The second thing bothering him was his store manager, Keith Beaumont. Keith wasn’t a bad sort, and indeed he was a very efficient manager in his fashion, but for some time there had been a regular discrepancy in the accounts. The office supervisor had come to him some months ago, concerned that, on a disconcerting number of occasions, neither she nor her staff had been able to balance the books. Furthermore, she had gone over the accounts very carefully and eventually noticed that some of the dockets for returned items appeared to have been tampered with. She had interviewed her staff very rigorously indeed and was satisfied that none of those she supervised directly were responsible. Max believed her. She was a very conscientious woman, with a high regard for her staff and a genuine concern for their welfare. She had come to him, not with a desire to dob someone in, but to protect her workers.
So Max had told her to leave it with him and to go on as though nothing were amiss, while he tried to get to the bottom of the problem. Not wanting to create an atmosphere of inquisition, or to alert whoever was responsible, he had not discussed the matter with anyone else, but had begun to double-check the accounts himself. When he realized that this would achieve nothing more
than confirmation of the docket fiddling, he decided to take another approach and keep an eye out for anyone on his staff who was spending more than they should or otherwise generally acting in a furtive manner. That hadn’t worked, either. There were far too many employees for a start, and plenty of them had run up enormous staff accounts, though he was only looking for people spending actual cash, and a disturbing number of them seemed to act furtively on a regular basis.
Then, several weeks ago, Anton had mentioned in passing that Keith Beaumont used the same bookie that he did, and very regularly by all accounts, and the penny had wobbled, if not dropped. Max had no proof, but Keith had been behaving rather oddly over the past year or so for no apparent reason, and he had access to the accounts office and the safe any time he liked, and the authority to cover up any discrepancies that might be of his own making. It saddened Max, the possibility that Keith might be embezzling from Dunbar & Jones, but, if he was, the week before Christmas was not the time to do anything about firing him, especially with the queen coming and the possibility of it getting into the papers. But what if Keith was indeed embezzling, and got it into his head to make off with all of the Christmas takings? Max sighed. Oh God, perhaps he should talk to Keith this week after all.
‘I’m sorry, darling, we’re ready now,’ Estelle said from the top of the stairs. As Max watched, she descended, followed by the three children, Philip and Amanda dragging their feet noticeably.
Max had suggested to Estelle that the children didn’t wear their smartest clothes out of deference to the parents
on his staff who might not be able to dress their own children in quite the same, expensive, fashion, and she had chosen wisely: the children looked smart, but not ostentatious. Estelle was wearing a very pretty pale pink frock, a large straw sunhat, and a simple rope of pearls at her throat and her pearl earrings. Max himself had forgone his suit and tie in favour of casual, but smart, trousers and a cream shirt, though he still couldn’t decide whether to wear the sleeves down or rolled up.
He collected his Santa case and stood up. ‘Good. Right, we’ll go then, shall we?
Grumbling, Philip and Amanda preceded him out of the door and climbed into the back seat of the car, a Rover 75 sedan purchased late the year before and still smelling very satisfyingly of new leather. The children’s bad mood disinclined anyone to say anything on the short trip to the Domain, except for Emily, who hummed the whole way in between pointing out what she considered to be sights worthy of note.
As the car approached the Winter Garden and Fernery, Max saw that many of his staff had already arrived. A colourful, shifting throng of people was milling about outside the Winter Garden building, and several vans, carrying the food prepared by specially engaged caterers (who had cost a fortune), were parked in an orderly row along the narrow road in front of it. They would never all fit into the building, so the plan was for everyone to lay out their picnic rugs on the Domain grass at the edge of the sportsfield and help themselves to the buffet. No alcohol would be served because it was Sunday, and anyway Max didn’t agree with his staff drinking in public, especially when onlookers might be aware that it was the Dunbar &
Jones Christmas function. There would be various games throughout the afternoon, and at three-thirty Max himself would duck off, dress in his Santa costume, then reappear in the Rover bearing an enormous sack containing a gift for every child attending the picnic. It was the part of the proceedings he particularly enjoyed.
‘Here comes Mr Max,’ Louise said.
She, Susan and Rob had spread their rug on the ground not too far from the public toilets. Though well out of nappies, Susan was still occasionally caught short, especially when she was excited, and Louise didn’t want to have to spend her afternoon traipsing all over the Domain for the loos.
‘Nice car,’ Rob commented. It was a lovely, warm day and he was dying for a beer.
Daisy and Terry were sitting next to them, Daisy wearing the yellow halter-neck sun frock she’d made especially. It was an A-line with the waist starting quite high and concealed her little bump nicely.
‘Doesn’t Mrs Max look lovely,’ she said as the Jones family alighted from their car. ‘And what lovely children. I bet they’re well behaved.’
‘I bet they aren’t. No one has perfect children, Daisy,’ Louise said, keeping an eye on Susan, who had found an ants’ nest at the base of a tree and was poking it energetically with a stick.
‘Is that Allie and Sonny?’ Terry asked, shielding his eyes against the sun and watching a motorbike cruising down the hill. ‘Crikey, that’s an Indian Chief. When did Sonny get that?’
‘Beaut motorbike,’ Rob said in admiration, when Sonny and Allie joined them.
‘Yeah, it’s all right, eh?’ Sonny replied, and he, Terry and Rob wandered over to have a look at it.
‘You look a box of birds, Allie,’ said Daisy.
‘Do I?’
‘Good night out, was it?’ Louise asked knowingly.
Allie, her cheeks going pink, nodded.
‘Where was it, in the end?’
‘At his mum’s house, in Kitemoana Street.’
‘Really?’ Louise pulled a dubious face. ‘How was that?’
‘It was really good, actually. He’s got a huge family and they were nearly all there and there was a huge feed, a hangi, and guitars and all sorts. It was fun.’
‘Did you meet his parents?’ Daisy asked.
‘Well, his father’s passed away but I met his mother.’
‘Was she nice?’
Allie hesitated. ‘She’s, um, very straightforward. But, yes, she was nice.’
‘What sort of house do they live in? Was it…clean?’
‘Don’t be silly, Daisy. It was fine. Isn’t Irene here yet?’
As if on cue, