask Ken and Kath what they think.”

    “Yes, ask Kenny’s father, my dear, he sounds like a sensible man. And who is Kath, may I ask?”—Hattie explained she’d been helping with her Japanese and she’d started off as an adult student.—“One of the friends from Ditterminster you've been coaching? She must know all about your situation. Yes, why not ask her advice, too,” she agreed.

    “That bloody Les’ll advise her to give me the order of the boot!” hissed Hill furiously.

    His mother ignored him. “Talk it all over with them, my dear: you mustn’t feel there’s any hurry about it at all.

    “Um, no; okay, I will. Um, what about the wardrobe, though?” said Hattie in a muddled voice.

    Calmly Hill’s mother replied: “If it’s taking up too much room, my dear, it could probably be moved into Joanna’s room after she leaves.”

    “Yes. She said she has to give them three weeks’ notice. Um, yes, all the furniture in there’s hers. Um, heck, the telly’s hers, too!” she realised.

    “She might like to leave it; we’ve got a couple, though the little one’s very fuzzy.”

    “What are you talking about?” hissed Hill.

    “That old telly in my room, dear. –Don’t worry about it, Hattie, we’ll sort something out. Has your Japanese man said how long he’d need you for?”

    “What?” cried Hill, turning puce.

    “Ssh! –I see, my dear. That is rather a long time, but Hill will be busy with his projects, and I’m sure he can manage to take in Japan on his trips to Australia and New Zealand, if that’s what would suit you. Now, don’t feel pressurised in any way, my dear. You talk to your friends. There’s no need to decide anything immediately.” With that she bade her a warm goodbye and hung up.

    “How long?” said Hill angrily.

    “Possibly as much as six months: that’s why—”

    “SHIT!” he shouted. “Shit, shit, SHIT!”

    “That’s why she’d like the boys to be over there with her,” said Marina calmly. “And it’s certainly about time Kenny saw something of his father.”

    “Well, bully for him!” shouted Hill.

    “Hilly, darling, just calm down and work out how many times you actually saw Hattie to speak to before you installed yourself in her home.”

    “What are you on about?” he said impatiently.

    “Count them,” said his mother firmly. “I’ll just make a pot of tea. And don’t ring her back: that would be the height of idiocy at this juncture. She needs to calm down and think about things; she sounded quite bewildered, poor little soul, and I’m sure I’m not surprised.” With that she went through to the cottage’s kitchen.

    The tea was brewed and she was just about to pour when Hill came in looking sulky. “All right, you’re right, as usual, Dear Jane. Even counting those times having my roses flung back in my face it was scarcely any.”

    “Mm. It’s been too much for her, darling. And then, sex is very tiring, when you’re not used to it.”

    “What in God’s name are you accusing me of?” he croaked.

    “Nothing, dear. But it’s true. That’s why people used to have honeymoons,” said Marina serenely. “Don’t fly off the handle again: just think. She’d really only had a few boyfriend and girlfriend things before, hadn’t she?”

    “Uh—there was that sod, Harry Adamson. Um, no, you’re right. No live-in lover,” he said, making a face.

    “Yes. Have your tea, Hill.”

    Hill hadn’t said he wanted tea. He sat down at the yellow table with a sigh. “You realise that after a couple of fairly tough months we’d just started to get used to one another’s horrible habits, and if there’s a six months’ gap Gordon’s going to forget completely he’s not allowed to fossick in my briefcase or play with my razor and they’re both going to assume that any juice left in the fridge is for their great gullets— Very well, I never spoke.”

    His mother sipped tea slowly. “You might think about turning Joanna’s room into a bedroom for you and Hattie and putting in a little ensuite bathroom.”

    “Now who’s rushing at things like at a bull at a gate?”

    “Think about it, suggest it at a propitious moment, and talk it over with her. –That wardrobe in the sitting-room does take up rather a lot of room.”

    Hill breathed heavily. “Have you seen the size of that cupboard upstairs?”

    “Yes. You need to think about babies, too. You’ll need more bedrooms.”

    Hill went very red. “She doesn’t want to build on because it’d mean destroying this glorious example of interior décor wherein we sit!”

    “Don’t shout. I rather like it. What about expanding sideways?”

    “For the babies she’s never gonna let me get near enough to her to even think about producing?”

    “Yes.”

    “On that side,” he said, pointing, “there’s the side path and a sacred apple tree that’s produced at least three apples this year. On the other side there’s about two feet of space and a five-foot-thick thorn hedge, impenetrable even by Gordon in quest of hut—or possibly fort—materials.”

    “Mm. What about buying the section next-door? The woman in the shop was telling me the rates have already gone up and the trendies’ll be buying up all the vacant lots.”

    “That was quick. Uh—I suppose she’s not wrong, the main road’s being upgraded now that Red and the chaps have moved the heavy machinery out. Maurice has spoken to the right people. But, um, should I rush into it?”

    “I’d do it now, dear, before the prices rocket up. It would be a good investment in any case.” She looked at him uncertainly. “You’re not envisaging she’ll eventually want to live at Chipping Abbas, I hope?”

    “No, and as I don’t want to live there, either, I’m not particularly dashed about it!”

    “Good,” said Marina mildly.

    “Uh—well, there’s nothing wrong with Ditterminster School.”

    “Of course not. Harriet and Will had a very satisfactory chat with the headmaster.”

    “Farleigh—yes. Good chap.”

    “Don’t rush her about having children, either, Hill.”

    “I wasn’t going to! I’ve never even thought—” He met her eye. “Um, no, well, seeing Colin pleased as punch over Penn’s pregnancy sort of took me aback—got me asking myself what the Hell my priorities were. And then, we were privileged to see John and Rosie Haworth’s New Baby at the reception: struck me as more than worth the aggro!” He grinned weakly.

    “Good.”

    Hill drank his tea somewhat blindly. Talk about rushing—!

    Marina Tarlington sipped her tea slowly. Younger people of course never could really see more than a few months or at best a year or so ahead. Well, life tended not to let one. But in the long run, she wouldn’t be surprised at all if Hill and Hattie did end up living in the flat at Chipping Abbas. Once the children were grown up, or at least in their late teens, and they’d adjusted to each other’s ways, and she’d got used to the fact that he was Sir Hilliard Tarlington. And, well, got used to being able to spend a little on herself and her home, poor girl!

    “What, dear?” she said, twitching.

    “I said, would tomorrow be to soon to ring her back?” repeated Hill, looking glum.

    “No—so long as it’s just because you want to hear the sound of her voice. Not if you want to nag her, Hill.”

    “I do just want to hear the sound of her voice,” he said shakily.

    “Then I would ring her, darling, and tell her that.”

    “Yes,” agreed Hill gratefully. “Okay, I will.”

    His mother eyed him tolerantly and didn’t point out that if only he’d given the pair of them time to get to know each other, and Hattie time to get to know his family, and her and Hattie time to have lots of cosy chats, the whole mess would very probably never have happened.

    September. Narita International Airport.

    “I can carry it! I can carry it!”

    Hill let Gordon carry his bulging carry-on bag. It had already caused consternation, not to say deafening alarms, back at Heathrow, what felt like ten million years ago. That shape that looked like a gun had been a gun, yes. An ancient cap pistol, older than the kid was—Hell, older than Hill was! Not a relic of Gordon’s forebears, no, because everything they owned had gone up in the sun-bed fire. A relic of Sean Biggs’s forebears and as it had been confiscated along with the plastic drink bottle in the shape of a Coke bottle with straw—eliciting screams of “Yer a ruddy fief! That’s MINE!”—the unfortunate Master Biggs was never gonna see it again.

    The large plastic dinosaur, worn under the arm that wasn’t lugging the bag, had been X-rayed and found to contain air, so he was allowed to keep that, though Hill personally would have awarded them medals all round if they’d taken it off him: it was eighteen inches long and about a foot wide. More like a pig than a dinosaur, really. The small plastic dinosaurs from the bag, only about six inches high, had been X-rayed and found to contain only plastic, so he was allowed to keep them. The tube of shaving-cream that Hill had not been aware was in the bag had gone the way of all flesh, though. Presumably X-rays of shaving-cream only showed squashy stuff that could have been Semtex? Oh, don’t ask.

