‘I’m sorry,’ I said uncomfortably.
We drove up the hill in silence, and he pulled up in front of the dark café. ‘Do you want to come in and have some tea?’ I asked, imagining him crouching over his camping stove, reconstituting instant pasta sachets.
He hesitated for a moment, and then smiled at me and shook his head. ‘No, I’ve got a few phone calls to make,’ he said. ‘But thanks for the offer.’
I smiled back. ‘You’re welcome. Thanks for the walk.’
‘Night, Lia.’
‘Night,’ I said.
Chapter 7
I try, mostly, to work on the assumption that people are nice. Not all of them are, but it’s a nice cheerful assumption, and it disarms the odd one who could have gone either way. You do, however, have to draw a line somewhere – at dictators, for example, and child molesters. And people who ring you to tell you your computer has been infected with a terrible virus, but if you’ll just give them remote access and your credit card details they’ll sort it right out. And Isaac’s mother.
Eileen Harper, mother of Isaac, was a tall, large-bottomed woman with a loud voice. She didn’t much like me when I was going out with her son – I never knew whether it was me personally or if no girl would have been good enough, and I didn’t really care – but when I broke up with him her dislike hardened into irrevocable hatred. She would never have patronised Pretty Delicious by choice, but one afternoon a fortnight before Christmas she came in with the rest of the Ratai Business Association committee. She did not look pleased to be there.
‘Hi, Gail,’ I said as the first lady reached the counter.
Gail Rogers, who sold real estate and knew everything about everyone in the lower Northland region, smiled at me. ‘Hello, Lia dear. I’ll have a latte, if I may. Just a small one.’
‘And something to eat?’
‘I shouldn’t,’ she said, eyeing the display cabinet. ‘But I will. A piece of your lovely lemon cake. Leonie,’ she said, turning to the woman behind her, ‘what are you having?’
‘I’ll get this, Gail.’
‘You will not! You got coffee last week in Albany.’
‘Well, you got lunch.’
‘But it was so disappointing. That salad . . .’
‘That was hardly your fault, Gail! No, I insist. Put your purse away.’
‘Stop it, Leonie, you’re holding everyone up. Now, what are you having?’
Eileen Harper was still hanging back near the door, determined that not one cent should pass from her keeping to ours, and I looked her up and down with a certain malicious enjoyment as I made Gail’s coffee. She had inserted two-thirds of her bottom into a pair of jeans, leaving the rest to billow out over the waistband. Even, I thought, if her house contained no mirrors, and even if she had a strict policy of never looking down while dressing, it was amazing that the discomfort of losing all circulation below the waist hadn’t stopped her leaving the house in those pants.
When all the ladies but Eileen had placed their orders, they arranged themselves around our biggest table and Gail, pulling a notebook from her handbag, called the meeting to order.
The purpose of today’s meeting was to plan the annual Christmas parade. As we served the committee members with coffee and cake, Anna and I learnt that this year’s parade consisted, at this stage, of the preschool in Halloween costumes on the deck of someone’s ute, the bowls club in dress uniform on foot, Coastal Suzuki on a selection of motorbikes and the Lions Club on the back of Murray Thompson’s vintage Bedford truck. If it started. At this point our eyes met and we retreated hurriedly into the kitchen before we offended them by laughing.
Somebody had just suggested a children’s colouring competition, to be judged on parade night, when Eileen Harper said sharply, ‘What is that revolting smell?’
Several people looked nervous, as if it might be them.
‘What smell?’ asked Gail.
‘Something dead. A rat?’
Everyone sniffed, then shrugged and shook their heads.
Nostrils aquiver like one of Roald Dahl’s witches, Eileen turned in her chair. There was a bookcase behind her, painted white and housing Dickens’ complete works. She pulled a couple of volumes out to look behind them, recoiled and dropped them on the floor. ‘Oh my God,’ she said.
‘What is it?’ someone asked.
‘It’s a poo,’ said Eileen with deep revulsion.
I started, horrified, across the dining room, but Anna was three paces in front of me. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ve been trying to find that smell for weeks, it’s been driving me insane.’ She peered at the gap between Bleak House and Great Expectations. ‘Ugh. A decomposing sausage. Some child must have hidden it there, I suppose. Eileen, thanks so much for tracking it down.’
