All Go At Trethewin

12

All Go At Trethewin

    Sarah had decided firmly that she and Molly would stay on for Christmas, as I showed no signs of returning to Britain. No, well, Jim’s brother-in-law and his merry men had arrived to do the repairs, I could hardly desert the house while they were working on it, Ben and Mike had produced a sheaf of unlikely plans and predictions, Miranda was gallantly struggling with the prices she charged—or should charge—in the restaurant…

    “Sarah, Molly should be in school.”

    She stuck her chin out. “Very well, Alex, she can go with Gavin.”

    I should have seen that one coming—yes. “What does Jonnie think?” I asked without hope.

    Wrong question. Jonnie was working on “another stupid book” and behaving as if he’d never had them! Well, if one must go and marry a chap who was twenty-three years older and had spent all his working life immured in his ivory tower…

    “And don’t say Mum warned me!”

    I wasn’t going to say it, but I was certainly thinking it.

    “And if you want to know,”—I cringed—“I’ve started divorce proceedings!”

    Oh, God! I was damn’ sure she hadn’t told Mum, or I’d have heard all about it. She was going to throw ten fits.

    “I see,” I said glumly. “Um, but what about the children?’

    “Huh! He barely even sees them! I’ve completely had it, Alex. For the last three years he’s done nothing but work. He was dining at the bloody college during the week and then he started doing it in the weekends as well! And it was just the last straw when he said the kids were too distracting in the weekends and he’d sleep in college!”

    Jesus. If it had been any other man you’d have suspected that he was having a bit on the side, but Jonnie Brathwaite had never been that sort.

    A horrible scowl on her face, Sarah confirmed this, with the bitter addendum: “My needs don’t count, of course: I can count on the fingers of one hand the times we’ve had sex this year!”

    “He is over sixty, now,” I murmured.

    “So is David Jenkins, and he sleeps with every pretty girl he can get his hands on!” she retorted bitterly. “The week before we left it was Jilly Harrison, would you believe?”

    Er…

    “Alex! You’ve met her! Alison and Bill Harrison’s daughter! Our neighbours!”

    What? I gaped at her.

    “Yes! Alison was furious, of course, but Bill just said it wouldn’t last and it was better than doing it with clumsy louts of her own age and at least David’s old enough to know what he’s doing, and she couldn’t say that Jilly wasn’t the nubile type that wants it. –I must say, that’s him all over, I don’t know how Alison puts up with him.”

    “But how old is she?” I croaked.

    “Twenty,” she replied grimly. “Time flies.”

    I nodded numbly. I remembered Jilly as an eager little pony-clubber.

    “And you’re not getting any younger, either,” my sister added grimly.

    No, well, let’s hope I was in the David Jenkins percentile when I was sixty-plus, not the Jonnie Brathwaite one.

    “Um, well, I’m really sorry, Sarah. Um, is Ben okay?” I ventured uneasily.

    “No thanks to his father! Yes; he’s staying with the Harrisons, actually, they’ve been terribly decent, and of course their William goes to the same school. –Would you believe, bloody Jonnie didn’t take the slightest interest when Ben got his music scholarship? And I’ve told him over and over again he’s failing maths and all he’ll say is he was never any good at sums, either!”

    Er, yes, well, “music scholarship” was to dignify it, rather, but Ben had won a place at a church school and was duly singing in the choir and learning the piano and the clarinet. I had thought that music and maths usually went hand-in-hand, but presumably not in Benjamin Brathwaite’s case. The name, incidentally, had been a sore point. Sarah had wanted it, Jonnie had “looked down his nose”, unquote, and pointed out that it was traditionally the youngest’s scion’s name, Sarah had lost her rag (the more so, I think, because of the terminology used) and shouted that they weren’t Jewish and to take his head out of his mouldy old history, and then Mum had got into the act, also pointing out that, although it was a nice name, dear, it was usually not the first child’s… All of which had made her all the more determined on it, naturally.

    The thought did arise that Ben was now twelve and what would happen when his voice broke and his piano and clarinet playing was discovered to be not that brilliant? Er, Sarah suing the school if they tried to chuck him out? God.

