10

Thorndon, Easter Sunday morning

Rob McGlinchey swerved the battered old Kombi into the gutter outside the Prime Minister’s Pipitea Street residence. It was too much for the engine, which shuddered and farted smoke and died. Dan glanced about. It was still fairly early on Easter Sunday morning in this tidy street of upmarket grey and white weatherboard villas sheltered behind mature foliage. The prime ministerial house stood out as a handsome red-brick two-storey edifice with a steep shingled roof and generous bay windows on the ground floor. In front were matching curved red-brick walls, behind trees and creepers prominent. The Kombi stuck out like John Lennon at a National Party conference, its entire body surface festooned with the amateur psychedelia of golden sunflowers and blue butterflies. Surely there was somebody on duty?

‘There he is,’ Rob said, sliding open his door and jumping on to the road.

Dan could see there was somebody in the side garden, bent over, silver hair, top of a collarless dress shirt, red braces.

‘Prime Minister?’ Rob called out as he approached the extension of the brick wall on the other side of the entrance.

The face familiar from a thousand cartoons appeared.

‘Gentlemen?’ he boomed in the fruity, hail-fellow voice. ‘Can I be of assistance?’

Rob hesitated.

‘Speak up, man. Cat got your tongue.’

‘We were wondering, sir … if we could ask you what the government is going to do about sending troops to Vietnam.’

Holyoake scrutinised them, wiping a brawny arm across his sweaty forehead. He pointed a threatening looking grubber at them. ‘You going to introduce yourselves?’

Rob did the honours.

‘Delaney and McGlinchey. Hmmm. Sounds like a second-hand car lot.’

‘Or a folk-singing protest duo.’

‘Ha! Labour types, eh? Yes?’

‘Not really,’ Dan said. ‘We are concerned about Vietnam.’

‘We all are, lad, we all are. I can give you ten minutes, before Norma and I are off to the late service at St Pauls. Come in and perhaps she can rustle up a cuppa while I’m changing. If she’s ready. Come on, come on, don’t lurk. I don’t bite. Well, not much.’

They followed the prime minister to his side entrance. He was calling out his wife’s name, waving them in, telling them to leave their shoes at the door. They duly did as ordered.

He told them to take any seat, armchairs or sofa. It was blue and pink upholstery, except for a brown leather armchair in the corner under a tall reading lamp. A landscape oil of a rural New Zealand farm scene above the fireplace, photographs in silver frames on the piano top. A bookcase floor-to-ceiling along one wall, books behind glass doors, many of them leather bound and official looking. It was cosy.

‘So far so good,’ Rob said, grinning.

Dan did not agree. It seemed to him like a totally hare-brained idea, and it was unlikely to achieve anything. He had only agreed when Rob put him on the back foot the previous night at the Monde Marie. He arrived with Marty, who refused to say anything about the marijuana deal with the bikies, said he would leave explanations to McGlinchey.

It was impossible to have a conversation in the noisy café and Rob suggested they go outside, now he had completed his business. He would not say what business it was, said it was none of Dan’s business, ha ha. He said he would drive him back to Ru’s house in the smelly Kombi he obviously slept in, judging by the mattress and sheets lining the back of it. It occurred to Dan that this luridly painted van was not the most discreet way to transport a cannabis crop, if indeed that was what it was used for.

On the way they were silent, until Rob broke the mood by saying it was up to Dan what he did. Ru had trusted him, but had been concerned he was not really interested in protest.

Dan objected he agreed with Ru about not getting involved in the American invasion of Vietnam, but he did not approve of him dealing dope. Rob told him there were two things going on. If he wanted to be part of Ru’s protest plan, he was welcome. Hine spoke up for him.

After saying that personally he had nothing against marijuana and he was grateful for what Rob did for his son’s wife, he was still concerned that the police would pull them all in and this would have an impact on his family’s life. Rob said that was up to him. Their main concern right now was protest, the marijuana was a small part of it, but it need not affect him or his family.

The problem, Rob said, was that with Ru sidelined there was some uncertainty creeping into the group. His solution came out of talking to Hine and Mary Seddon about her Sunday morning visit to Holyoake. Rob saw no reason not to repeat the visit and ask the only man in New Zealand who would decide troop commitments what he intended. Holyoake was a one-man foreign policy force in the government. Everything to do with the protest hinged on what he decided. The ditherers among the protest group would respond one way or the other, if he could get a response from Holyoake.

