Forever Bountiful

By Amber Jo Illsley

The very learned, intuitive and crafty Dr Ulan Kavoski and his dodgy friends Grannie O’Shaunessy and Jock McFadden continue their humorous story in this second book set in the beginning of the new millennium. They are three very unlikely friends and as part of their modus operandi with others, that interaction is either for good, or more likely for bad...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press AU
• Release date: May 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9781982296988

Amber Jo Illsley

Award-winning poet Amber Jo lllsley was born in New Zealand's northern South lsland, and now lives in lnvercargill, New Zealand's southernmost city. This is her 4th collection of her poetry, but first specifically about cats.

Book preview

One

61006.png

"W ILL YOU LOOK AT THAT!" SAID A FROWSY WOMAN to her only slightly better -dressed friend as they passed by an imposing man who was striding down the street. The women stopped and turned to ogle the man.

Jeepers creepers, he can stick ‘is boots under me bed anytime he wants, the second woman said, coughing as she did so. By a miracle, her dangling cigarette still dangled, stuck to her bottom lip.

I saw ‘im first, said the first woman, who was dressed in an ugly dark purple woollen dress, which did nothing for her complexion. And nor did the Dame Edna Everidge diamante-encrusted spectacles she wore.

We saw ‘im tergether, the second frowsy woman said, coughing again. This time her cigarette came unstuck, dropping onto the footpath. Bugger. She picked it up, gave it a bit of a dust-off and stuck it back in her mouth.

The big man heard them and carried on. Cheese and rice, not much of a recommendation for me, he thought, having glanced at them on his way past. A shame, as he did so love the colour purple and other similar colours, but not what he just saw. He gave a small shrug, intent on dismissing the women from his thoughts and continued walking.

With a tiny, almost secretive smile the big Aussie with a handsome face, curly dark hair and almost black-brown eyes and a distinctly Russian name continued purposefully down the main street of the small West Coast, New Zealand town of Huberton. He glanced back to see that the two rough-looking women were still staring after him, one of them coughing every so often. In a pig’s ear he’d be sticking his boots under either of their beds. If they thought that, they had another thought or even a hundred of them coming. And none of them would be any good as far as he was concerned.

He glanced around him and up at the sky, having almost forgotten the women - which was his intent, and smiling as he took in the fluffy clouds and a few towering macrocarpa trees just beyond the outskirts of the township, and sniffed the rain-washed air. It had rained earlier in the day and from the look of the clouds, rain threatened again.

But not for a few hours at least, he mused. In the meantime the air was delicious. He took another deep sniff, filling his lungs and smiling again as he did so. Seagulls flew overhead, some of them peacefully riding on the air currents. The doctor noted that the gulls were moving inland, a sign that heavy rain was due.

It was the new Millennium, and who knew what interesting things it would bring? Certainly not computers crashing and the world going mad, that’s for sure. The doctor already knew it had gone mad. After all the to-do; the fireworks and ferris wheels and huge monuments built around the world to commemorate the new millennium, the New Year had just continued on without too much fuss or bother, despite what the naysayers had been predicting.

En route down the main street, Dr Kavoski met a good-looking woman. She appealed to him enormously. Intent on going about her business she didn’t appear to notice him until she almost walked into him and then she apologised profusely.

Oh I’m so sorry! My mind was elsewhere and I didn’t see you.

Hello, hello, hello M’am. I’m Doctor Ulan Kovoski. What’s your name? he asked in a lowered voice, smiling at her as he was asking.

Horniman... she began in a throaty voice.

The doctor interrupted her. Yes M’am, thank you for your compliment. I have had that said to me before, as you might appreciate.

No, no, I mean Horniman...

Yes yes, I know I am. But are you making an offer I can’t refuse?

She took a step back. "Dr Kiosko, or whatever your name is – my name is Jane Horniman."

Your father must have been a horny man, the doctor said with a snort.

Well, of course he was! That was his family name.

It kept the family name going, no doubt, the doctor replied. He doffed an imaginary hat. Good day to you, M’am.

The woman muttered something about it being a good day and marched on, the doctor watching her as she walked away. It gets them every time, he thought. What he’d said appeared to have gone right over her head.

65725.png

Strolling in to the Labour Party office in a nonchalant manner, he closed the door quietly behind him. The doorbell gave a quiet ping: when he’d opened it again and when he’d shut it again, to get the attention of whoever was in the building. He thought it must become so tedious, hearing that all day. Rather like buttons flying off the too-tight shirt of an overweight man. Ping’s the thing, he thought. They should start off a weight watchers company with that as its slogan, showing buttons pinging off shirts and blouses.

Great for the button industry.

He gave a loud ‘ahem!’ when the very pretty receptionist, not appearing to have heard the doorbell, stayed focused on her computer screen. She suddenly spun around in fright when the big Aussie cast a shadow over her desk.

Oh, I am so sorry! I was so engrossed in our party policies that I didn’t notice you come in.

She flushed a becoming rosy shade and the big man lowered one dark eyebrow and in his rich deep voice said: my dear young lady - am I so unnoticeable?

The receptionist flushed even deeper and began to stammer. Oh – er - I don’t really know how to answer that.

I’m told it’s very easy, he said with a smile. A simple yes or no would do.

The receptionist smiled too, having recovered a little from the force of the big man with his naturally very dark curly hair that many women would give their eye-teeth for and his dark, probing eyes which were as dark as his hair – darker even, and held out her hand, rising from her desk at the same time.

Shall we start again? I am Molly O’Shea, receptionist and PR officer to our local MP, Peter Swann.

The doctor took her delicate hand in his, studied it for a moment, his thumb held lightly over her pulse and yes, it was racing. Well then, Miss Molly O’Shea, indeed it is a pleasure to meet you. He lingered over her hand for a few seconds longer than was polite, and she tugged at it. That action made the doctor hold it even tighter, but not too tight. She was a lovely, delicate-looking young lady, after all, and he had no wish to relinquish her hand too soon.