    “It was all completely hopeless,” she stated grimly. “When I told him I’d had enough and I was divorcing him it was just typical! He said: ‘Good idea. I don’t think I’m cut out to be a family man, really.’ –After thir-ur-teen years!” she wailed, suddenly bursting into sobs.

    Oh, Jesus! Well, it was certainly an object lesson in the dangers of going for what you wanted regardless of all other considerations, but then, that was Sarah all over and always had been.

    “Don’t cry,” I sighed, putting an arm round her. “It really sounds as if you’ll be better off without him.”

    She sobbed something about starting all over again. And—uh—the kids’ schools?

    “Y— Um, I’m sure he’d let you have the house, Sarah,” I fumbled.

    “That’d be a sacrifice, considering he never sets foot in it!”

    Er—mm. “Come on, blow your nose,” I said feebly, offering her my handkerchief.

    She did blow, but then burst out: “I hate Oxford! All those smug professors’ wives, looking down their noses at me!”

    Er… why? “I’m sure they don’t,” I offered feebly.

    “Yes! Because they’ve all got degrees, that’s how they snared them!”

    Oh.

    “And they’re all into classical music, they all go to the horrible concerts,” she added dully.

    Uh—yeah. Sarah was tone-deaf.

    She sniffed hard. “I joined a book club, I thought it’d be, um, the right thing to do. You know, intellectual.”

    “Ye-es…”

    “But they were all the wrong people! I mean, they’re nice women, but their husbands are small businessmen or tradesmen—well, one of them’s a lawyer, but he’s not the toffee-nosed sort. After the first meeting—I hadn’t realised who they all were, at that stage—I went and told the Master’s wife about it, and she looked down her nose at me and said: ‘Praiseworthy, my dear.’”

    “Sounds like the complete bitch,” I offered kindly.

    “Yes, but they all are, Alex! I haven’t made any friends besides Alison Harrison except Meredith and Jo-Anne from the book club.”

    “Um, surely there must be some Oxford dons and their wives these days who aren’t the upper-upper intellectual snob type?” I fumbled.

    Sarah blew her nose viciously. “Yes, and those wives are even worse! Half of them are women dons, and they all read serious newspapers and stuff, I can never think of a thing to say to them.” She blew her nose again. “I tell you what, in Jane Austen’s day they’d’ve been called bluestockings!”

    Ugh, how horribly vivid. “I see.”

    She sniffled. “We read Pride and Prejudice for the club, and I thought at least that’s intellectual, but when I mentioned it at the Master’s stupid garden party, the cow sniggered!”

    The Master’s wife, presumably. “That sort of person isn’t worth worrying about.”

    “No, I know. But it’s hard to escape them,” she said dully. “I just can’t face staying on in Oxford.”

    “Well, you could stay with the parents for a bit—look about for a house nearby, perhaps.”

    “There’s the children’s schools… I don’t want them to go to horrible public schools, Alex, and be turned into snobs.”

    “No, of course not. Well, it’s a bit of a drive into the town from Mum and Dad’s place, but not too far for you to take them in. I should think the local schools would be okay, it’s a nice area, isn’t it? And if Ben wants to go on with his music I’m sure you could find a teacher there.”

    “He quite likes the clarinet… I think he’s just conforming, really. –If we live down there Molly’ll start agitating for a pony.”

    “Well, Dad’s got a paddock going to waste,” I replied.

    “Yes, that’s true… There are some really pretty little houses in their village, it’d be nearer to the town but still very handy to Mum and Dad’s. And a smaller house would be much easier to manage.” She brightened. “I could have a proper cottage garden, too!” She plunged into it. Delphiniums blue and geraniums red, and, um, rambling roses, was it?—but I can’t say I was concentrating. Oh, God. Mum was going to bawl her eyes out.

    Mum bawled her eyes out, long-distance. After quite a while Dad could be heard telling her to buck up, Sarah was still a comparatively young woman and Jonnie had been too old for her in the first place. Funnily enough this didn’t work.

    She did finally calm down enough, however, to state grimly that they’d collect Ben for Christmas, his useless father probably wouldn’t even notice when his term ended.

    All I could manage in reply was a feeble: “He’ll be thrilled, he always loves coming to you, Mum.”

    “Why didn’t she tell us earlier?”

    Uh…

    “It’s been such a shock!”

    This was true.

    “And when’s she coming home? She hasn’t told us anything!” she wailed.

    Well, she had rung to break the news, but presumably she hadn’t been able to get a word in edgewise.

    “I think the plan is,” I said temperately, “that she and Molly will stay on for a Christmas in the sun.”

    “What? But Alex, what about poor little Ben?”

    Uh—yeah. Poor little Ben being spoilt rotten by two doting grandparents, it was tragic, really. They always had spoilt him from the moment he was born, but this was going to multiply it tenfold.

    Before I could dredge up something to say she’d plunged into the horrors of poor little fellow, his parents breaking up, without his mother at a time like this—sideline on how hopeless his father had always been—not even his sister to play with… Yes, well, this last was entirely in her imagination: Molly was into ponies and in fact animals of all sorts, whether fluffy and stuffed, or alive and, take your pick, in the zoo, on TV (with or without Sir David), or the property of other, luckier children who had gardens, while Ben was into his clarinet and some sort of vile video game. Most of his contemporaries were great fans of the Harry Potter books and movies but Ben considered the whole topic “silly”, good for him.

    Eventually she worked herself round to the subject of what to get him for Christmas, and seemed to have cheered herself up, so I managed to ring off.

    Dad rang me back about half an hour later.

    “Alex? It’s Dad. Er, sorry, old chap, but she’s decided we ought to come out for Christmas. Check out the house. Er—make sure Sarah and little Molly are okay, sort of thing.”

    Mm. Sort of thing like finding out what the Hell I was up to: quite.

    Where in God’s name were we going to put them? The house was uninhabitable: the builders were going great guns but the interiors of one complete side of it had to be replaced, even the wall linings in my bedroom being so impregnated with smoke that they’d had to be torn out. We’d been airing the other half, leaving doors and windows open all day and night, though providently having removed what pictures were left—the Edna Lambert was untouched, if smoky, and had gone to an outfit warmly recommended by Lexie for some TLC, as had the genuine Munnings study. The Australian horse pictures from the study were of less concern: we’d just brought them down to Cassie’s house and were letting them air on the little drying green behind it. Gavin and Molly hadn’t yet lost interest in sniffing them hard every day. All the beds had proven unsalvageable, soaked through by the firemen’s hoses. And even if we could have managed to dry them out they were too full of smoke, the consensus being it had gone up the staircase like a chimney. The sofas and armchairs from the family-room and the study hadn’t suffered so much water damage: they were out on the grass, drying and airing, though personally I wasn’t holding out much hope for them. The wooden stuff from the kitchen had all been washed down, as Cassie had suggested, and was fine but still outside, as a couple of Jim’s brother-in-law’s chaps had been appointed to repaint the kitchen as a first priority. Everything from the linen cupboard had been taken out and was being grimly washed and ironed, in relays, by Stella, with Cassie and occasionally the obliging Miranda working under her direction. And the blue tartan kitchen curtains, yes.

    Feebly I relayed the salient points.

    My father replied apologetically: “Well, yes, rather thought it might be like that, Alex, but you can’t tell her, you know.”

    How true.

    They would be out, then, a week before Christmas. Ben might miss a day or two of school but they never did anything over the last weeks anyway. –Mm. Dad’s attitude to school was fairly elastic: perhaps it was where Sarah had picked it up.

    I croaked out some sort of goodbye, hung up, and tottered out to the kitchen in pursuit of Stella, who as usual, in spite of Sarah’s feeble protests, had got up at crack of dawn in order to come up from the winery to make “a decent breakfast” for us all. It was now only seven o’clock. Dad must have held Mum back forcibly until around eight o’clock in the evening, their time.

    “Was that your mum again, Alex?”