As a sign of his good faith, he asked Dan to come with him. Dan realized he was getting close to whatever the protest group planned and if need be he could inform Milton. Or not, if he felt their cause was righteous and their methods acceptably non-violent.

So here he was, in the lion’s den, hoping he was not going to make a sacrificial lamb of his family.

Holyoake emerged looking smart in a beautifully cut grey suit and electric blue silk tie with Windsor knot, pink carnation in the buttonhole. Dan noted the built-up nature of his patent leather shoes.

‘Delaney!’ he boomed, belting Dan on the back with such force he gasped. He recalled Holyoake had been a reserve hooker in the South Island team. He was a short man, hence the enhanced shoes, but he was broad across the shoulders and it was clearly muscle. He had been a farmer before Parliament, and no doubt still was. Somewhere Dan had read he claimed not to have any personal wealth, though his family trust did own six farms. Odd to boast about it, as if he could carry off a humble position while admitting that in fact he was rolling in it. Maybe that was what enough voters liked, the self-made man brimming with confidence and bon homie.

‘I have an elephantine memory,’ he said. ‘Let me put the kettle on. Norma’s resting.’

He moved through to the kitchen, they heard water poured.

Holyoake emerged. ‘Got it! You were that blighter saved old Peter Fraser’s bacon. Correct?’

‘I wouldn’t go that far, sir.’

‘No,’ Holyoake chortled. ‘Nor would Sid. He had some choice things to say about you, if I was one for tattle-telling.’

Dan recalled Holyoake in Parliament, a loyal Number Two for a decade or so to the belligerent Sid Holland. Now Holyoake was in charge and revelling in it.

‘And you are from the same stock as good old Peter Fraser?’ Holyoake asked Rob, as if he was discussing a strain of sheep.

‘Scottish, you mean. I’m a proud Kiwi of Scottish descent. I wear the clan tartan. Never had to eat raw turnips as a kid.’

‘Fraser? Yes, he had a tough upbringing. Served him pretty well, eh?’

‘About Vietnam, sir?’

‘Hold your horses, Mac. I’ll bring out the tea. No chat without chai, eh?’

Holyoake enjoyed his own joke. He reemerged with a tray hosting teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl, teaspoons, cups and saucers and a plate of Girl Guide biscuits. He poured, told them to help themselves and state their concerns. They had five minutes.

‘Sir?’ Rob said. ‘Have you decided on committing our troops to the American forces in Vietnam?’

Holyoake sipped tea. ‘That is a matter for Cabinet to decide. You may know that I am a strong believer in collective Cabinet decision-making.’

‘Everybody believes you are in charge and what you say goes.’

Holyoake drained his cup and put it back in the saucer. ‘You perhaps do not understand the way our party works. We believe in individual freedoms, but only if they amount to consensus.’

‘You have some fairly forthright advocates of troop commitment,’ Dan said. ‘Or so I have read.’

‘Hmmm. We have some keen young chaps. Muldoon spent three months as a guest of the US government on a fact-finding tour. Came back breathing fire and brimstone about the need to contain communist aggression. Les Munro is just back from a private visit to the States, preaching the same defeat communism message. Three others in my caucus – McCready, Donald and Harrison – have just returned from Southeast Asia with the identical plea that we should support the United States. My deputy Jack Marshall wants us to provide military support to stop South Vietnam being overrun, which he argues will threaten our own security. I’m getting cables from the US Secretary of State who tells me their Defense Secretary McNamara says New Zealand needs to do more. Of course our Australian cousins are all the way with the Americans and keep urging us to pull finger and face up to our ANZUS responsibilities.’

Holyoake reached for a biscuit, changed his mind. He scrutinized each of his visitors in turn, as if readying to take a bite out of them. ‘Even my Chief of Defence,’ he said, ‘has reservations about military commitment, citing Malaysia as stretching our somewhat thin resources. He does add that we are dependent on the US as a security last resort. So there you have it. I have pondered both sides of the coin. You perhaps now appreciate a lot of pressure is coming from my own party and the Americans to contribute militarily. I still believe a peace settlement is the only long-term solution, but that does not exclude short-term support for America. My colleagues claim you lot are tools of the communists and do not represent most Kiwis. Privately I share your concerns and I am not entirely convinced the public is behind military support of America. My own government advisers warn that Vietnam could become a bloody quagmire. However, Britain is no longer in any position to come to our defence. America is. So you see, gentlemen, I am on what you would no doubt recognize as the horns of a dilemma. I mentioned an elephant earlier. See that elephant there? I’ll tell you a little story about it.’