    The bloody Harry Potter volume had been permitted to accompany them, alas. Which meant that whenever he got bored with the in-flight movie or bored with the in-flight canned music or bored with ordering Cokes and Gatorade or bored with going to the aeroplane loos, Guess Who had to read it to him because it was too hard for him? Yeah. The rest of the bulges in the bag were composed of the anorak he’d refused to wear because they weren’t outside, the nice woolly jumper he’d refused to wear because it was sissy, two pairs of pyjamas in case the airline lost his suitcase (all his own idea), and a pair of Wellingtons whose presence even the hardened X-rayer had been driven to question. “I need them!” and an awful scowl having been the answer, he’d tacitly conceded defeat. They only contained air, anyway.

    “There’s Kenny! KENNY! Hey, ’Ill, there’s Kenny! Come on!”

    Hill followed him, perforce. If that boy—who looked like ten million other thinnish, tallish—tallish for Japanese—boys milling around in the scrum at the airport was Kenny, where was Hattie?

    Kenny greeted them with: “Why the Hell didja let him bring that ruddy Porcosaurus?”

   “’E is not!” screamed Gordon. “’E’s a brontosaurus!”

    “Porcosaurus,” repeated Kenny laconically. “We’ve told him a million times it’s a bloody pest and if we’re going anywhere he has to leave it behind, why’dja let him con ya?”

    Hill smiled weakly. The more weakly as there was no sign of Hattie and it had dawned that the neat middle-aged Japanese man standing quietly at Kenny’s elbow was just possibly his father. “Because he’s a poor little boy on his first international flight, Kenny.”

    “I am not!” he screamed.

    “Yeah,” said Kenny with a silly grin. “Sorry, Hill. This is Dad.”

    “Ken Yamamoto,” said the middle-aged gent politely—he came up to Kenny’s ear, the height must be from the mum’s side. He held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Hill.”

    Hill shook hands feebly. The man had a discernible Australian accent. “Likewise, Ken. This is Gordon. Gordon, say hullo to Mr Yamamoto.”

    “Do I have to bow?” he hissed.

    Oh, God. “Yes, bow and use your Japanese, please.”

    “’E can speak English, though!” he hissed.

    “Yes. Nice to meet you, Gordon,” said Ken without a flicker, holding out his hand.

    Gordon shook hands, looking relieved. “Likewise, Ken.”

    “It’s all right, Hill, I lived in Australia for years,” said Ken kindly.

    Hill tried to smile. “Yes. Good.”

    “Hattie’s gone to the toilet again,” explained Kenny. “I told her not to drink that cup of tea.”

    “Right,” said Hill feebly. “We’ll just wait here for her, shall we?”

    “So how was your flight, Hill?” asked Ken politely.

    “Oh, the flight was very smooth,” replied Hill drily.

    “Hey, they had—” Gordon was off. Real Gatorade, real TV screens, real earphones were all in there somewhere… Sausages, uh-huh. Those skinny airline ones served with solidified airline slime masquerading indifferently as scrambled egg or omelette, and why the Hell one of them hadn’t had the sense to put both their names down for the Japanese breakfast—! Real chopsticks—right, that had been the unfortunate lady next to them.

    “Hey, did your plane have that blue stuff in the toilets?” was next, just when they thought there was no other plane-related topic of supreme uninterest he could possibly dredge up.

    “Yeah, they all do,” said Kenny tolerantly.

    “Where’s it go to?” he asked keenly.

    Hill drew a deep breath: he had tried to explain that!

    Kenny looked down his nose. “Well, not out the bottom of the plane or by this time half the world’d be dyed bright blue, they’ve had jumbos for yonks.”

    “See?” said Hill before he could stop himself.

    “It’ll go into a tank. Dare say they drain it every so often, maybe when they have a long stopover. You see loads of tankers driving up to the planes on the tarmac: not all of them are for jet fuel. Geddit?” said Kenny kindly.