    “No, Dad. Plan B, they’ll all come out for Christmas, end of story,” I sighed.

    “I see. Her idea, was it, dear?”

    “Yes,” I sighed, drooping on the sinkbench.

    “Sit down, Alex, the coffee’ll be ready in a jiff’.”

    I subsided onto the uncomfortable wooden bench at the narrow kitchen table, little more than a plank against the wall, installed by Fred and very useful, according to Cassie, and croaked: “Stella, what are we going to do? The bedrooms at the house are uninhabitable!”

    “Well, a little bit smoky still, but we’ll get them repainted straight away. We won’t bother about choosing colours or anythink at this stage, the same white as the kitchen’ll do. It’s not a glaring white, is it? That Corey Mincey, he’s got quite good taste.”

    This was the builder, Jim’s brother-in-law—Paula’s brother. He was also a painter-decorator and specialised, apparently, in “complete reno jobs”.

    “Mm,” I agreed, avoiding all reference to the long and involved explanations about the “tints” that went into the basic white. All the samples demonstrated by the amiable Corey had looked the same to me—however.

    “Let’s see… Well, three beds, min’, I s’pose. That might be the biggest problem, actually, Alex, all the bed shops are hopeless, ya can’t just buy from the showroom, it takes them months to supply anythink. And you can’t buy second-hand beds for love or money these days, not even from the op shops. It’s something to do with the insurance companies or somethink.”

    Er… I’d take her word on that one.

    “No—I tell you what! We’ll go to IKEA!” she beamed.

    If she said so. “That sounds good,” I said feebly. “They do have beds, do they?”

    “Yes, of course! And nice sofa-beds, but your mum and dad won’t want those. Actually they’re probably nicer than the actual sofas, we could think about a couple for the family-room.”

    I nodded dazedly…

    Perry Hawkes had arrived from Brisbane, complete with Fifi. He had a sniggering fit as I indulged myself in a long plaint about the monstrous regiment that had taken over at Trethewin, but acknowledged fairly: “Most of them are like that, mate. Well, the ute’s at your service if ya need help carting IKEA stuff up here.”

    “Carting it?” I echoed blankly.

    He eyed me drily. ‘”Yeah. Come into the real world, Alex, mate. They don’t deliver and if ya try to buy online ya find they’ve made it so bloody tricky ya can’t do that, either. Their motto is the customer does all the work. –You trail in to their giant bloody shop, trail round it for hours, choose the stuff, cart it back home, and assemble it.”

    “Assemble it?” I croaked. “But I looked up their website: it was all—”

    “That’s the showroom stuff, mate, set up in all these bloody little rooms: the womenfolk love them. Us blokes merely get lost in the ruddy place whilst trying to nail our hip-pockets shut. When ya finally get it home, if necessary hiring the truck to haul it, you have to assemble it: it’s all flat-packed. Never heard of the dreaded Allen key?”

    Er…

    “You’ll learn,” he concluded drily.

    “Er—yes.”

    “What?” he spotted.

    “Stella and Sarah aren’t letting me do anything energetic,” I admitted.

    “Ya don’t say. How is the leg?”

    “Withering away for lack of exercise!” I replied bitterly.

    “Yeah?”

    I sighed. “It’s fine. I’ve taken all the damned antibiotics, I’ve refrained from wilfully pulling the new lot of stitches apart, and it’s itching like crazy all over again. In short, healing. End of story.”

    “If you say so, mate. Letting you drive with it, are they?”

    “No!” I bit my lip. “I’m so sorry, Perry, I didn’t mean to shout.”

    “No worries, mate. Well, like I say, the ute’s at your service, just sing out if ya need me.” –This wasn’t the shiny 4x4 he’d taken to Byron Bay, which was strictly speaking the business’s, but an ancient pick-up truck he’d driven all the way from Brisbane.

    “Thanks very much. Um, I’m afraid none of the bedrooms are habitable as yet: they’re all being repainted. Corey—that’s the builder—has had to hire extra chaps.”

    “Hence the campervans dotted round the place—goddit. Didn’t see any Portaloos: the plumbing in the house okay, is it?”

