Postscript From Trethewin

24

Postscript From Trethewin

    Christmas was once again nearly upon us and all was peaceful at Trethewin.

    Well, more or less. Given that Mum and Dad had arrived in early December complete not only with the news that a load of belongings was following them, courtesy of my acquaintance Michael Stuart and his S-Speed-Tran International—not so much furniture, no, but nicknacks, favourite pots and pans, that sort of thing, old man—but also with a defiant-looking Sarah plus Ben and Molly.

    Okay, it was a much healthier environment for children, that school hadn’t been doing Ben any good, and there’d be plenty of room for Molly to have a pony. And that cottage had been hopeless! Well, yes: Dad had tried to point out nicely that it’d need a fair bit done to it before winter, but— Mm.

    Oh, Lor’, where the Hell could we put them all? Corey and his merry men had been working like beavers, and the construction work on the loft was done, but only just, and Alan Travitsky hadn’t had time to do more than sketch a few suggestions for the décor. And there were no appliances in it as yet. True, the main house had enough bedrooms—just—but after that? Cassie and I retired to our room that night and just collapsed onto the bed and looked at each another limply.

    “Does Sarah even realise how hot it’s gonna get?” she croaked.

    “Obviously not, given that proposal to grab poor Pete’s house off him.”

    “Mm. Well, we could put in two flats over the stables, I suppose, one for him and one for the head trainer—but honestly, Alex!”

    “Not fair, no: he’s settled in happily, it suits him.”

    “Yes,” she agreed.

    “Um… I suppose we don’t need the formal drawing-room and dining-room: we could think about turning that side of the house into a self-contained flat. Well, a truly loving brother would,” I admitted.

    Cassie was looking at me fearfully.

    “I can’t,” I sighed. “Not under our roof, for God’s sake!”

    “No,” she agreed gratefully, taking my hand and squeezing it hard.

    “Well—sleep on it?” I sighed.

    “Mm.”

    We did that but it didn’t result in any inspiration.

    It was good old Corey Mincey who eventually came up with the solution. He was now “sub-contracting” to the builder in charge of the stable complex. This practice was completely usual in Australia, I gathered. It meant, as Pete had explained drily, that the bloke who’d got the contract to build wasn’t responsible for Corey’s and his blokes’ Workcover—the state workplace accident insurance, Alex—or their super (superannuation: the employer’s compulsory pension payments for them: I knew that one), and that “the poor bloody sub-contractor” was the one that’d go bust if the buyer reneged on the deal, the main contractor having had the agreement with him. Though of course he’d also lose out if the contractor himself went bust: the banks’d be right in there, first dibs, secured loans, ya see. –Yes, it did happen fairly often in Oz, Alex, mate. The bigger the building firm, the more spectacularly bust they went, geddit? Good grief. Thank God we hadn’t had to have a house built from scratch!

    I was sitting brooding on the “voggia” in the early morning sun with a cuppa, when Corey turned up.

    “Hey, Alex: ya know the garages?”

    And good morning to you, too, Corey! “Mm; what about them?”

    “Well, say ya put up a carport or somethink for Perry, and we knock you up a smaller garage for you and your dad, then we could turn the garages, like the whole floor, into a nice flat for yer sister! Like, she’d be really near to yer mum, only separate!”

    My jaw dropped.

    “Whaddaya think?” he said eagerly.

    “I think you’re a genius, Corey! Come on, let’s go and have a look at them!”

    We did that, even though he pointed out conscientiously that they were the same size as the upstairs.

    There were six, count ’em, six garage doors—well, Crozier hadn't done anything by halves, witness those immensely deep cellars at the winery—but no actual divisions once one was inside.

    “Easy as nothink,” the master builder said proudly.

    “Golly, yes! Um, Mum hasn’t actually agreed to use the upstairs flat yet, though,” I noted cautiously.

    “She will,” he said confidently. “She was looking at it yesterday and saying the lounge-room’s back windows have got a lovely outlook, with the garden and the gums, and ya could have a nice window seat there! So of course I said Yeah, knock one of them up for ya no time, Mrs Cartwright, and she said she’d speak to yer dad about it!”

    “Great! Well—same layout as the upstairs, save arguments, eh?”

    “Too right!”

    And we shook hands on it.

    …. “Sarah agreed,” said Cassie numbly, much later that night.

    “Yes. And Mum leapt at the loft,” I added.

    “Mm.”

    We looked at each other weakly.

    “I feel drained,” she confessed.

    “Me, too. Er—could nip downstairs and grab the brandy?”

    “Would you?” she replied plaintively.

    I dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Of course, sweetheart.”

    In the family-room Dad was discovered at the sideboard. He gasped, and dropped a cork.

    “Oh—it’s you,” he said weakly.

    “Uh-huh. Same errand. For Cassie as well.”

    He sighed deeply. “Takes it out of one, doesn’t it?”

    “In spades.”

    “Have one now,” he suggested, retrieving the cognac’s cork and giving it a perfunctory wipe with his handkerchief.

    We did that.

   “My God, Alex, I thought it’d never come off!” he confessed.

   “Uh-huh.”