My name is Dr Ulan Kavoski, he boomed, and smiled when he saw her wince slightly. I had heard there was a new receptionist in our good MP’s office, and I thought it would be appropriate for me to call in and make myself known.

That was very nice of you, Dr Kavoski. Are you a medical doctor?

This time the doctor relinquished her hand, but not before he’d noticed that she wore only a small gold ring with an oval greenstone embellishing it, and that was on her right hand. Maybe he’d squeezed her hand too hard and the ring bit into her fingers. At least she was smiling still.

Interesting, he thought. I may have to pursue this lovely young maiden. He loved thinking in archaic terms. It seemed far more romantic to him. Not that he would have necessarily thought of himself a romantic man, but there you go. Even he would admit to having a quirk or two.

No indeed, I am not a medical doctor. I have a doctorate in literature and I have taught literature in a couple of universities, mainly in the one in Sydney. But we don’t want that information to get out, do we? He tapped the side of his nose. You never know just who could use that information to their own advantage.

Molly smiled wider, and gazed up at the big man with the accent. It sounded distinctly Aussie, but he had such a Russian-sounding name. Perhaps his parents were Russian?

The doctor, seeing the expressions flitting over her face was fully aware of what she was thinking. After all, he was an extremely intuitive man and besides, he’d had experiences of these reactions to his name in an almost identical way, time and time again.

Well Dr Kavoski, I really must get back to work, unless there is something specific I can do for you?

The doctor lowered one eyebrow and gave a wink. Tut tut, Miss Molly O’Shea, and what a lovely Irish name you have, but I am a man of principle; a good Christian man, and I do not go around looking to seduce young ladies, no matter how attractive they are. He knew this wasn’t strictly true, but young Molly didn’t know that.

"Oh - er, I - er, didn’t mean what I think you mean, Dr Kavoski!" Her earlier flush, having receded, was now back again; this time rosier than ever.

What did you think I meant?

I’m sure I don’t really know, she said primly and looked pointedly back at her computer screen, annoyed at herself for stuttering and stammering. That wasn’t like her at all.

He took the hint, not minding as he’d had his bit of fun for the day.

Young lady, I must not hold you up any longer as I can see you’re very busy. Thank you for your time.

He doffed an imaginary hat and was about to leave when she said: Oh Dr Kavoski! Would you like one of our brochures? It will bring you up to date on what our MP has planned for the area.

Thank you my good lady. I’ll enjoy having a read about what our local politician would like to spend our tax dollars on. He took the brochure and noted on the inside of the office door the colourful ad for scenic train trips. As he opened the door to leave, he turned back to Molly and added, I didn’t get a brochure last time, but I am listed on your database still, I believe. Perhaps you could check it out after I leave?

He gave a smile and a small wave and strode briskly out the door, his long deep-charcoal grey fine woollen coat flapping in the light breeze, and displaying a lovely rich burgundy, embossed satin lining. He glanced back through the glass door and saw that Molly was still standing there, looking at him. He noted her admiring look and hoped it all wasn’t all due to his sumptuous, classy coat that he’d deliberately worn for this little visit, even though the weather was perfectly reasonable. Fairly cool that day sure, after the rain earlier, but not cool enough to be wearing a coat; especially one as classy as the one he was wearing.

But the doctor had a reason for everything he did. He’d heard through the local grapevine that there was a very pretty young lady who had recently started work at the MP Peter Swann’s office, and he, the good doctor had every intention of impressing her. One never knew what could transpire following his visit with her. At the very least, she would remember him and remember his name when he came a-calling on her again sometime in the near future.

He strode down the footpath, en route to his home and espied an attractive young dark-haired woman coming from the opposite direction. She wore jeans and a loose, knitted top in an off-white shade, which suited her colouring. She walked slowly while texting on her mobile. The doctor looked up towards the sky as soon as he was close enough to her and said a lovely day for a really big nasty fight.

Eh? The young woman – very pretty she was too, the doctor noted, even prettier than he had first thought. She looked at him in alarm. "What did you say? Who’s going to be in a really big nasty fight?"

My dear young lady, I have no idea of what you mean. You must have misheard me. I said, a lovely day for a really big lasting flight. Not too hot and not too cold – just perfect in fact. It would be so nice to go flying today, don’t you think?

Well, I wouldn’t know! she snapped. The doctor suddenly decided that she was not so pretty after all. I haven’t got wings!

Oh dear, and here was I, thinking how angelic you were looking!

The young woman got his drift immediately.

If you think a bit of flattery is going to win me over, then you’d better think again! She started to move away but stopped when the doctor made another comment.

Dear oh dear, I have already thought twice about it and I can see that I will need to adjust my thinking. Perhaps put on my thinking cap, even.

You’d better bloody believe it! she snapped again. What are you? Some kind of weirdo?

That is a very nasty thing to say, young lady. All I did was make a friendly comment about it being a lovely day for a really big, lasting flight. He gave her a suitably mournful look, staged just right so he appeared to be really sad, but not so sad that he was about to burst into tears.

Her face softened. Oh yes, so you did. Sorry about that. I thought you’d said something else. Well, I’d better get on. She gave him a wan smile and carried on up the footpath, back to her texting again. The doctor was pretty sure that he would be included in her message to whomever she was texting.

He walked on, smiling. That was three women whom he had thrown into a tizzy, and in such a short space of time, too! He gazed up at the sky and just then a cloud moved away and the sun came out fully and warmed his face. It was a perfect West Coast day and he revelled in it, and revelled even more than usual as he’d had his little bit of fun for the day. The day was perfect; one might also say ‘angelic’, if one’s name was Dr Kavoski. The West Coast was reknown for heavy rainfalls, but today was just lovely, albeit slightly cool; with the air pure and so rain-washed, and everything around him having that freshened-up look. He hoped the breeze would change direction, to allay the threat of more heavy rain.