    “Yes, and the electricity, though that had to be turned off while it was all checked out, but yes, the place is, er, functional, so to speak, just empty and painty. And still rather smoky.”

    “Yeah. Ya know, all that stuff you’ve hauled outside is just asking to be nicked, mate.”

    “I only wish someone would nick it!”

    “Oops,” he said, grinning. “Yes, come on, Fifi, good girl!” he said as she returned from a foray in the grounds, panting eagerly. “Can’t of sniffed ’im round the place,” he noted.

    “Oh, is that what she— Um, no,” I said foolishly. She was looking at me, so I added: “Yes, good girl, Fifi! Good dog!” Help, she was coming over to me! She’d accepted me! I patted her firmly, unable to stop the fatuous grin. “Yes, lovely girl, Fifi! What a good dog! Uh—as I was saying, Perry, I’m afraid the bloody house isn’t fit to sleep in.”

    “Aw—that! No worries, mate! Brought me sleeping-bag. Me and Fifi’ll be right.”

    “But— Look, we could get you a tent, at least.”

    “Nope, prefer sleeping under the stars, Alex, thanks all the same. It’s nice here,” he said, going over to Cassie’s sitting-room windows and looking out with a smile. “Um, listen, I was thinking… Well, this might sound like a bit of an imposition…”

    “Ask me anything, Perry. I can’t possibly repay you and Fifi for your efforts up in Byron.”

    “Bullshit, we enjoyed ourselves—eh, girl? Um, well, we haven’t made any plans for Christmas yet, Junie was too wild with me to think about it, but she’s more or less let me out of the doghouse now. I was wondering, would it be okay if we bring the campervan over?”

    “Yes, of course! In fact you could have a couple of rooms in the house if you prefer, they should all be ready by then.”

    “Nah, thanks all the same, but we’re used to the campervan—well, Tanya loves it: says it’s like a little house on wheels,” he said with a grin. “That’d be great! Junie’s been agitating for ages to come back to SA, but we needed a really good excuse not to have to stay with her bloody parents. Her mum’s a nagger and she won’t let Fifi in the house.”

    “I see! Well, by all means, Perry! –So you’re from South Australia originally?”

    “Yeah, we both are, except I lit out soon as I was old enough to join up.”

    I nodded, wondering if his mother was also a nagger. “Are your parents still with us, Perry?”

    “The old man is, yeah; Mum passed on some years back. He won’t go into a home, it’s a bit of worry, he’s still on the ball but he’s getting on, a bit shaky on ’is pins. Still, me sister pops in every day, and I’ve persuaded him to let me pay a woman to come in for the cleaning—the house is far too big for him. Yours both hale and hearty, are they?”

    “Yes: they had me when they were both only in their early twenties, so they’re only in their mid-sixties now.”

    “Goddit. Well, they should enjoy the trip out here, then! You wanna take them about a bit: even get up to the Alice, maybe. Pity not to see Uluru when they’ve got the chance.”

    “Er—I’m sorry, Perry: Uluru?”

    “Ayers Rock. Middle of the country.”

    “Oh, of course! Australia’s great monolith. Er—Dad would appreciate it, but Mum’s taste runs to cosy cottage gardens, I’m afraid.”

    He was just acknowledging drily that there was a fair bit of that about when Stella bustled in.

    “There you both are! Now, how about some nice scones for afternoon tea? Do you like gooseberry jam, Perry? A neighbour gave Cassie some—bring that in, dear!—but of course not everybody likes it. There’s some strawberry, as well, or honey, if you like!”

    Feebly Perry replied: “Gooseberry’d be great, thanks, Stella, but ya don’t need to feed—”

    “Don’t be silly, Perry! –Now, see what you think, Alex!” –as Cassie staggered in looking agonised, lugging a giant cushion devoid of its outer integument of, presumably, blue tartan?

    “Sniff it,” she said in a small voice. “Not too hard!” she added in alarm.

    “He hasn’t had a coughing fit for days, dear,” said her mother tolerantly.

    I sniffed. Ugh!