    Our eyes met: we laughed weakly.

    “Well, there’ll be all the fuss over the colours and the blah-blah, but I think I can stand it: the worst is definitely over,” Dad concluded.

    “Don’t worry: I’ll sic Alan Travitsky onto the pair of them,” I promised.

    He looked sceptical but concluded he’d cross his fingers.

    … I wasn’t wrong. The experienced Mr Travitsky had both Mum and Sarah eating out of his hand approximately five minutes after his nice little cream sports job had pulled up on the sweep. They just loved what he’d done with the guest suite and— Etcetera.

    “Gosh, what a pity he’s gay,” Cassie concluded. “He’d be ideal for Sarah!”

    Forthwith we both burst out laughing. She was right, though, by God. I rang the Sales, got Peter and thanked him fervently for recommending the man. Smoothly he returned that yes: Travitsky was the only living being who was able to manage his maman. Then he burst out laughing, too.

    Then Christmas really was upon us. Cassie didn’t have to worry, Mum informed her, she would take care of the turkey, dear. Poor Cassie got as far as bleating: “But Mum always—” Stella could do the baked ham, if she liked. Then Junie got in on the act—with the best of intentions, be it said. It’d be nice just to have cold things this y—

    I crept down to Christina’s.

    “Have a belt,” the shrewd old woman offered drily.

    “Thanks. I’d like some of your friend Johnnie, if he’s available.”

    “Always at your service.”

    I drank, and sighed.

    “Well?” she asked.

    “When I got out of it,” I reported heavily, “Sarah was just weighing in on Junie’s side in support of cold things for Christmas Day this year—she must be mad, she has known Mum all her life, for God’s sake!”

    “Well, you asked them to come out here, Alex.”

    I goggled at her. “Are you insane? It was all their idea!”

    “Oh. Sorry.” The redoubtable Miss Evans sat down suddenly. “My God. That bad?”

    “That bad.”

    She groped for the bottle. After a while she managed to say: “I suppose it’ll get better.”

    “Mm, but before it does, it’ll get worse!”

    We contemplated the fact…

    “Can I have one?” said a small voice from the doorway.

    We jumped.

    “Oh—it’s you,” I said in relief as Cassie came in.

    “Mm. I couldn’t stand it any longer.”

    “Not surprised. Grab a glass,” the old woman invited.

    “Thank you.” She did that, and Christina poured.

    Then we just sat and drank…

    Christmas night found Dad and me on the voggia with the customary Havanas and the brandy bottle.

    “Jesus,” I concluded. “Is it always going to be this bad?”

    “The kids loved it,” my father noted temperately.

    “True.”

    “Well, I don’t see how it can get worse, Alex. But it may get better. I think a lot of it was just new-broom syndrome.”

    “What? Oh—see what you mean.” I sipped brandy and sighed. “If it does get worse I’ll be turning into an alcoholic, I can promise you that!”

    “Mm. –Any quilting clubs in Adelaide?”

    “Er… Ask Christina. I should think there would be, but according to her the lady art and crafters are all terrifically snobby.”

    “That’s all right, your mum’s married to a multi-millionaire,” he said serenely.

    “Oh, yes. And Sarah’s the daughter and sister of ditto.”

    “Mm-hm. Added to which they’ve got lovely English accents,” he said thoughtfully.

    “Huh?”

    “Christina assures me it’s the entrée to anything approaching a social circle in the said burg.”

    “Got it. –Pity Sarah’s not artistic, ’cos otherwise the Zeffs could take her up,” I said musingly.

    He choked, and had recourse to the brandy again.

    “I’ve been meaning to ask you something for some time, old man,” he eventually murmured.

    “Mm?”

    “Er… did that police chap—Wilson, was it? –Mm. Did he actually swallow your story that you just fired blindly at bloody Anson and are no dead-eye Dick?”

    “Not a syllable. He pretended to, though.”

    “Good show!” he gasped.

    We smoked and sipped…

    “Alex,” he said cautiously: “no regrets, I hope?”

    Er—about what? Them coming out here? “No, I said: plenty of room for all, Dad!”

    “Not that. Though I will do my best to keep your mother out of your hair. And I think once it sinks in with Sarah that she really is rid of bloody Jonnie Brathwaite for good an’ all, she’ll be less… febrile. –Junie seems to be a calming influence,” he added with a smile in his voice.

    “Yes, she’s very good value,” I agreed. “Well, uh, regrets about what, Dad?”

    He set his glass down on the coffee table which now resided out there for the purpose and patted my knee. “About having shot Anson, old chap.”

    “Regrets? Far from it!”

    “Ye-es… You have taken a man’s life.”

    “I think you mean a snake’s,” I said grimly. “I’m not about to break down and sob my little heart out over that murderous bastard. I know popular psychology would say I should do, and start torturing myself and calling it murder, and blah-blah, but no. He did his best to burn me alive, you know, and he’d have killed Jim Hawkes if he hadn’t flung up his arm in time, up in Byron Bay.” I shrugged “Just let’s say I’m not ‘p.c.’ about it and never will be. There are times when killing is justified, never mind the bleeding hearts, and this was one of them.”

    “Good. And—er—Cassie? It hasn’t affected her?”

    “Only in that she’s confessed she wants to cheer every time she thinks about it, Dad! –Well, it’s true that the female is deadlier than the male. Er—I haven’t mentioned this to anyone else, but after I’d shot him she did cheer; then she asked eagerly ‘Is he dead?’, to which I replied with considerable satisfaction ‘Dead as mutton’, and she cheered again! –Two sad cases, I’m afraid. Dinosaurs, lacking the 21st-century mind-set. No delicate sensibilities whatsoever, the word ‘compunction’ is really not in our vocabularies, and we’ll never be politically correct about that sort of thing if we live to be a hundred!”

    “Good. Your grandfather would have been proud of you,” said Dad, as mild as ever.

    Then we just smoked and sipped gently and recruited our forces…

    And so the long, hot Christmas vacation rolled on… Gavin and Ben only fell in the stream once and got soaked, “yabbying”. No yabbies eventuated but I got an unwanted lesson on South Australian, nay Australia-wide freshwater biology.

    Molly attempted once (to our knowledge) to make the stolid Pounder jump a log, fell off, bumped her head but was wearing her helmet, so no lasting damage, and scraped her knee, to be told firmly by Cassie that it served her right, he wasn’t a jumper. Only to bounce back next morning with a bright: “Postman’s a jumper, isn’t he? I bet I could—”

    “NO!”

    Her lower lip wobbled.

    Oh, lawks. Quickly I said: “Um, well, up before me or Cassie at first, then, Molly, and after a bit… Um, he’s really too big for you, darling. Um, look, I know your mother doesn't want me to, but I really think we’d better buy you something more your size: a nice pony, eh?”

    Sarah duly delivered a diatribe on wilful extravagance but had to concede that it was better than Molly falling off “great big horses” (all hers).

    So the rather small Poppy Pony came to live with us (no, poppies are not native to Australia—however), and was firmly adopted by Millicent Rose.

    “I think Milly thinks she’s a sort of foal,” croaked Cassie, goggling at the two in the paddock together.

    “Uh-huh.”

    “Oh well, good!” she concluded happily.

    I put an arm round her and hugged to me. “Yes, very good,” I agreed. “Good, good, good!”

    She looked dubious. “Is it really? I mean, Mum’s been pretty awful, and we’ve got an absolute house full, it’s bedlam, and Pete caught Gavin and Ben with matches the other day, and—”

    “Hush!” I said with a laugh. “Of course it’s good! Well, we’re together, we’re safe, what the Hell else matters?”

    “Um, yes, of course. –But Mum’s been making noises about a white wedding!” she burst out.

    I couldn’t help it: I broke down and laughed till I cried.

    Cassie looked at me uncertainly. “Alex, it’ll be diabolical!”

    “Clas-sic!” I gasped.

    “Um, ye-es…”

    “Never mind, Cassie, darling, who cares? Let them have a mad hooley if they like. We’ll just let it float over us. It’s not us, is it?” I looked around at the dozing horses in the paddock and the already dry fawn acres of Trethewin. “This is us, darling.”

    She leaned into my side, sighing. “Yes… Well at least Christmas comes but once a year, and we can only get married once.”

    “I bloody well hope so!”

    She laughed weakly. “Mm!”

    “Kiss me, Mrs Cartwright-to-be!” I grinned.

    We did that…

    “She’ll be hinting about grandchildren next, you know,” she warned.

    “Mm? Oh, your mum? So will Mum!” I agreed with a laugh. “Well, I think I can manage that!”

    Cassie had gone very pink. “Um, I s’pose.”

    “Uh—don’t you want to?”

    “Um, yes; well, maybe two. Only not straight away.”

    “Two would be lovely. Just say the word. –There’s no hurry, darling, you’re still young, and it’d be nice to just have some us time first, okay?’

    “Yes, great.”

    “And if Stella dares to start making noises about maybe having my sperm count tested, I can almost promise not to laugh,” I said primly.

    Cassie gulped. “Oh, cripes, I can just see it!”

    Our eyes met and we laughed so hard we collapsed onto the rough dry grass of the horse paddock.

    And I pulled her into my arms and kissed her very, very firmly. “This is the life,” I concluded with a deep sigh.

    “Mmm… No regrets—about England, I mean, and the company?”

    “Hell, no!” I said in astonishment.

    “Oh, good. Um, there is one thing, Alex…”

    “What, for God’s sake?”

    “Tomorrow,” said Cassie in a hollow voice, “our mums are threatening to take the boys into town and get them fitted with new school shoes.”

    “Oh, really? Good luck to them. Coincidentally, tomorrow I have to get up very, very early and ride up to inspect the furthest reaches of the northern boundary in case those fences the Territorials put up for us might have deteriorated over winter. You’ll have to come with me and show me the way.”

    “Good-oh!” she beamed. “You’re on!”

    Somehow that typical piece of the Aussie vernacular from my very own Aussie sheila seemed to sum it up. In short, all was very much all right with my world.

    … Thank God I hadn’t listened when the nay-sayers had tried to discourage me from ever buying Trethewin!