    “Yeah. Cor! Wonder where they puts it? ’Cos, like, if they poured it dahn the river, it’d go all blue!”

    “That’d be pollution, ya drongo. Um, well, dunno,” admitted Kenny on a weak note.

    “It’s all yours, Ken,” said Hill politely, finding Ken was looking at him politely. “I’ve had my turn and was utterly unconvincing.”

    “Ah,” he said, sounding very Japanese for the first time. “That ur-would be a form of indus-ter-rial waste, Gordon. Countries have very strict laws about how such waste may be disposed of. Often it is poured into large barrels for storage at a designated-ah site.”

    “The site is a kind of dump. It’s then locked up with huge padlocks, behind huge fences, frequently electrified, so as cretins can’t get in and pollute the surrounding countryside with the waste. Waste is another word for junk,” added Hill drily.

    “I needed that battery for my rocket!” he shouted to the sub-text.

    “Sorry, Ken,” said Hill to his mystified face. “We had a run-in shortly before we left because Gordon liberated an old car battery from the dump behind the local garage.”

    “How did he move it?” asked Kenny numbly.

    “That was quite a laudable effort, actually—or would have been if the whole enterprise hadn’t been criminal. Leverage with George Jukes’s crowbars, and then dragging on George Jukes’s wheeled platform that he uses to get under the cars. Him, Sean Biggs and Brad White,” he finished drily.

    “Gotcha. –A dead battery’s not gonna make anything go, and anyway rockets need loads of fuel to get off the ground, you ape,” said Kenny, looking down his nose at the glaring inventor.

    “My rocket’s different!”

    “Yeah. Cut him a bit of slack, eh?” said Hill. “The Nobel prize for physics isn’t won without considerable backyard experimentation.”

    “Yeah,” Kenny conceded, grinning. “Mr Biggs’s rocket sounded pretty good.”

    The full story had already been purveyed long-distance to Hattie and Kenny but Gordon didn’t mind rehashing it, so they did that.

    “Peee-eeee-oow-ow!” he finished. “Hey, there is she is! Hattie! Hey, HATTIE!”

    Hattie greeted them with: “Why on earth did you let him bring that ruddy Porcosaurus?”

    “That’s what I said!” agreed Kenny, vindicated.

    “Yeah,” said Hill limply. “Been there, done that. Suckered, in a word. How are you, Hattie?”

    “Good,” she said, looking shy. “How are you?”

    “All the better for seeing you! Does this project lead-in time Ma’s ordained allow me to give you a big hug and kiss?”

    “Mm,” she said, going very pink but nodding hard.

    He did that. Phew! That was pretty much okay, then!

    “It’ll have to go in the boot,” she warned, emerging from his embrace even more flushed than in she went.

    “Eh?”

    “The flaming Porcosaurus.”

    “Oh! By all means! It’s already alienated three separate and quite distinct hostesses, one steward, the nice Japanese lady on his other side, the unfortunates in front of us, and every single counter-person encountered thus far.”

    “’E isn’t! And ’e never!”

    “That large gentleman in front of you wouldn’t have agreed, when the thing collided with his whisky and soda,” replied Hill mildly.

    Ken coughed and put his hand over his mouth.

    “It was an accident!” said Gordon pugnaciously.

    “An accident that wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t been silly enough to bring the thing,” replied Hattie firmly. “Never mind. Give it to me and take my hand. That or take someone else’s hand, but put it like this, Gordon: you are not gonna walk through one of the biggest airports in the world without someone keeping hold of you.”

    “I’ll take Ken’s hand,” he decided. “’Cos he won’t get lost, he lives here.”

    “Not at Narita, ya nit,” said Kenny over the adults’ gob-smacked silence. “Come on, then.”

    Obediently they all came on.

    September. Ken’s late Grandma’s old house, somewhere in Japan. Alone at last.

    “Oh, Hill! Oh, Hill!”

    “Squidgy ’s ever,” said Hill in a muffled voice into them. He got her hand on his old man— “Jesus!”

    “Shouting,” said Hattie very faintly.

    “Mm.” He kissed her again on the strength of it and gee, she thrust herself at him and spread her legs, so that suspicion that whatever else he’d done wrong it wasn’t the sex had been correct, hadn’t it?

    “If I put it in there I’ll go bang,” he said faintly into her hair.

    Hattie hugged him strongly. “Mm.”

    Okay, he would, if that was what she wanted. “Want me to use a condom?” he croaked.

    “No, I think it’s okay, my period only ended yesterday.”

    Well, glory Hallelujah! He didn’t need prompting twice, he just—Jesus!

    “Ai-EEEE-EEE-UH!” shrieked Hattie, clenching like fury on him.

     God! “AAA-ARGH! Uh—AAARGH!” he bellowed at the top of his lungs.

    About ten aeons later she said, very faintly: “It was just like that first time.”

     No, better, he hadn’t had to use a bloody condom this time. He was about to say so, then realised he wasn't capable of it. “Mmf.”

    “I suppose we made too much noise,” she murmured—not as if she cared, though.

    “Mmf.”

    About an aeon after that he managed to roll off her and respond to her remark. “’Tis a big house.”

    “Yes, it’s huge for a Japanese house,” said Hattie in a dreamy voice. “Did you ever see that lovely film, The Funeral?”

    “Uh—Four Weddings and a Funeral?” he groped.

    “No! That was stupid!”

    Well, possibly not if you were a chap, it had had a gorgeous bird in it—well, a couple, actually—and one could sort of sympathise with the chap’s feelings, if at the same time wondering what the Hell was wrong with him and why he didn’t just go for it, but— “Yeah, pretty stupid,” he admitted.

    “This was a Japanese film,” said Hattie earnestly. “It had a lovely big country house in it, just like this.”

    “Right. Uh—whose funeral?”

    “I forget. That wasn’t the point, though: it was just about, um, well, family relations and people doing stupid things just because they’re people.”

    Sounded like total balls. “Arty, was it?” he said tolerantly.

    “No, it was very true to life.”

    Right. Arty. Hill rolled over and, flinging an arm across her, buried his face in the tits. “I’ve missed these,” he said indistinctly.

    “Have you? Men are very odd,” replied Hattie serenely.

    “Mm.”

    “I was very frightened when you had your accident,” she admitted.

    “Mm. Good. Go ’sleep.”

    “We thought we’d look at a temple tomorrow.”

    “You’ll break ’nother ankle,” he said indistinctly.

    “No, I’ve been to it before. We got some bread, you can have toast for breakfast.”

    “Mm.”

    Hattie gave a deep sigh.—Nearly asleep though he was, it wasn’t half bad.—“I’m glad you’re here.”

    So was he, actually, was Hill’s last thought as he drifted off.

    September. Queensland. It was very humid. Very, very humid. Hill’s Australian Hawaiian shirt clung to him clammily. So did Jim Thompson’s.

    “It’s worse in summer,” said Jim detachedly.

    “Yeah.”

    “Looking good, eh?” he said proudly, waving at the view of Big Rock Bay Ecolodge. –The main lodge: that was, the farmhouse plus the bits the architect had added. Plus the architect’s changes to make it more environmentally friendly. Through-draughts an’ all. Shingles replacing the Wongs’ colour steel roof an’ all. Solar panels. More verandahs at more different levels. Like that.

    “Potty, you mean, but it’s very satisfactory to see it in its completed state,” Hill admitted.

    “Yeah. Wanna see the special guest cabins?”

    (No.) “Lead the way,” he replied nicely.

    Jim led the way down towards the beach. Gee, yeah, this was an eco-friendly fence, all right! Coconut logs, right. Very renewable, coconut palms were. Uh—gaps between to let the breeze— Oh, not blow down in the cyclones, eh? Right: clump of trees not yet obscuring the view of the motel down below on the beach front, banana palms an’ all. Er, bananas were not native to Australia, but possibly those who allotted the green leaf ratings would not realise this. Given that the spelling on their bloody website indicated they were Yanks.