    “Um, it’s too smoky, isn’t it?” said Cassie, still in the small voice.

    “Yes.”

    “They’re all like that,” noted Stella grimly. “It’s such a waste!”

    I took a deep breath. “They can all be chucked into the builders’ skip. I can afford to replace a few chairs, Stella.”

    “And the sofas, Alex,” said Cassie faintly.

    “Them, too.”

    “I’ll give you a hand,” said Perry.

    “Thank you, Perry, that’ll be a real help. –We can salvage the frames, at least,” Stella stated grimly. “We’ll rip all the padding off them. Those Lazy-Boys cost good money, I’m not seeing them go to waste. –Gooseberry, was it, Perry? Righto, dear!” With this she marched out to the kitchen, looking militant.

    “I’m sorry, Alex,” said Cassie in the small voice.

    “Me, too. I was hoping we’d seen the last of those excrescences. Well, save one for Gavin, perhaps!” I added with a laugh.

    “Mm. Um, the thing is, she’s found a man that’ll reupholster everything, but it’ll take months. I tried to tell her there won’t be anything for your rellies to sit on, but she just said that some nice sofa-beds from IKEA won’t come amiss. Um, and your sister’s backing her up, I’m afraid, Alex.”

    Perry choked.

    “Look out, ten to one they’ll draw Junie into the cabal the minute she sets foot on the place,” I warned.

    “Shit!”

    Precisely.

    Mike glared at Perry. “Does he have to be here?”

    “Yep,” replied Perry calmly. “Gonna take a look at your security arrangements.”

    Since Mike and Ben both looked blank, I concluded that it’d be a short look.

    “Meanwhile, give us a decko at them accounts,” Perry added, holding out his hand.

    Mike glared, but both he and Ben handed over their somewhat crumpled wads of paper.

    We were again sitting under the vines of the pergola at the cellar door. Miranda hurried out with a tray. “You wanted to know about the afternoon teas, Alex. I’ve worked out what they all cost, I’ve written it down on their tickets.”

    Perry and I looked limply at the contents of the tray. So she had! There was a plate of scones with jam, a plate of iced cupcakes, and a tea-pot. Plus two cups. Was this what she’d normally offer to a pair of visitors? Frankly, I didn’t dare to ask, but Perry had no such reservations. Yes, at least, a choice of scones or cupcakes, was the answer. And there’d be tea in the pot—this was just to show us—and a little jug of milk, and the sugar, of course.

    Perry picked up the “ticket” from under the scone plate. His eyebrows rose. He said nothing, but turned to the cupcakes. Silence ensued.

    “Well?” I croaked.

    “It’s all there!” Miranda assured us.

    “Yeah. Well, yeah, except I dunno how ya costed a pinch of salt, love.” He passed the two sheets of paper to me, looking dry.

    I read through it. She’d accounted for all the ingredients except for the jam on the scones, but there was nothing down for the overheads!

    “It’s not much, really,” she offered hopefully.

    “No, that’s because ya haven’t listed your power and labour, not to say wear and tear on your appliances,” noted Perry.

    “Um, what?”

    “And where did the jam come from? Thin air?”

    “Christina gave it to us.”

    “Yeah, but whaddabout when she doesn’t?” he retorted swiftly.

    She looked blank.

    Oh, dear. “I think they’re quite economical, really, Miranda,” I said kindly, “especially the scones: it might be better just to stick to those. Er, they are quite quick to make, are they?”

    “Yes, of course!”

    “Mm. But you can’t give them away, never mind if it’s some of Christina’s delicious jam. Is it the gooseberry?”

    “No, cherry. From Adelaide Hills cherries, of course!” she assured me.

    “I see: that sounds lovely. Well, you need to charge this price, plus a realistic estimate for labour—the time it takes to make a batch and set it out nicely like this, buttered and, er, jammed. And the washing up, of course. Plus, as Perry says, an allowance for the, er, overheads like power and appliances.”

    “Yeah,” he agreed. “Those are your base costs, geddit, pet? Then you triple that, add that on, and that’s what you charge. Minimum.”