He rose and lifted a small, beautifully carved rosewood elephant off the top of the bookcase, turned it this way and that, admiring it. ‘The retiring German ambassador gave me this, mentioned my contribution to smothering the communist expansion. I like the feel of it. You could guess what an elephant weighs, what amount of weight it puts on every day. If you lift it every day from when it is a baby elephant, then you can cope with the weight it has put on since the previous day. You agree? Well, that is how I handle these restless young fellows in Cabinet. Every day they put their forceful opinions, every day I weigh carefully what they say and deal with it that day. This way I remain able to forge consensus between different factions. Think of me as Solomon, come back today as a rugby referee. There you are, gentlemen. That is the way I referee Cabinet. I hope that helps you understand the way democracy works.’

Holyoake stood, looking at both of them.

‘But sir,’ Rob protested. ‘You didn’t tell us your decision.’

‘But I did, young man. It will be a consensus decision of Cabinet. That is democracy in action. If you can excuse me, my wife and I must attend the church service. Woe betide if I am late, not a good look, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘One last question, sir?’ Dan asked, more out of curiosity than anything else.

Holyoake raised a long eyebrow.

‘This Moral Rearmament Movement. I saw them quoted in the paper praising Hitler as, and I quote, “a front-line defence against the anti-Christ of Communism”.’

‘And your point is, Daniel?’

‘They claim you attended their Town Hall play We Are Tomorrow.’

‘I attend many events. Why, I even turn up for the students’ annual revue, where they always give me stick. Gentlemen, feel free to take a few biscuits with you, and of course feel free to protest. I enjoy these exchanges and the opportunity to hear how the other voting portion of our society thinks on these weighty matters of state. Like the debating chamber in parliament, you demonstrate with your views that we are a true democracy, unlike Russia or China, eh? You enjoy the freedom to protest, a freedom denied most peoples. Gentlemen, go forth and protest.’

Rob climbed in and slid the door shut. ‘What’d you make of our Kiwi Keith?’

‘I was surprised how easy it was to get to see him. He might be the only world leader you can just bowl up on a Sunday and chat to.’

‘I meant what you thought of his comments. It’s obvious to me that he’s going to commit troops, otherwise he would say he was not.’

Dan looked at the solid brick residence. Georgian style? Holyoake must sit in his reading chair weighing up whether he dared cut New Zealand adrift from the ANZUS alliance or go where America went. It used to be where Britain went, New Zealand went. Wartime Prime Minister Savage said something like that. Since the Americans stopped the Japanese advance at the Coral Sea, Australasia owed them big time. Any New Zealand prime minister would find it a huge ask to go it alone. We had no record of not depending on Big Brother Britain, and now Very Big Brother America. A conservative prime minister would only do so if he was sure his re-election depended on it. As far as Dan could judge, most Kiwis couldn’t care less about Asia, apart from not wanting communism coming. He agreed with Rob, Holyoake would wait, stall, prevaricate, but eventually obey the ‘request’ from the United States to join their military adventure in Vietnam.

Even so, he was reluctant to express his agreement. Like a politician, he prevaricated. ‘Not sure he took us seriously,’ he said. ‘Calling us second-hand car dealers. Asinine story about the elephant.’

‘He’s a buffoon.’

‘I’d say a clever one. He put us off our stride, you calling him “sir”. He steered the meeting. That’s probably how he runs his Cabinet and caucus, throwing them off their stride with irrelevant anecdotes. His kind of consensus, keeping the likes of the fiery Muldoon and that warrior Defence minister off balance.’

Rob banged the steering wheel. ‘We tried. So now we can tell all those ditherers to get in behind.’

‘Who exactly are you talking about?’

‘You’re about to meet some of them. We are off to lunch at Alan Bolton’s. He’s a friend of my old Korean colleague Cyril Potts. Both deputy heads, Alan in Trade and Industry, Cyril in Defence.’

