mud-flats of the Estuary where the Avon and Heathcote joined to go out to sea, then back to Cashmere where the Bothwells had a savory supper ready for them.
They were just finishing their coffee when Mr. Bothwell said: “Mind if I switch on the late news? There’s been a by-election in which I’m interested.”
Kirsty was only half listening. It took a while to become interested in the news of a strange place. It was the usual thing ... reports of accidents, stolen cars, overseas headlines, some night-trotting results, then, suddenly: “In Sydney today, a bridegroom was left at the altar. His bride, robed by her attendants except for her veil, made an exit through an upstairs window, to a roof below, leaving the gown tossed on the floor, and a note containing only a brief excuse for her flight. Inquiries are being made in the vicinity of King’s Cross where, later, her car was found abandoned.”
“My stars!” said Gregory Bothwell. “That chap will probably stay a bachelor for the rest of his life. How could a girl do that to a man?”
Mrs. Bothwell said more carefully, “There’s something behind it. Must be. No girl would do that without a very strong reason.”
Kirsty felt a warm rush of gratitude go over her. She said cautiously, “Yes, we read it in the Sydney papers coming over. She must have had some good reason, surely.”
Greg Bothwell shook his head. “I don’t know. Some women—in fact most—are quite unpredictable. Bet that girl regrets it, and tries to make it up later.”
His wife said, mock coldly, “Jolly good thing for you, Gregory Bothwell, that you said some women!”
Simon MacNeill was laughing. “I should think so! Twenty years or so with a pearl of a wife, Greg, and you have the nerve to make a remark like that!”
He grinned unrepentantly. “Well, she’d know it didn’t apply to her ... I didn’t have any fears about Molly ditching me. She turned up good and early to make quite sure I was there, believe me!”
“Greg, you wretch! Simon, he begged me not to keep him waiting, said he’d be like a jelly-fish, the coward. I’d have loved to have been traditionally late.. I must have been besotted with him.”
The smile that the two Bothwells exchanged was all of good comradeship. Till that moment Kirsty had been a stranger to envy. Now a definite pang tore through her. How wonderful to be so sure of each other, to have all the turmoil of youth behind you, to have lovely, close-knit years to remember. She closed her eyes against the impact of feeling.
Molly Bothwell said, “Simon, Mrs. Brown is looking tired. No wonder, what a long day she’s had. I suppose you’d be up early packing, dear. You must get her home, though why you had to book in at a guest-house I don’t know. We’d have loved to have had you both. Oh bother, I can’t go on calling you Mrs. Brown. You don’t look much older than my daughter. What’s your name?”
“Kirsty ... and thanks very much.”
“Kirsty! What a lovely old name. What’s it short for?”
“Kirsten,” she said firmly. She wanted no one asking was it short for Christine. “My mother was Scandinavian, mid so was my father. At least he was of Scandinavian descent.”
“Oh, how interesting. I was a Jenson before I married. What was your single name?”
“Oh, it was my father’s mother who was the Norwegian. She was an Olsen.”
“And what was your father’s name?”
“Macph—” Kirsty stumbled, horrified to think she’d nearly said Macpherson, coughed, thought madly, kept coughing and finally came up with “MacFie.” Oh, how many pitfalls yawned in front of her. She’d have to watch every idle word. Aunt Mandy would have said, “Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.”
She stood up. “I believe I’m tired. Do you mind, Mr. MacNeill?”
Gregory Bothwell blinked. “Are you still on formal terms? I always thought Australians were even more casual than we are.”
Simon MacNeill
They were just finishing their coffee when Mr. Bothwell said: “Mind if I switch on the late news? There’s been a by-election in which I’m interested.”
Kirsty was only half listening. It took a while to become interested in the news of a strange place. It was the usual thing ... reports of accidents, stolen cars, overseas headlines, some night-trotting results, then, suddenly: “In Sydney today, a bridegroom was left at the altar. His bride, robed by her attendants except for her veil, made an exit through an upstairs window, to a roof below, leaving the gown tossed on the floor, and a note containing only a brief excuse for her flight. Inquiries are being made in the vicinity of King’s Cross where, later, her car was found abandoned.”
“My stars!” said Gregory Bothwell. “That chap will probably stay a bachelor for the rest of his life. How could a girl do that to a man?”
Mrs. Bothwell said more carefully, “There’s something behind it. Must be. No girl would do that without a very strong reason.”
Kirsty felt a warm rush of gratitude go over her. She said cautiously, “Yes, we read it in the Sydney papers coming over. She must have had some good reason, surely.”
Greg Bothwell shook his head. “I don’t know. Some women—in fact most—are quite unpredictable. Bet that girl regrets it, and tries to make it up later.”
His wife said, mock coldly, “Jolly good thing for you, Gregory Bothwell, that you said some women!”
Simon MacNeill was laughing. “I should think so! Twenty years or so with a pearl of a wife, Greg, and you have the nerve to make a remark like that!”
He grinned unrepentantly. “Well, she’d know it didn’t apply to her ... I didn’t have any fears about Molly ditching me. She turned up good and early to make quite sure I was there, believe me!”
“Greg, you wretch! Simon, he begged me not to keep him waiting, said he’d be like a jelly-fish, the coward. I’d have loved to have been traditionally late.. I must have been besotted with him.”
The smile that the two Bothwells exchanged was all of good comradeship. Till that moment Kirsty had been a stranger to envy. Now a definite pang tore through her. How wonderful to be so sure of each other, to have all the turmoil of youth behind you, to have lovely, close-knit years to remember. She closed her eyes against the impact of feeling.
Molly Bothwell said, “Simon, Mrs. Brown is looking tired. No wonder, what a long day she’s had. I suppose you’d be up early packing, dear. You must get her home, though why you had to book in at a guest-house I don’t know. We’d have loved to have had you both. Oh bother, I can’t go on calling you Mrs. Brown. You don’t look much older than my daughter. What’s your name?”
“Kirsty ... and thanks very much.”
“Kirsty! What a lovely old name. What’s it short for?”
“Kirsten,” she said firmly. She wanted no one asking was it short for Christine. “My mother was Scandinavian, mid so was my father. At least he was of Scandinavian descent.”
“Oh, how interesting. I was a Jenson before I married. What was your single name?”
“Oh, it was my father’s mother who was the Norwegian. She was an Olsen.”
“And what was your father’s name?”
“Macph—” Kirsty stumbled, horrified to think she’d nearly said Macpherson, coughed, thought madly, kept coughing and finally came up with “MacFie.” Oh, how many pitfalls yawned in front of her. She’d have to watch every idle word. Aunt Mandy would have said, “Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.”
She stood up. “I believe I’m tired. Do you mind, Mr. MacNeill?”
Gregory Bothwell blinked. “Are you still on formal terms? I always thought Australians were even more casual than we are.”
Simon MacNeill
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