    Jim cleared his throat.

    “It’s all right, Jim, I’ve seen the pics,” he sighed.

    “Yeah. Well, seems to of hit the spot with old Sir Maurice, eh?”

    “Indeed.” Eco-cabins had to be roundish, apparently. There were shingles till they came out your ears, natural wood here, there and everywhere, shutters to glory, the odd coconut log, native and one could only trust fallen log handrails, through-draughts galore, balconies sprouting here, there and everywhere, solar panels replacing a whole section of the high shingled roof… Apparently there was a place on Hinchinbrook Island (somewhere in the Great Barrier Reef, was it?) that also had shingles— Okay, if it was good enough for the Great Barrier Reef, it was good enough for Big Rock Bay. How long shingles would last in this climate remained to be seen. True, each of these so-called eco-cabins also featured non-disposable, non-recyclable spa-pools, but that was, apparently, what the eco-punters desired. The walls were low but the steeply pitched roofs were high, they had to be to fit the giant ceiling fans in safely…

    There were two of these cabins on the cliff top, not quite within sight of each other, and destined to be less so as the artfully-planted native vegetation grew up between them. Further back there were five more, lurking amongst what had been the celery fields and the lime orchards. And back in the wilderness area—what was going to be the wilderness area once the native vegetation really got going between the coconut palms and mango trees—there was a sort of elevated boardwalk, it wouldn’t look so silly once the vegetation got going, with two choice elevated cabins at sort of tree-top level. Depending on how high the trees grew. And one could only hope that, as the architect had claimed, they were out of range of Bri Smothers’s pigs over the ridge, ’member those? Yeah.

    “See: those pole-house pics you took in New Zealand came in handy after all,” noted Jim.

    Right. Exactly. These cabins were smaller, that was, had no large sitting-room, but they still had full-scale ensuites. No spa-pools, no, presumably they’d be too heavy to hoist up amongst the trees, but very nice showers, fully lined in eco-friendly timbers. And one wasn’t forced to use ’em in front of the glorious view out to sea in full view of any other eco-punters that might happen to be wandering along the boardwalk or down amongst the trees, because one’s naturally ventilated bathroom did have shutters. Hill sighed.

    “Whassup?”

    “Nothing, Jim. It’s just all so eco, isn’t it?”

    “You bet. ’Specially those ruddy timber ensuites!” replied the New Zealander happily. “Scott Bell, he reckons they’ll last a season at most in this climate before they go all mouldy and have to be replaced, but ya can’t tell them, can ya? –You wanna grab Scott and nip over to the pub for a decent feed of steak and chips? Laverne rung this morning to say she’s got some nice T-bones in.”

    It was twenty-seven degrees Celsius with something like seventy-five percent humidity. What could you say? The macho men grabbed Scott and went to the pub for a good steak lunch.

    October. New Zealand. Hill collapsed in helpless sniggers. Throgmorton’s threat to use some of the billions of bottles the dumps of New Zealand were apparently filled with hadn’t been an idle one. Recycling—uh-huh.

    “He’s only used the actual bottles in the cabins,” explained Jim.

    Hill wiped his eyes. “Yeah.”

    “You did see the pics,” Jim reminded him.

    “Yes, but this is the apotheosis!” He was off again. There were blocks of brown bottles, blocks of green bottles, blocks of white bottles, special little blocks of deep blue bottles, little wooden balconies sprouting from in between ’em, shutters galore, recycled bricks, solar panels on the roof—the steepish pitch wasn’t for a huge ceiling fan, this time, it was partly to allow full play to the golden glow of the recycled kauri ceilings, the inspiration for which had been Taupo Shores Ecolodge, yes, and partly because, gee, there was the possibility of snow in these regions in midwinter. The bottle cabin had a pot-bellied stove for that. And central heating ducted from same. And heated its own water from it, too. Uh—in addition to that heated by the electricity supplied by the national grid, but the experts at Head Office had sworn this would still get them a four-star—uh, four-green-leaf—rating. So on their heads be it. Added to which Hill had worked out, partly from close examination of the website in question and partly from just plain common sense, that five leaves was impossible. Nothing that aspired to offer anything in the way of actual comfort could possibly be that eco-friendly. And certainly none of the rival establishments listed on the website had five st—green leaves.