He stopped for a moment when he reached his flat, to admire the way his pumpkin patch was flourishing. It was on the side adjacent to his neighbour Mavis’ flat, and he thought briefly that he might even give her a pumpkin when they had fully ripened, which was not too far away now. He felt he was being watched, but didn’t pay the feeling any real heed as he figured it was probably Mavis. He inspected his pumpkins with pleasure; they were lovely and firm with such a beautiful orange skin. He gave them a little turn regularly to ensure that there were no whitish patches where they’d been sitting, to mar the overall effect. His very own Halloween patch, to be sure! He turned them all again now, and stood up with deep satisfaction.

His mother had been right. She’d told him when he was a boy that if he didn’t grow anything else, grow pumpkins, because not only did they cover some raggedy patches in the corner or at the back of a yard, they produced pretty flowers and marvellous big leaves, and were even prettier when the pumpkins began to form. They weren’t quite so nice of course, when the leaves fell off, but that was just nature doing its job. After all, the sun needed to get to the pumpkins; but while they were still very young and tender, the big leaves protected them until they had grown bigger and more robust.

The doctor well remembered his mother telling him all about them when he was just a very young boy, and the lesson had stuck. A few years later he’d enjoyed the wine that could be made from them too, only to go off the wine in a big way when he, as a teenager and his friends of the same age had got horribly drunk on the potent drink. He had a vivid memory of the astoundingly bad headache he had the next day, plus the recriminations from his mother. He’d been drunk with his friends before, but never had he had a headache such as the one following the pumpkin wine episode. He’d decided that from then onwards, pumpkins were far better served in smallish chunks, roasted and with other vegetables, plus gravy and a tender leg of lamb or rolled beef to go with them.

Particularly if all was cooked by someone else, and cooked just right.

But the resulting vile headaches from the wine didn’t put him off the pumpkins themselves: he still admired them. It wasn’t only pumpkins he liked; he also liked flowers, especially pansies with their whimsical little faces in various shades of deep burgundy, violet, orange, yellow and white. He even liked the dear little Heart’s Ease, the small wild pansy that his mother had told him was a hardy little plant and very sweet and pretty, but was also used as a medicine, in short, to heal the grieving heart. The doctor liked that. Just for a few minutes he remembered a woman he’d once known, and she’d broken his heart when she left. ‘You’re far too clever and eccentric for me,’ she’d told him. He’d tried his clever voices on her once too often and as a result, she’d left, saying that she never really knew who he was at any given point in time.

She’d sent him a Christmas card the following year, which had pleased him, but not after he’d read it. The front cover was quite sweet: a jolly, fat and happy Santa carrying a bag full of cheap-looking plastic toys, some of which had fallen out and had broken. ‘Merry Christmas to You!’ the message on the front had exclaimed. Smiling, the doctor had opened the card and the message inside had stated very clearly, with more toys having fallen out of the Christmas bag and broken: ‘Here comes Fatty with his bag full of crap!’

Well, the doctor knew he was a wee bit overweight at the time, but that was just mean. The young woman, whose name he’d forgotten, had written: ‘I thought this would appeal to your weird sense of humour! Plus, he reminds me of YOU, for some strange reason. Happy Ho Ho Ho Christmas!’

In retaliation the doctor had thought he’d show her just how weird his sense of humour was. ‘I’ll give her bloody ho ho ho, and see how she likes it!’ he’d muttered savagely. He’d remembered that the woman, young as she was, she was still older than him, so he sent her a card with a figure of a typified cartoon grannie on the front. This grannie had white hair done up in an old fashioned bun, a wrinkled face with a hooked nose and a prominent chin with a wart on it; little half-glasses, clumpy, buckled shoes from a long-ago era and a tent-shaped floral dress. The odd thing about the floral dress was that it was far shorter than what one would normally expect with such a grannie. In two places at the front hemline could be seen what appeared to be roundy bits of lace with extra bits of decorative lace at the end of each section, from a slip hanging down. The caption read: ‘Grannie thought she wasn’t too old at ninety-six to wear a mini-dress.’

At first one wondered what the joke was, until one had a closer look at the ‘lace’ peeping out from the bottom of the mini-dress.

Grannie wasn’t wearing a bra.

On the inside of the card the message read: ‘Don’t matter if you’re ninety-plus or a hundred! Live a little, burn your bra, wear a mini dress and show what you’ve got at your hemline! Be entertaining at Christmas! Have a good one!’ The doctor saw that there was just a wee bit of space left to add a message of his own: ‘always check to see your er…hahaha, oh, sorry, ho ho ho ’slip’ isn’t showing when YOU wear a short dress. And a very Merry ho ho ha ha Christmas to you too!’

He never heard from her again.

But that was a long time ago back in Australia and in the ensuing years he’d known many a woman who thought him clever, and stayed only to ease his hurt – as he’d told them each time. ‘You have hurt me deeply,’ he would say to each one, and look suitably mournful as if he was struggling to hold back tears. Which was all a load of nonsense, really. He was quite happy when they moved on to other pastures. Sometimes it was all the doctor could do not to dust his hands off, give a resounding ‘Ahhhh!’ of relief and then a wipe of his brow and say ‘whew!’ when a particular woman had left, her high heels clacking loudly against the concrete path.

I couldn’t stand the bloody noise of her shoes, he said aloud just now. And nor the look of her nose - often lifting it up at me as if I were dirt beneath her clacking bloody shoes. He was normally not one to swear, but sometimes he felt that a bit of ‘abnormality’ never hurt anyone.