    “Triple?” she gasped in horror.

    “Total of four times your base cost.” Swiftly he did the appropriate arithmetic, estimating the overheads and labour, but I’d have said pretty accurately, and announcing the total for the plateful.

    “That’s far too much!” she gasped.

    “Rats. Takes time to serve, as well, that’s more labour costs.”

    “I see what he means, Miranda, darl’,” said Ben unexpectedly. “She gets far too tired over the holidays, when we get a mob in,” he announced.

    I wasn’t going to ask why he hadn’t done something about it, in that case: I was far, far past that stage.

    “Yes,” I agreed. “You’ve got six scones here, it really doesn’t work out at too much per person, at commercial prices these days.”

    “You mean that was only for the scones?” she faltered.

    “Uh—yeah,” replied Perry numbly. I just sat there numbly.

    “But no-one’d want afternoon tea at that sort of price!”

    I took a deep breath. “Miranda, last week Fred, Cassie and I dropped in at Hahndorf on our way back from the doctor’s, and had Devonshire teas there. I’ll concede that they included cream. Nevertheless, for the three of us it was still more than Perry’s estimate would be for three.”

    “Yeah, well, the place is a known tourist-trap, but yeah,” he conceded.

    She was frowning. I quailed, but what she produced was: “Why were you going to the doctor, Alex? Is your leg worse?”

    “No,” I replied limply. “Just a check-up, and getting some of the stitches out. Now, if you’d like to boil up the kettle and bring out some more cups, shall we all have our lovely tea?”

    “I’ll give you a hand,” said Perry, getting up. “I’d like to take a decko at your kitchen.”

    Miranda looked pleased. I sagged limply where I sat, fervently trusting that whatever conclusions he came to about the inefficiency of its layout wouldn’t be voiced. They headed off, Miranda saying wistfully: “You could of brought your dog, I’d love to meet her,” and Perry replying: “She’s on guard up at the house, love.”

    “Is she?” asked Mike drily as they vanished.

    “Mm, well, loose in the grounds, yes. If bloody Andrews—Brownloe to you—does dare to show up again, there’s no fear she won’t sniff him out: she’s had a taste of him, you know.”

    There was a short silence and then he said: “You meant that literally, didn’t you?”

    “Yes.”

    “By Jesus! –I told you!” he said to Ben.

    “Um, yeah,” that gentleman acknowledged, eyeing me warily.

    “All right, go on, Miranda’s safely out of the way: tell us what’s wrong with our figures, now,” Mike added sourly.

    I shrugged, but told them.

    “Yeah,” he concluded bitterly.

    “Um, Mike, we did think he’d spot any, um… flaws,” Ben finished glumly.

    “Yes, well, you’ve both got practical skills, but you’re not financial managers, are you?” I said without emphasis.

    “Apparently not,” Ben agreed bitterly.

    “Personally I never claimed to be, that’s not what Ole Man Crozier hired me for!” stated Mike pugnaciously.

    “No, of course not, Mike. I’ve been expecting too much of both of you, obviously.”

    Short silence.

    “Well, go on,” said Ben sourly. “Who are ya gonna put in on top of us?”

    “I think the place does need a financial manager, but it’ll have to be someone who knows about wines, of course. There’s no drastic hurry, Ben. I’ll have to think about it.”

    They exchanged glances.

    Then Mike said: “What does he do, when he’s not costing out restaurant prices and training ’is dog to catch crims?”

    “He runs a successful wine shop in Brisbane. High-end stuff,” I replied mildly.

    His jaw dropped. “What? You cunning bastard!”

    “It’s more than possible that he may not be interested. I haven’t broached the subject yet, so I’d be grateful if you two wouldn’t, either. But this visit will give you both a chance to see if you think you could get on with him. –Er, in his case, his bark is worse than his bite.”

    They choked speechlessly, goggling at me incredulously.

    No, well, I did feel they deserved not to get away completely scot-free with their years of cheery incompetence.

Next chapter:

https://deadringers-trethewin.blogspot.com/2025/07/a-jolly-downunder-yuletide.html