    “Well, this one’s practically done!” said Jim cheerfully.

    “Yes. Good show. –Well done, Throgmorton,” he said to the architect, who’d just been standing there grinning.

    “The main lodge isn’t as overtly eco-friendly—”

    “Don’t start me off again,” Hill warned unsteadily.

    “But I have used a lot of recycled glass in it. All those heavy glass panels are recycled,” the architect finished calmly.

    Some were heavy white glass and some were a lovely pale green. Sort of a bottle-glass effect, swirls or something in it: really attractive. “Recycled what?” said Hill faintly.

    “Bottles,” replied the architect succinctly.

    Alas, Hill collapsed in helpless sniggers again.

    October. New Zealand. Back at Taupo Shores Ecolodge after a tour of other possible sites.

    “Hullo, again, Polly,” he said weakly.

    “Hullo, Hill, lovely to see you again,” replied Lady Carrano calmly.

    Something like that, yeah. This time not only Sir Jake but also their three kids were with her. Nominally: typically of teenagers they weren’t interested in doing anything in the company of their Aged Ps. Oh: Labour Weekend? Right. If they said so.

    “Bank Holiday to you,” she said with that lovely smile.

    “Oh, right,” said Hill lamely. If he’d had the slightest idea they’d be here he’d have vetoed Jim’s proposal that they nip back down to suss out another possible site over near Rotorua.

    He did his best to avoid being alone with her—not because he intended anything or thought she might intend anything but, well, just because. But it didn’t work: whatever else he might not have the energy for, Jake apparently had the energy to get up at crack of dawn to go fishing with old Pete and a mate, dragging Jim with them. Well. possibly it was good PR for YDI: Sir Jacob Carrano wasn’t nobody even in bloody Maurice’s terms. Hill and Polly ended up wandering down the track that led to a little jetty—not one of the official hiking trails: the track that just went straight there in considerably less than half the time it took the trail to get there.

    “How are things with your Hattie, Hill?” she asked sympathetically.

    Hill found himself bursting out with the lot. The phrase “hiding in Japan” somehow got in there.

    “I see. I think your mother was quite right,” she said with that lovely kind smile. “Jake’s a bull at a gate, too, but he went the other way, the nong: held back too much because he was convinced I wouldn’t want to marry him—the age difference, mainly,” she said, making a face. “Well, it’s a long story! But relationships are never easy, are they?”

    “No. Uh, well, Pete’s and Jan’s seems to be the exception that proves the rule, Polly.”

    Polly looked at him very sympathetically. “Lots of people feel like that about them.”

    “Mm.”

    “But Pete had two frightful failed marriages before he met Jan: and he was fifty by then and she was forty.”

    Hill swallowed. “Right. That’s some lead-in time,” he managed.

    “Yes. I know you must feel that you’re wasting precious time, Hill, but remember Hattie’s quite a lot younger than you. She obviously needs time to get used to the whole idea.”

    “To me foisting myself on her fulltime, you mean,” he returned sourly.

    “No, to the whole idea of herself as a woman,” said Polly with that lovely smile. “Instead of just being a person,” she explained as he looked blankly at her.

    “Uh—does one?” he groped.

    “I did,” said Polly Carrano serenely. “I really think that Jake would have proposed to me miles earlier than he did if I hadn’t been so prickly. It is hard, when you’ve seen yourself as a person for nigh on thirty years, to realise that someone else sees you primarily as a woman and that he can’t help it, it’s pre-programmed. And then to take the next step of actually getting to like it!” she ended with a little choke of laughter.

    Hill looked at gloriously pretty, self-possessed, sophisticated Lady Carrano, again in her so-called grubbies of velvety violet stretch pants and tight fuzzy pale green sweater—the weather was fine but not what you could have called hot, Bank Holiday or not—and swallowed hard.

    “I think I get it,” he conceded.