There was a gleaming black Bentley passing. He could see a small New Zealand pennant on the passenger side of the bonnet. It turned into the prime minister’s residence.

‘Keith and Norma’s lift to church,’ Rob said. ‘All of 100 yards. So, best we muchacho, amigo, the chauffeur might feel obliged to call in my alternative vehicle lurking. It lowers the tone of the street, if nothing else.’

Before Dan could question him about the lunch attendees, Rob tried the ignition. Apart from a strangled mechanical gurgle, the motor barely turned. Rob got out, turned the wheel away from the gutter and started pushing, telling Dan to join in. They slowly edged around the corner into Mulgrave Street, the van seemingly weighing tons, Dan wondering if there were reinforced false panels filled with McGlinchey’s illegal crop. Rob jumped in and rammed into gear.

He drove up Molesworth Street on to Tinakori Road, past the Botanical Gardens, around the circuit under the Viaduct and into Kelburn. He continued through the village and down towards the university, pulling into a side street. He stopped near the Cable Car track running overhead, swung round to face the downhill stretch, no doubt for a jump start later. Dan eyed a rather elaborate fountain on the edge of a park with the harbour an epic backdrop. This had to be the prime real estate Wellingtonians talked about, one of the three K suburbs. Karori was another, and an Indian name he’d forgotten. Somebody told him the wealthy early settlers headed for the hill sites on the grounds that in India the air was cooler and healthier the further you ascended. His one visit to Karori he recalled it cloaked in fog, not something he expected to see in the windy city.

‘Just remember,’ Rob said as he got out of the van, ‘to address the lady of the house as Jean – spelt Jeanne, as in the actress Jeanne Moreau. She’s French. Everybody fancies her and wonders how he scored her. She expects everybody to be an admirer.’

‘War bride, was she?’

‘Hole in one, Delaney. I hear she’s not overly enchanted with her husband’s drift to the left. No knighthood, probably. From what Cyril tells me, he’s not impressed with Labour either. Nordmeyer’s a spent force and this big Canterbury lad Kirk who’s going to take over shortly is an unknown quantity. So now is the time to really push opposition to troop commitment, shame Labour into getting in behind the protest. That’s the plan, or it was Ru’s.’

Rob paused outside the house. ‘We will soon see whether the ditherers have a majority, or we march on and confront National. The Nats go on about Americans spilling blood to save us Kiwis and we owe them. The alternative, they claim, is New Zealand cast adrift in a sea of communist invaders. It’s a load of bullshit, these south-east Asian countries are trying to run themselves and have no time to worry about a few islands thousands of miles away. But ten bob to a knob of goatshit the Nats will get the troop commitment unless there is a major campaign against it. Kiwis are sheep, easily led. And that includes some of these jokers we are lunching with. Like Labour, they are sitting on the fence. Of course, some of them, for sure Cyril and probably Alan Bolton are risking their careers. They no doubt know they’ll be history if the Nats win the next election. So this is the time to stand up and be counted. Are you in? Ru and Hine trust you. Time to make up your mind.’

Dan avoided answering. He had to know what was planned. He would not risk his family until he knew what was planned.

‘Okay,’ Rob said. ‘Lecture over. Over to you now, Delaney. Come on, decision time.’

Rob led the way up the pebbled path, flanked by exotic cacti and carriage lamps on metal poles which looked solid enough to be impervious to the brisk wind slashing across their faces. Ahead was a frontage that reminded Dan of the Dalmatian mausoleums in Waikumete Cemetery, albeit much bigger. There were cream stucco columns holding up a triangular plinth decorated with vines and thistles. Rob pressed the cream button to the side of the massive varnished door. They heard the opening bars of the Marseillaise.

The door opened and, despite Rob’s forewarning, Dan was startled by the presence of beauty. A tall woman stood there assessing them with large violet eyes. She wore a silky sheath of shimmering blues and greens that was much more enticing than the outfit Melzi wore. It was probably the way the fabric shifted about, seemingly threatening to collapse the already plunging neckline. There was a diamond choker around her throat, which may have partly explained the husky tone of her voice.

‘Mr McGlinchey, I believe? I don’t know your friend.’