Scooping it up in the tea towel that had been draped over her shoulder, she beamed at the ladies and whisked back into the kitchen.
* * *
As Christmas got closer, business picked up and my recurrent nightmare of having to ask Dad for a loan to pay the mortgage receded. We catered several Christmas functions and the weekend brunch customers increased from a trickle to a steady stream. The relief was enormous.
Rob started a new job, landscaping a subdivision an hour’s drive away on the outskirts of Whangarei. Anna, already as slim as a chopstick, started a new pre-wedding diet of rice, lettuce and sweet chilli sauce. Mum allowed Caroline Marshall, who was in her first year of hairdressing, to dye her hair, and ended up with alternating white and orange stripes. Monty caught a twenty-five-pound John Dory surf-casting off the beach, celebrated excessively even by his standards and spent the night on the surf club floor, covered with a blanket. Isaac sent me a text message so long it was delivered in three parts, saying that he was completely over me, that he had actually never been as keen on me as I was on him and that his new girlfriend was superior to me in every way. Particularly, he wrote coyly, in ‘the bedroom department’. I shared this literary gem with Rob, who happened to be there when it arrived, and was quite touched when he said, ‘Fucking loser. Want me to beat him up?’
The Christmas parade (which I attend religiously, though I sneer at it for fun) was on Thursday the twenty-third of December, leaving from the wharf promptly at six. Anna and I left work at five forty-five and drove down the hill into town. There were no parking spaces free along the esplanade or in the surf club car park, and the road in front of the wharf was seething with floats and people in fancy dress.
‘Watch it!’ Anna cried as I backed the car around. ‘You’re going to hit that tractor!’
I stamped on the brakes. ‘What tractor?’
‘That one! Behind you!’
‘Where did that come from?’
Anna merely shuddered and hid her face in her hands – a hypocritical gesture from a woman who once did a U-turn on a motorway off-ramp.
Managing eventually to extricate the car without damaging it or a single bystander, I edged back down the esplanade, turned down a side street and parked behind Monty’s workshop. Monty and Jed were both outside when we pulled up, looking under the bonnet of a small blue Mazda. Monty looked hot and rumpled, but Jed, wearing a tight grey singlet and with his overalls tied around his waist, just looked hot. Like a model from a Men at Work calendar – one of those ones where the models have well-defined biceps and sexy scowls, and carry big spanners.
‘Phwoah,’ said Anna, almost under her breath.
‘Mm.’
‘You like him, don’t you?’ she said, smiling.
Um. Yes. Possibly. But it was all much too embryonic for discussion. ‘I don’t know him,’ I said.
She opened her door. ‘So get to know him.’
‘Evening, girls,’ said Monty. ‘What can we do for you?’
‘Can we leave the car here while we go to the parade?’ I asked, getting out of the car.
‘Of course you can.’
‘Are you guys going?’ asked Anna.
‘Be rude not to,�
� said Monty, closing the Mazda’s bonnet and wiping his hands on a bit of rag. ‘What time is it?’
‘Five to six.’
‘Already? Right, then. Come on, Jed, I’ll close up later.’
No doubt by design, Anna hurried to catch up with him as he set off around the side of the building, leaving Jed and me to follow. ‘Evening, Aurelia,’ he said.
‘Jebediah,’ I replied.
‘Nope.’
‘Jethro?’
‘I’d give up, if I were you. Been doing anything interesting?’
‘Um. I think this week’s highlight has been trying a new recipe for aioli. I really need to get out more. How about you?’
He thought for a moment. ‘Well, I’ve moved into the sleep-out. I’ve got electricity and running water, now.’
‘Nice,’ I said.
‘You have no idea. I don’t have to wear a headlamp when it gets dark, I can just turn on a light. It’s like magic.’
I laughed. ‘Maybe you need to get out more, too.’
‘You could be right,’ he said. ‘What are you doing for Christmas?’
‘Staying here. You?’
‘I’m going to Thames. You don’t open the café on Christmas Day, do you?’