He remembered one of those toffee-nosed girlfriends looking at him haughtily and he’d taken great delight in telling her that she had ’a bogey up her nose’. She’d stormed off, the doctor calling after her that she should be thankful that it wasn’t actually a bogeyman up her nose. She almost had room for one, he’d added, loud enough for her to hear, even knowing that her nose was quite slim and aristocratic. He remembered saying under his breath at the time that she would be bound to draw comments from all and sundry who saw her, had that been the case. He’d wished she hadn’t walked away so quickly, as he would have added that comment to his previous one. Never mind, it had been amusing at the time and he was glad to get his own back on the woman, who was English to the tip of her pointy-toed high-heels that looked as if they had cost a fortune and clacked on the concrete every bit as noisily as if they had been fifty or a hundred bucks or so dearer than the others’ shoes. They probably had been. She was a woman for buying only the best brands of shoes. Maybe it was a case of the louder they clacked on the concrete, the more expensive they were. Or maybe it was the other way around.

He’d thought at the time that surely there could have been a better way in life to make a statement of one’s importance.

He was glad he was a male and that society didn’t expect him to wear a bloody clacking pair of high heels - so dangerous. Catch the heel of one of your shoes against the side of a kerb or stone and over you go, spraining, or worse, breaking an ankle. He imagined the barely suppressd mirth of medics if he’d fallen over onto the kerb, while still wearing high heels, and maybe with his legs unshaved, and him uttering uncouth words in a deep, male voice.

Actually, it didn’t bear thinking about, so he made an effort to dismiss his silly musings from his mind.

Another of his short term girlfriends had sent him a birthday card; just the once. The card depicted an obese woman, laying in bed and dressed in a too-tight lacy black and red teddy, showing off her rolls of fat, and with fishnet stockinged, very plump legs peeping out from under the blankets which were half off the bed. The woman was depicted chatting on the phone with a girlfriend. The caption read: ‘I can’t think where Harry’s got to, Gloria. He was supposed to bring me my breakfast over an hour ago!’

Meanwhile, poor Harry is just visible underneath the obese woman, his hands splayed out and his face puce; eyes bulging as he stares out of the card. In one hand he’s clutching some dear little Heart’s Ease, and presumably in the other hand is the squashed remains of breakfast.

The doctor’s girlfriend had added a comment: ‘does this fatso remind you of anyone? Happy birthday, BIG BOY.’ Her meaning was clear.

But given that the girlfriend, by name of Sadie Smythe, was a very robust looking woman, the doctor, incensed by her remark, had no hesitation in sending a thank you card back to her. The card portrayed a bunch of - would you believe - Heart’s Ease, adorned by a pretty lilac ribbon. The inside of the card was blank, apart from the doctor’s heavily scrawled words: ‘Yes, the obese woman reminds me of YOU. No idea who the man is. One of your latest boyfriends, perhaps? I imagine he feels crushed by your treatment of him!’

He never heard from her again, either.

And so, he had pleasant, amusing memories of the little Heart’s Ease.

65719.png

Just after he’d entered his house and hung up his house key, there was a knock at the door. The doctor turned and opened the door just a little. Yesss-ss? he said in his deep voice, adding a little further mystery to it with his sybillic ‘yes’.

His neighbour Mavis was looking up at him. Have you seen my Big Boy? she asked worriedly. She looked as sturdy as ever; salt of the earth she was, and with more than a passing interest in the big handsome Aussie.

Hello Mavis, do come in. I’ve only just got home as you may have noticed. He quirked an eyebrow at her and she blushed a little. Just as he’d thought. She’d been checking to see when he arrived home. He realised that she had probably been watching him when he was messing round with his pumpkins, and still standing there while thinking about his dear old mum - gone many a year, and thinking too about his past girlfriends. He was pretty sure that he was being watched: it was good to know that his strong intuition wasn’t letting him down. "Now Mavis, in answer to your question, yes indeed I have seen your Big Boy, that is, if you are referring to your cat; but not today. If you are referring to a big boy – human-wise, then no, I haven’t seen him. My goodness me Mavis, you’re a dark horse! You didn’t tell me that you have a big man of your own. I do hope he’s a good person to you, otherwise he may have me to deal with!"

No, Mavis huffed as she came inside and gave a quick glance around his living area. I haven’t got a big man of my own, but if you’re offering...?

The doctor was a little taken aback as it was not like Mavis to be so bold, and he said so.

You are a very bold woman, Mavis! I am a very religious man after all, and I must not be seen to be fraternising with young ladies.

The ‘young ladies’ comment hit the mark as the doctor knew it would. It worked every time. Mavis blushed, quite prettily too, he thought. He always did have an eye for a blushing woman; blushing made even the plainest of women take on a certain type of beauty.

Well anyway, I can see my cat isn’t here, Ulan, she said, still looking around.

Of course not. I would have told you if he was asleep in here. The doctor went to his bedroom to toss his lovely coat onto his bed and as he did so, Big Boy leaped up into the air and meowed very loudly.

"Strewth! Cheese and rice! How did he get in here?"

Mavis rushed into the doctor’s bedroom and cooed over her fat cat who by now, had settled down on the doctor’s coat and was happily kneading it, to the doctor’s disgust.

Shoo, shoo! he said, but the cat just glared at him, annoyed that he, the doctor should have had the audacity to try to shoo him off his coat, and off his bed. Mavis flung herself down next to her big fat cat, and dreamily stroked him and then began to stroke the lovely burgundy embossed satin lining of the doctor’s coat.

To the doctor’s astonishment, both cat and sturdy woman appeared to have made themselves at home on his bed, and almost seemed to have forgotten him, and where they were.

If I didn’t know better Mavis, I would have suspected that this was a deliberate ploy to get into my bedroom. I can’t think how your cat got in here. He glanced at his window when the curtains lifted a little from a slight breeze. Oh yes, that’s right. I meant to close my window before I went out. Now Mavis, if you don’t mind, I would like to have a little lie-down. He lowered his voice and his right eyebrow and suddenly Mavis was aware of how she must look, sprawled on the doctor’s bed, fingering the rich satin of his sumptuous coat.