Rob introduced him and Dan took her long, manicured hand. It was the briefest of contacts. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Oliver mentioned you. A guest of Mr Webber.’

He could see the resemblance to her son, although he was of a darker complexion. ‘More Ru Patterson’s lodger,’ he managed. He realised he was staring, God and Jasenka forgive him. She allowed a trace of a smile, told them to call her ‘Jeanne’, it sounded like ‘Jun’, before pirouetting on high heels and beckoning with upraised hand to follow her down the long hallway. It was wall-to-wall paintings, gloomy abstracts and solemn portraits, not unlike Marty’s collection, perhaps the same dealer. Was this the bureaucrat who collected art abroad instead of securing trade deals for his country?

She moved right into a hubbub of middle-aged men and women standing about sipping sherries and murmuring politely.

Out of their midst a handsome silver-haired man approached, spoke briefly to Jeanne and held his hand out to them.

‘Alan Bolton,’ he said. ‘Cyril’s friends, I gather. Do come in. Can I get you a drink? Sherry, beer, whisky, gin, you name it. There are some mushroom and oyster vol-au-vents on the sideboard, help yourselves. We are about ready to go into lunch, just waiting on our younger son and his friend.

‘Ah, this is Charles, my infinitesimally older twin son.’

An upright young blond with the same fine family features held out his hand. He was immaculate in pressed khaki, the two pips indicating a junior officer, lieutenant, Dan thought.

‘Charles is aide-de-camp to our G-G Sir Bernard.’

Dan had seen photographs of the Governor-General wearing an absurd monocle. There was a story went around the POW camp of a Kiwi soldier stopped by a British officer, who demanded he salute. ‘Why don’t you shove your periscope up your arse,’ the Kiwi said. ‘Then you can see how much shit you pack.’ Probably apocryphal, and it was certainly not to be repeated at this gathering. Charles had an earnest, if not worried look.

‘Father,’ he said. ‘I am resigning, you know.’

Alan Bolton patted his son on his arm. ‘Not now, Charlie.’

‘Sorry,’ Charles said. ‘What’s your poison, Daniel?’

Dan asked for a whisky.

‘Soda?’

‘Just a dash of water.’

‘Robbie, isn’t it?’ his father asked McGlinchey.

‘Rob’s fine. You know Cyril Potts well?’

‘I hope to,’ Alan said, smiling. ‘But I’m forgetting my duties as host.’

Rob said a whisky would be fine, no water. Bolton nodded at his son, who went to get the drinks.

A young woman in a black dress with a cute white half bonnet perched on top of her short black hair and a small white apron bib was offering them a silver platter of round pastries. A French maid indeed, Dan thought, as he picked what looked like mushroom mush. It was in his mouth before he realised it was oyster. He reached desperately for the napkins on the side of the tray, almost knocking it out of the maid’s hands.

‘Sorry,’ he choked, coughing oyster into the napkin, his ears flaring.

A hand patted his back. ‘Not your thing,’ Jeanne said. ‘Bathroom’s across the hall.’

He nodded and blundered out of the room, sure everybody was watching. He couldn’t stop and explain the effect oysters had on him after four years of starvation rations. He had vomited oysters his first day back home and the smell ever since caused the bile to rise in his throat.

‘Better?’ Jeanne was waiting. ‘Don’t bother about it. Knock off your drink and come through, we are seating.’

The whisky was a welcome shock. He followed her, wishing he could flee in the other direction. He passed through the now empty sitting room, an oil painting of a huge stylized seagull presiding above the fireplace, strange black spears in a brass cylinder in one corner, French doors on to a deck. He followed through the opened sliding doors into the dining room, avoiding the glances he was sure were directed at him. He slipped into the seat Jeanne directed him to at the end of the long table set with silver and crystal and white plates you see in the best hotel dining rooms. It was more formal than Marty’s banquet, and mercifully without the lurid tartan decoration or any other kitsch theme. Opposite was a grinning Hine, next to her the waiter, whose eyes were fixed stage right on Hine.

‘You okay, uncle?’

‘Fine,’ he said, looking around the table. The writer, the doctors, one the writer’s wife, the other the loud German. That skeleton of an architect, he recalled. The professor in his tweeds. ‘You know many of these folk?’

Oliver was looking at him. ‘You were first on the scene of the accident,’ he said.