‘No. We did the first year, but we’ve calmed down a bit now.’
We reached an intersection and turned towards the main street, which was lined with people five deep.
‘Where have they all come from?’ asked Jed.
‘I’ve never understood it.’ I waved to a girl I’d gone to school with, who had a baby in a front pack and was pushing a toddler in a stroller. ‘I only ever recognise a fraction of the crowd, and I’ve lived here most of my life. You wouldn’t think people would travel vast distances for the Ratai Christmas parade, would you?’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ he said, skirting a large woman in an orange sarong. ‘I heard there was going to be a lolly scramble.’
I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, mate, but you heard wrong. Lolly scrambles have been outlawed for years. They’re very dangerous, you know.’
‘Just how many lolly-related fatalities have you heard of?’
‘Well, none, but that just proves how effective the ban has been.’
On reaching the main street I saw Mum, who stood out nicely with her new stripy hair, standing with Hugh in the doorway of the deli twenty metres away. She smiled and waved, and we threaded our way through the crush to join them.
‘Hello, Monty!’ said Mum. ‘Hello, Jed.’ She kissed Anna’s cheek, since she was the closest. ‘I was wondering where you girls were.’
‘We would have been quicker, but Lia took us on a little backstage drive-by of the floats,’ said Anna. ‘Have you seen Rob yet?’
‘No, is he coming?’
‘He’s over there,’ I said, pointing across the street, and Anna stood up on tiptoe to wave as he made his way towards us.
The parade was led by the Orewa pipe band, playing ‘Wi’ a Hundred Pipers’ and headed by a most distinguished-looking drum major with a luxuriant silver moustache. Next came half a dozen shiny new cars from Bill White Mitsubishi, and then the rest home’s mobility van, filled with residents in Santa hats. Ratai Primary were dressed mostly in egg cartons, apparently showcasing recycled fashion, and the Mainly Music preschoolers were nursery rhyme characters. One tiny boy, dressed only in a sagging disposable nappy and a tinsel halo, refused to be carried, and toddled the entire length of the main street.
‘Look at him,’ Mum said, smiling mistily. ‘Little mister independent. You were just like that little boy, Robin.’
‘I hope my nose was in a better state,’ said Rob.
‘It would have been. You couldn’t bear having a runny nose; you used to wipe it on Lia’s shirt.’
‘Excellent plan,’ he said.
‘You could have wiped it on your own shirt!’ I protested.
‘Well, you could see his point,’ said Mum. ‘You were always grubby anyway, and he was such a clean little boy.’
‘Of course I was grubby, if he was using me as a cleaning rag!’
‘Speaking of hygiene, I hear someone found a turd on your premises the other day,’ said Rob.
‘What?’ Anna said.
‘Hidden in a bookcase.’
‘It was a sausage!’
‘I hope it wasn’t one of my sausages,’ said Hugh.
‘Sure to have been,’ I said. ‘You’re our sole sausage supplier. Some child must have hidden it there. That revolting woman!’
‘What revolting woman?’ Hugh asked.
‘Eileen Harper. How dare she go around accusing us of hiding turds in the bookcases?’
‘You have only yourself to blame,’ said Rob. ‘You shouldn’t have gone and broken her little boy’s heart.’
‘Hush, here comes Santa!’ said Mum, with the reverence you’d expect from someone announcing the arrival of the Second Coming. My mother takes Christmas seriously.
This year’s Santa had style and panache. He drove a ride-on lawn mower and flung handfuls of sweets at the crowd in blatant defiance of the lolly scramble laws.
‘Told you there was going to be a lolly scramble,’ Jed said, and was immediately hit by a flying Mintie.
‘It’s drawn blood,’ I said, smiling widely.
He put his hand to his cheek bone. ‘You don’t have to look so happy about it.’
‘Wipe it on Lia’s shirt,’ Rob suggested.
‘Well, folks,’ said Monty, as Santa disappeared down the street, ‘that would appear to be that. Drink, anyone?’
‘Let’s have it at my place,’ said Mum. ‘It’s such a lovely evening. We can sit in the garden.’