What a hussy she must look! She got to her feet and smoothed down her rather tweedy skirt, and ran her hands over her hair.

I must look a sight, she said lamely, blushing again.

Yes, quite a sight, young lady. What would the other neighbours think, if they saw you and your cat lying on my bed, as if you’d been there all afternoon?

They would probably be jealous! she said pertly. Come on, Big Boy, she added.

Now Mavis, did you mean me or your cat?

Take your pick! she said cheekily and left the room quickly before she said anything else foolish. She exited his house quickly and the doctor watched her scurrying down his footpath, Big Boy draped over her shoulder and staring back at him with what seemed to the doctor to be a gleeful air.

He was amused but still wondered if Mavis had deliberately used the situation to get into his bedroom. Oh, the tricks women could play! Lucky for him, he was always one step ahead of them. He thought however, that he just might not be in a hurry to give her one of his treasured pumpkins.

Unless she was going to cook several roast meals for him of course, and then he might, just might allow her one of his treasures.

He knew Mavis had been widowed some years before, but she had not said much on the subject of her deceased husband. Perhaps he’d been a weasel of a man, and if so, it was no wonder Mavis did not want to keep his memory alive by speaking of him. The doctor’s thoughts of Mavis softened a little and he decided that maybe he would give her a pumpkin or two. In return, a few roast meals with pieces of his roast pumpkin plus other roast goodies appealed enormously.

He thought then of Grannie O’Shaunessy, his character of a friend and phoned her. She, after a shaky start to their friendship the year before, preferred to be called Bridget.

‘Only to me friends, loike, Ulan,’ she’d said at the time, and he’d smiled and lowered one eyebrow at the nut-brown, goblin-like woman who lived not far away, and gave her a probing look. He must give her a few more of his probing looks, but not too many, of course, otherwise the seventy-five year old Irishwoman might think that he seriously did fancy her. And fancy her – he did not. But for all that, she amused him highly.

He liked her spiritedness, and even her insults: it helped keep a man on his toes. And of course, if she came onto him as she occasionally did, he could just use his usual excuse: ‘I’m a religious man, Bridget. I can’t be seen to be fraternising with young ladies such as yourself.’

But then would come the usual response: ‘Cut yer flannel, Ulan! You can hardly call a ninety-five year old woman a young lady!’

‘I thought you were about seventy-five. Isn’t that what you told me?’

‘No! Oi said seventy-four, but dat were last year. Now Oi’m a year older.’

‘But Grannie - er, Bridget, you just told me a porkie. You said you were ninety-five just a moment or ago. So what am I to believe?’

‘You kin wash yer ears out, Ulan. I said seventy-five, not ninety-five! You’re full of gobshite!’

Ulan knew what he’d heard, and given that Bridget was halfway through her seventies and had obviously had a very hard life, he’d pondered for a few seconds on the thought that she might be losing her marbles a bit.

Cat got yer tongue? she said over the phone, and the doctor was brought back to the present.

Of course not Bridget, I was merely thinking back to a previous conversation you and I’d had. And now, speaking of cats, my neighbour’s cat Big Boy got through my window and was asleep on my bed when I got home today.

Two big boys on the one bed? What are yer saying, Ulan? Her voice over the phone sounded squeaky with amusement. "Not gay, are yer? You look fancy enough to be one of dem lovely boys."

Certainly not! Just what I’m telling you Bridget. I didn’t know the cat was there on my bed of course, but then my neighbour Mavis came a-knocking just after I arrived home a short while ago, looking for her cat. When I threw my coat on the bed, I gave her Big Boy a fright.

You would give me a fright too, if you threw yer coat over me.

Do I detect a hint of hopefulness in your voice?

If der cap fits, or in this case, da coat...

My dear lady... he felt her bristle at his tone, even over the telephone. I would do my best never to give you a fright, not intentionally, that is.

Oh no? Then what about last year when you gave me sponge cake with shaving cream in it?

The doctor chuckled. That was very naughty of me, wasn’t it?

Yeah it was too, yer big eejit!

I probably deserve a spanking, the doctor commented, not at all offended at being called an eejit.

Aye, dat yer do, Ulan, but knowing you as Oi do, ye’d probably have something down the back of yer pants wid spikes on it, turned outwardly, of course.

What a good idea Grannie - er, Bridget! I’ll have to bear that in mind. I always knew you for a very smart cookie, and you’ve proven it, over and over.

Gobshite, dat’s wot dat is, but Oi don’t mind yer tellin’ me dat from toime ter toime.

The word is time, Bridget. Sometimes he could hardly understand her, with all her dats and dis’s and toimes and oi’lls. She didn’t always pronounce the words that way; so maybe she was slowly becoming a kiwi.

Might not be either, he mused, thinking of her ‘Oill’s.

"Don’t yer think Oi know dat? Dat’s wot I said, toime!"

The doctor paused for a few seconds while his rising mirth subsided. He had a sudden thought, not at all apropos of the silly subject they were on. He was remembering the colourful little poster on the glass door of the Labour Party MP’s office.

I have had a sudden thought, Grannie - er, Bridget...

Get many of those? she said waspishly, not caring if she was butting in.

Now now Grannie...

Me name’s Bridget to me friends, and Grannie to everyone else, like Oi told yer last year.

Yes of course, the doctor replied good-humouredly. Now, this good thought I had, came about after seeing a poster on the Labour MP’s office door. The poster was - and still is, I assume, advertising scenic train trips across to Christchurch and back. Would you fancy a trip across the island?

Er - I dunno. Are yer safe ter be with?

As safe as you want me to be! he laughed. Thinking of her nut-brown wrinkled skin from a natural swarthiness and too many years of too much sun, and her goblin-like face, he knew she was safe as houses from any possible advances from him.