Dan acknowledged he was, as the maid wheeled out a trolley with steaming plates. He shuddered at the fishy smell.

Jeanne took the end seat next to Dan. ‘If shellfish upsets you,’ she said quietly, ‘I can bring you something else. There are French rolls, butter.’

He said a roll was fine.

‘If I may,’ Jeanne addressed the table. ‘This is toheroa soup. Out of a can, I’m afraid. It’s the only way we can get it these days.’

‘One of the world’s top ten gourmet experiences,’ the chap with the Garfunkel head of frizzy hair piped up, English lecturer, Dan thought. ‘So says the Observer.’

‘One other thing,’ Jeanne said. ‘No politics at the table. I’m sure you men can restrain yourselves until the brandy and cigars.’

‘Mais bien sur,’ the writer piped up.

‘Vous êtes trop gentil, Barry.’

‘Darling,’ Alan called from the other end of the table. ‘Not all our guests understand la belle Francaise.’

‘Yes, yes,’ she said, waving her hand at him and turning to Dan. ‘Your friend Robert tells me you have a vineyard in Auckland. What kind of wines do you make?’

Dan told her they were in the process of switching from the old gumboot wines of the early years and were producing a passable cabernet sauvignon.

‘Really?’ she said. ‘I would love to try that.’

‘I’ll send you a case when I get back.’

‘You’re too kind, Daniel.’ She placed her hand on his arm.

‘Mother,’ Oliver warned. ‘You behave.’

She made a dismissive gesture and tested her soup. She nodded at the waitress, who started offering white wine.

‘A chablis,’ she informed Daniel.

‘Ideal,’ he said, biting into a roll.

‘Hinemoa,’ Jeanne said. ‘You act, I understand?’

‘First time. Mr Campion seemed to think I could do the part.’

‘I’m sure Dicky knows what he’s doing.’

Dan tried to ignore the way the German doctor was noisily slurping soup. At the other end of the table Cyril Potts was leaning across a small woman with a nut-brown face and a grey bowl of hair, presumably his wife, as Rob expounded. Alan Bolton was also listening. The plotting was underway, quite likely breaking Jeanne Bolton’s lunch table edict against discussing politics. It was hard to tell, the German was talking and spraying soup, the writer was engaging the academic, tweed jacket and the haunted man were intensely conferring, Marty was chortling about something, Melzi was waving her arms about. Dan wished he was up the other end, hearing the debate on whatever the protest plan was. He’d have to settle for Rob being prepared to confide in him. Then he would get off the fence, and perhaps betray his friends for the sake of his family if violent confrontation was agreed. Looking at this genteel gathering, violence seemed as remote as the long-awaited Red Cross parcels when he and Ru and the other prisoners were surviving on rotten potato soup. The whiff of shellfish soup caused a rising of acid in his stomach.

‘I hope you can manage some of our main course,’ Jeanne said. ‘We are serving pot roast chicken with herbs from my garden, croquette potatoes, petit pois.’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Your Bordeaux-style wine would be welcome. For now we will make do with a nice little Margaux.’

‘Mother! You are such a snob.’

She shrugged so comprehensively Dan had to look away, lest she think he was perving. ‘Et alors. Whoops, pardon my French. Hinemoa, I am forgetting my manners. How is your father?’

‘In a coma.’

‘I’m sorry. And do you like our flat?’

Hine blushed. ‘It is very nice, thank you.’

‘What do you think of my son’s other flatmates?’

‘I have not seen much of them.’

‘Only my son, then?’

‘Yes. Mostly, I guess.’

‘He’s always been the sensitive twin, you know. He used to bring home kittens as a child. He seems to have the Good Samaritan disposition, succouring strays. That funny little student with his musique concrete, those two credulous religious types.’

‘You include me?’

‘I couldn’t say, chérie. I have only just met you.’

Voices were raised at the other end of the table. Charles stood abruptly and left, his father following him, saying something about now not the time. Jeanne gave an exasperated sigh and asked Dan to excuse her, as she followed her husband and other son.

‘Charlie’s joining up to serve in Vietnam,’ Oliver sneered. ‘Wrong place, wrong time to announce it, wouldn’t you say?’

The table had fallen silent. Oliver’s comment came through loud and clear.

‘Happy families, eh?’ Oliver added.