I walked back to get the car alone. Anna had gone with Rob, Monty had gone to buy a box of beer and Jed, apparently feeling he’d had enough company for a while, had disappeared. He was lifting the battery out of the little Mazda when I rounded the corner of the workshop.
‘I take it you’re not coming for a drink?’ I said, trying and failing not to feel snubbed.
He shook his head. ‘Thanks for the offer, but I’d better finish this. The owner’s pretty keen to get it back.’ He smiled at me. ‘Merry Christmas.’
‘You too.’
* * *
I’d just got to Mum’s place when another car came down the driveway and parked under the flame tree by the fence.
‘Hey, blister,’ said Mike, opening his door. He stood up and stretched, and I crossed the gravel to hug him.
‘Mike! How are you?’
‘Oh, fine,’ he said tiredly.
It was fairly obvious that he wasn’t, but since it seemed that I wasn’t supposed to notice I said merely, ‘I didn’t think you’d be here until tomorrow.’
‘I came early.’
‘Very cool.’ I was particularly fond of Mike, and we hadn’t spent Christmas with him for years. ‘You’re just in time for a drink. Want a hand with your bags?’
‘No, I’ll get them later.’
We found Mum and Hugh drinking red wine at the outdoor table under a pergola draped in pink mandevilla vine.
‘Mike!’ said Mum. ‘How lovely! This is Hugh Wheeler, who owns the deli here in town. Hugh, this is my stepson Mike. Or is it ex-stepson?’
Mike smiled tightly and nodded to Hugh as he sat down.
‘Lia, my love, get yourself and Mike a glass each,’ said Mum. ‘And could you bring the Christmas cake out with you?’
I excavated the cake from beneath a pile of clean washing and an heirloom vegetable seed catalogue on the kitchen table. Evening sun filtered through the passionfruit vine that was trying to invade the west window and scraps of light danced and shivered across the far wall. The room smelt of cinnamon and Christmas lilies. And for some reason, although everything was warm and safe and familiar, an icy little trickle of fear ran down my spine.
I frowned and shook my head, both upset and annoyed. What use is it to get a feeling that something bad is going to happen, with no clue as to wha
t it might be and how you might prevent it? All it does is encourage you to look for potential disasters, which is not an uplifting occupation.
I picked up the cake tin, a handful of wineglasses, a block of cheese and the breadknife, and went back out to find Monty, Rob and Anna rounding the corner of the house.
Greetings and introductions over, Monty sank into a canvas chair, took a can of beer from the box in front of him and beamed around the table. Then he frowned. ‘Where’s Jed?’
‘I saw him at the garage,’ I said. ‘He was working on that blue car.’
‘He doesn’t need to be doing that at this time of night! You should have brought him along, Lia.’
‘I did ask him.’
‘Should have fluttered your eyelashes, or something. The boy needs to get out more.’
‘Sorry,’ I said.
‘You’ll have to try harder next time,’ said Rob, attacking the Christmas cake with the breadknife. ‘Less laughing when he gets hurt, more cleavage – that kind of thing.’ He shot me a quick, amused glance that made it abundantly clear he knew I was interested in Jed, and I thought, not for the first time, that twin intuition really was a bastard.
‘I’ll work on it,’ I said wryly. ‘Thanks for the tip.’
‘Any time. Cake, Monty?’
‘Go on, then.’
‘Try some cheese with it,’ I said. ‘An Englishman I met the other day told me that you haven’t lived until you’ve had cheese with fruitcake.’
Rob cut a slice of cheddar and held it out to Monty on the tip of the breadknife.
‘What am I supposed to do?’ he asked, looking a little alarmed by this foray into experimental cuisine.
‘Just try a bite of one and then a bite of the other,’ I said.
He did. ‘Huh. Not bad at all.’
Rob cut another slice of cake and one of cheese, and offered them to Mike.
‘Thanks,’ Mike said.
Rob smiled. ‘Bro . . .’
‘What do you want?’ Mike asked suspiciously.
‘Any chance you might have half an hour spare tomorrow?’
‘For what?’
‘I’ve just got a gate to hang for a woman up the coast. Big cast-iron thing. I need someone to hold an end, and Ed’s on holiday.’
The Pretty Delicious Cafe Page 5