We could ask Jock to come too, if you would like.

Dat Jock, miserable git dat he is. He’d expect us ter pay for him!

Oh that he would, but I do owe him a bit of money anyway. I’ll have to ask him.

Jock McFadden was their mutual friend, a wily Scotsman of middle years. He too, had been in New Zealand for a few years, and was currently consorting with the blushing, still maidenly Miss Eliza Spinks. She, having changed her spinsterish ways a little, still remained at heart a very feminine, maidenly soul. The doctor was sure, as others had, that she’d been born in the wrong century.

You do dat, Ulan. If he sez no, ‘cause he’s got plans with dat too-good-for-him Eliza, den dat’s okay with me. You and Oi can go by ourselves, eh? We kin pretend it’s a long weekend date. She chuckled evilly over the phone. The doctor wasn’t sure if it sounded better or worse, without seeing her in person.

Are you suggesting a dirty weekend, Bridget?

If you’re up to it, Ulan! She chuckled evilly again and the doctor suddenly felt queasy.

You know I am a man of principle Bridget... he began.

Oh shut yer cake-hole, yer bleedin’ eejit! Oi were just teasing yer! Moind you, if opportunity knocked...

You’re a very rude young lady, Bridget! the doctor exclaimed, thinking that any knocking from Bridget would sound like woodworm, amplified. Oh goodness me, he was feeling queasier than ever at the thought of Bridget making a real play for him.

I kin be ruder, if yer want! She chuckled evilly again and the doctor almost wished he’d said nothing about the possibility of a train trip. Anyway, Oi’d better go. So much to do around here, Ulan! But it keeps a girl slim and fit.

That it does Bridget; that it does. If I may say so, you’re a very trim looking lady for your age.

Dat sounds a bit loike a back-handed compliment, but Oi’ll accept it anyway. Gotta go now, turrah!

She hung up with a decisive bang and the doctor stood there, still holding the receiver, and again was amused at Bridget’s ‘Oi’ll’.

Two

61006.png

H E THOUGHT ABOUT WHAT HE MIGHT HAVE FOR HIS EVENING meal - pondered for just a few seconds and then made his decision. Fish and chips, that’s what he would have, and maybe with half a dozen oysters if there were any available. They were seasonal and any that were kept frozen were soon ordered and consequently even the frozen oysters were soon out of stock, and customers had to wait for a few weeks until the season was officially declared open.

The doctor made another decision and, wondering why he was doing so, he rang Bridget and asked if she fancied some fish and chips for tea. Is this a date? she demanded. What about taking me ter dinner somewhere posh?

Now now Bridget, this is just an off-the-cuff invitation to have a quick meal with you, and anyway, my meagre income does not run to lavish dinners.

If it did, would yer take me?

The doctor, who was in a good mood over the day’s events, decided to amuse her. Only if you’ve been a good girl, Bridget! he said.

"Oh Ulan, I kin show yer just wot a good girl I am!" she said girlishly over the phone.

Read ‘good’ for really, really bad, the doctor thought, wishing he hadn’t made that arch remark to her.

He changed the subject slightly. Anyway, I will fetch the food and you may come to visit me at say, about seven pm.

A bit late fer eatin’ isn’t it?

Time has rolled on. Do you want to come here for fish and chips or do you not?

Of course! What do yer take me for?

I’m not sure how to answer that, Bridget. I’ll get off the phone right now and fetch our food. One piece of fish or two?

Two of course! You have ter keep an active girl happy!

The doctor didn’t like that comment either and thought he’d better hang up quickly. So with a brief ta ta, see you here at seven pm, he hung up.

65714.png

At his favourite takeaway, a little Chinese man named Charlie gave him a beaming smile. Good to see you suh, he said, as if he hadn’t seen him in years but truth be known, it was only about a week or ten days since the doctor had bought takeaways.

He smiled and said: very pleased to see you too, my friend. I would like to order four pieces of fish and half a dozen oysters if there are any available, plus a scoop of chips.

Very good, suh, the little man said. Yes, we have oysters right now and they be velly nice big oysters from Bluff. We get more in real soon, just before the oyster festival starts down there in May.

Let’s hope the visitors to Bluff don’t eat them all first, the doctor mused.

I am saying that would be velly sad business for us.

Indeed it would. The doctor paid the money over for his order and the little Chinese man got to work.

You had to hand it to the Chinese, the doctor thought. What a work ethic they had! He admired their work ethic greatly, even though he was not wont to copy that same ethic. The doctor believed that if you could get a job done by someone else, then he was all for it; and even more so if he could get the job done for next to nix; better still, for nothing. He did however, expect to be paid at least the going rate for any work he himself had done. Semantics, he thought. I can’t be bothered with them right now.

He looked around the small shop and smiled at the woman sitting two seats away. A good day for a murder, he said.

What? the woman exclaimed. "Did you say, a good day for a murder?" She looked at him in astonishment and the doctor noted her very wrinkly skin and frowsy attire. She did have very pretty blue eyes, though.

No, I said, a good day to take it further, he replied with another smile, and a lowering of his right eyebrow. This of course, flustered the woman.

Her face red, she looked away, muttering: I could have sworn he said a nice day for a murder.

Yes indeed, it’s been such a lovely day that I wanted to take it further, meaning that rather than just curl up in front of the telly, I thought I would like to get out for a nice walk and come to see my good friend here. ‘My good friend here’ meant Charlie, here at the takeaway where the doctor and the wrinkled woman sat while waiting for their respective orders to be cooked.

The woman glanced back and gave an uncertain smile, not knowing what else to say.

Your order M’am, said the little man as he quickly wrapped her parcel. She practically leaped from her chair, grabbed her parcel and with a quick ‘thanks, Charlie,’ she was off and out the door. Lady in plenty big hurry, Charlie added.

Yes, I can’t think why, the doctor said, assuming a sad face.