Dan noticed Hine frown. Oliver must have picked up on this. He leaned close to her and apologized, said he should not have said that. All Dan could think of was the monocle as a periscope, reason enough to resign in favour of a young man’s notion of a real job, perhaps not thinking it involved killing peasants.

‘Some only stand and serve,’ the writer said with a smirk.

‘Vat’s that supposed to mean?’ the German doctor demanded.

Dan leaned towards the woman doctor and asked her if she had heard any more about the unfortunate demise of the young lady at the party the other night.

‘Why should I?’ she snapped.

‘Ruth,’ her husband chided. ‘Manners maketh the woman too.’

‘Yes, yes,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry. This wretched Vietnam business seems to be affecting everybody badly.’

‘Even Kiwi Keith,’ Rob said. ‘He was none too happy when we asked him about it this morning.’

‘Do tell,’ Melzi shrilled. ‘You spoke to the prime minister. What did he say? Was he friendly?’

‘Huh,’ Marty snorted. ‘Keith is everybody’s friend, if you believe pigs fly.’

‘No need for that remark,’ Melzi objected.

The maid rescued matters by doing the rounds, topping up glasses. Dan drained his, ignoring the old adage about mixing grain and grape.

Jeanne returned, telling the maid to bring in the main course and the reds.

‘Hinemoa,’ she said, sitting. ‘Do you enjoy acting with professionals? It must be a new experience for you.’

‘It will be,’ she agreed. ‘When we start rehearsals. I’m learning lines at present. Oliver has been very helpful hearing them and playing Hamlet.’

‘I am in this case happy for you both,’ Jeanne said, her tone of voice belying her words. ‘Ah, Milly, good. We need a carver to replace my husband.’

Rob said he would be happy to do the honours.

The food was superb, the wine disappeared and was refilled in quick time, the conversation settled down to small group chatter. Oliver talked to the Shakespeare scholar Dan learned was Wallace McKenzie, the level of exchange becoming more animated as professor and student bonded over the bard. The level of fractured German English increased, incomprehensible to Dan. He was trying to hear what Jeanne was quizzing Hine about, it did not sound friendly.

The plates were cleared and a delicious dessert of burned custard and pears poached in alcohol was accompanied by a sweet and very strong dessert wine. Dan had got his appetite back with the main course and devoured the pears and custard. Platters of smelly and runny cheeses were placed at either end of the table, bowls of oily whole figs and sugared cubes of ginger. Milly wheeled in coffee and poured in to small off-white cups with saucers. A plate of little round biscuits also appeared. Dan tried one. Melt-in-your mouth mix of butter and vanilla and eggs and sugar. He complimented Jeanne.

‘Madeleines,’ she said. ‘We aim to please.’

She asked him if he made dessert wines. He said they were trying to get away from the prevailing Kiwi tradition of sweet and fortified. She thought that commendable. She stood, tapped a teaspoon against her coffee cup.

‘The men may now repair to the study. I am sure Alan will join you shortly.’

Hine looked alarmed to be left with Jeanne and Melzi. Dr Ruth ignored the female embargo and followed the men out of the room.

Cyril took over the distribution of cognac and cigars, Dan declining both. The writer Barry took the best green leather easy chair, flanked by the academic and his doctor wife, Prof Mc perused the books, with Oliver pointing out those of interest. The male and female doctors started arguing until Cyril said he would ask Rob to report on the Holyoake visit.

Rob repeated the gist of their visit and said the time for action was here. He still hoped Ru Patterson would be able to make an appearance at the protest, but he would probably need somebody else to read his speech. The professor and the writer put their hands up. Cyril said that could be decided later. What was important now was that they proceed with Ru’s plan. Rob looked pleased. He looked around the study at this group of middle-aged men and a woman, some puffing cigars. He said they all knew about the assembly outside Parliament.

Dan did not see them representing any sort of protest threat to the government. He would tell Milton just that. He could do what he liked about rounding up or letting be these mild pillars of the leftwing establishment. They were Ru’s fellow travellers. Their journey was one towards innocuous democratic protest. If anything it seemed to him a damp squib, unlikely to sway the public to reject America and go it alone. He was disappointed. At least Milton could relax. These folk were no more threat to the public and the government than those kittens the young Oliver brought home.