Maybe you scare her away, you so big and bold, the little man said.

Oh dear, I do hope not! the doctor said, even knowing this was a big fat porkie. He liked to have the place to himself when he came in to order. Now, had the lady been young and very pretty, he may have made one or two other suggestions to her. But then he remembered that he had asked Bridget to tea.

Damn! he thought. Why did I do that? Now she’ll get ideas about me!

The door pinged and in walked a tall man, whom the doctor recognised as the local Catholic priest, Father Shamus Milligan. He gave the doctor a cool look as he placed his order with Charlie and then sat down on the seat furthest away from the doctor, who cleared his throat in the hope that the priest would turn his way.

He did, and said a brief hello and smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes.

We could be getting some really priestly weather very soon. It’s enough to make an ugly saint swear, the doctor said in an easy, friendly manner.

"What? What did you say?"

The doctor looked at the priest, his expression puzzled. Eh? Oh, I said we could be getting some beastly weather soon. It’s enough to make my new umber paint wear off far too soon.

Paint? What paint?

The paint on my flat. Since the priest had never been to the doctor’s flat, he would not have known whether or not the doctor had been painting it. I knew I should have left it for a few more days.

I could have sworn… the priest said, shaking his head.

Good heavens! the doctor exclaimed. A priest who swears? Just be careful God does not strike you down! He smiled sweetly at the priest, as if to rob his words of their sting. But the doctor did not care either way. He’d decided some time back that this bloke needed taking down several pegs. He might have looked good in his black clothes and his dog-collar and tall, proud bearing, but the old saying about clothes that ‘maketh the man’ did not apply to this cold fish of a man.

Soon his order was ready and with a nod and smile at the priest who was staring at him as if he was unhinged, and a goodbye and thanks given to Charlie, the big doctor strolled off home. Five minutes after his arrival, there was a knock at the door.

Now who can that be I wonder, knock-knocking on my door? He opened it with a flourish and there was Bridget, looking quite fetching in her bold patterned gypsy skirt and white blouse, topped by a little black jacket.

Without further ado, she stepped into the room and stuck her nose in the air. Smells like yer got oysters too, Ulan.

There’s no fooling a canny woman such as yourself. I did indeed order a few oysters, along with fish and chips.

A feast for a king! she announced, and the doctor was aware that there was a tinge of sarcasm in that statement. However, he chose to overlook that for the time being.

Without further ado, the doctor spread the feast out on the dining table and fetched tomato sauce from the fridge. Do you want a plate?

Nope! Let’s pretend ye and Oi are on a picnic. She poked two chips in her mouth and reached for more. Anyone would have thought the woman hadn’t eaten for several days, the doctor thought, given that she was practically shovelling the food down.

I’ll go along with that - an inside picnic, where we don’t have to worry about ants, flies or cold breezes, or even a wandering dog stealing our food when we’re busy admiring the scenery.

Would ye admire the scenery if ye and Oi were on a real picnic? she asked, her mouth full of fish, with part of a chip sticking out of one side of her mouth. But her arch comment was getting into dangerous territory and again the doctor wondered why he just didn’t go to see Charlie on his own behalf. For a start, it would have been quite a bit cheaper!

It would depend on the scenery, the doctor said carefully, trying not to think about Grannie with the part of a chip sticking out one side of her mouth, like a deranged broken fang. He felt a little rumble of wind in his tummy, and wondered if the oysters were a tiny bit off. But after the initial rumble was over, one that Bridget obviously hadn’t heard, he carried on eating.

Bridget hadn’t given up though, on her suggestions. She popped a succulent battered oyster in her mouth and half closed her eyes at the ecstacy of the taste. What if Oi were da scenery ye were lookin’ at?

The good doctor felt an explosion of mirth coming on, but resisted it - only just. My dear, are you flirting with me? Why, a man isn’t safe in his own home! You could be a danger to me!

Bridget’s mood suddenly turned. Too bloody right Oi could! Oi could jump on ye and have me wicked way with yer before ye could say Jack Robinson!

Jack Robinson, the doctor ventured, not at all turned on by the goblin-like woman with a tiny piece of fish stuck to her chin, and vestiges of potato chips now at either side of her mouth. He felt he was quite safe.

Eh?

Jack Robinson, the doctor said again.

"What are ye blathering on about now?"

You said you could have your wicked way with me before I said Jack Robinson and now I have said the name three times and you have not leaped upon my person, me a religious man and all.

Harrumph! Bridget muttered, a piece of fish now sticking out of the side of her mouth. The doctor thought there should be a law against women like her, having food sticking out of their mouths. He found it quite obscene, but he didn’t want to tell her that. He knew there would be two options for her to take: either she would get furiously angry with him and storm off, which is what he would have preferred, or else she would clean up her eating act, and become quite simpering towards him. That, he didn’t need. I think Oi’ll go home after dis.

"The word is I, Bridget," the doctor said calmly, hoping to trigger her wrath just a little bit more. His tummy had started to rumble again and he thought there might be dire consequences should Bridget linger in his flat for too long.

"Dat’s what Oi said, dammit, Ulan! I said Oi, and I mean Oi, yer silly eejit!"

That’s not a very nice way to treat a shy man who’s asked you in for a meal, he said, doing his best not to smile, and trying to hold in his pending wind.

"You shy? Dat’ll be the bleedin’ day! If ye’re shy, den Oi’m a monkey’s flamin’ uncle... she began, and wondered at the odd look on the doctor’s face. It had turned a funny colour, she thought.Then her own face took on an almost puce, greenish-edged shade. Whewee! Wot is dat awful smell? It’s loike something from da swamp!"

The piggeries - I think it’s the piggeries not too far away. The breeze must be blowing this way, he said mildly, even though his tummy was starting to bloat. Any minute now and he’d be flying. He thought about the saying that pigs might fly, and he thought it could well be true. Not that he was thinking of himself in animal terms, but…

Parrp! Pararrrp! Too late, the doctor had felt a ripple of amusement, which knotted his tummy and the consequences were sudden. Bridget leaped off her chair and shot to the door.

"Bejaysus Ulan! Ye stink loike a bleedin’ polecat, ye dirty bugger!"

"The word is like, Bridget, and how dare you say that about my person?"

"I said loike, ye stinking bloody bugger! Invite a girl to fish and chips and oysters den try ter yet rid of her by farting! Ugh, Oi’m off back home! Whewee!" She flapped her hand in front of her face and quickly exited the flat.

65707.png

The doctor’s tummy had indeed bloated, but even so he laughed at the image of Bridget, her face turning that funny shade of puce, seemingly edged in green.

I think I’ll have to try the same trick again, if I don’t like the company I’m with, he firmly decided. He gave a loud parrrp again, as if to confirm his decision. Damnation! I forgot to ask her for a donation to my donations tin.

He checked on his donations tin, named as such, and shook it. Sadly, there was still only a ten-cent coin contained within. What skinflints people could be, he thought with amusement. His tummy rumbled again, more forcefully than before and the doctor felt a small sense of alarm.

Admittedly, the good doctor had tried hard to suppress his wind as he normally would when trying to impress a lady, but on the other hand, you could hardly call Bridget a lady and given that she was making suggestions again, maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing that his tummy gave up the ghost as it were, and let forth a not so spiritual great gust of wind.

He had blamed it on the fish, oysters and chips but when he thought about it, he had felt queasy earlier on when talking with Bridget on the phone. He thought that it was her comments that had made him feel queasy - well, maybe they had and maybe they hadn’t, but for sure, they made his condition worse.

He took down a glass from his kitchen cupboard and took a couple of pain relief capsules with a small glass of water to hopefully ease his discomfort, and had a short lie-down after he’d rolled up the empty wrapping from the takeaways and put them in the kitchen pedal bin. While lying down on his bed, he thought of Mavis and her cat lying there earlier. That was a surprise to him and he was not a man to be easily surprised. Time to step up his game, he thought. Maybe his brain was getting a bit lax, with the lack of excitement in this small town.

There wasn’t a lot going on in Huberton, that’s for sure. Having thought that, he remembered back to the year before when life got a bit dicey for a while, with the cops doing a drug raid up and down the coast and his and his friend Jock’s involvement in a little bit of smuggling, all at the same time.

Mind you, it was an exciting time and he, the good doctor, needed excitement on a regular basis, or he became a little bored and would create his own little dramas to lift the day.

Such as today; that was four women he’d had a bit of fun with. Plus the tall, snooty priest. Not bad for a day’s work, and he’d barely had to try! Fortunately he hadn’t met any of them prior, apart from the priest - otherwise he would have had to use different tactics on them. Then came the final bit of fun he’d had with Grannie, although that was unintentional, so in fact that was five women he’d had fun with. Anyway, all that made him feel quite fulfilled for the day. But when he ran out of locals to give cheek to, what then? Well, he could always phone up Jock and see what was happening in his life lately; and in his dog Rumpus’ life as well. Jock was a likeable fellow if you could overlook the fact that he was a skinflint and a bit of a shyster, and his dog Rumpus was never properly trained and had a habit of pooping just wherever he pleased. The neater and tidier the front berm of a neighbouring house, the better Rumpus liked it.

One particular berm the dog had learned to avoid was Bridget’s, after a set-to last year. On the plus side, Bridget had a soft spot for the dog, and he had proven himself useful at times.

But back to Jock. The doctor thought he really should get in touch with him again. It had been a quiet few weeks while Jock was out of town, ‘on holiday’ he’d told the doctor before he went away with his dog, but the doctor had other ideas. Stevedore - or more commonly known as dockworker - jobs were unreliable; you took the work when it was there and often had to work all the hours of the day God gave you to get the ships unloaded and reloaded with new cargo, then you collapsed for a couple of days or maybe more, and made the most of that time off until the next ship came in to port.

65702.png

The doctor’s tummy rumbled dangerously again. He looked at the window where he still hadn’t drawn his drapes and the night had come in while he was deep in thought. The cold had come in too. It was late March, and although the weather had been quite mild, the early mornings let you know that winter was just around the corner, and the nights came in faster and colder.

He heaved himself off his bed, clutching his tummy and went to his bathroom without switching on the light, dropped his trousers and quietly opened the window. Not wanting to make a smell in the room he stuck his behind just over the window ledge just as a cop sneaked around the back. Because the doctor was back on, he didn’t see him, but had sensed that someone was there. Too bad, he thought, very briefly.

Oh shit, the cop, Constable Frederick Jones, who was known as Jonesy – or sometimes PeeCee Jones, said loudly, on seeing the whitish moon of the doctor’s rear. I think I see a bad moon a-rising. Just as he’d said that, the doctor farted – very loudly. "Fuck! Someone’s bloody shooting at me!"

Idiot! the doctor huffed, his tummy still hurting and gurgling. Another huge fart erupted and rattled the window pane and the loose metal lid of an old empty rubbish bin underneath.

Jonesy fled the scene.

That’ll give him something to sniff about, in more ways than one, heh heh! the doctor chuckled, easing himself up from the window sill and moving back into his bathroom. Amazing, the power of a bit of wind, and not even the weather forecasters would have got such a good reaction!

He mused on this thought for a while, even as his tummy continued its dangerous rumble. Whew! I’d better do a rear-ender again! With that comment notwithstanding, he arched his bottom back up into the window frame.

Jonesy, being a curious soul – he was a policeman after all – had overcome his initial fright and decided that since he wasn’t dead, and nor were any buildings on fire due to a possible bomb blast then he, PeeCee Frederick Jones, would brave the elements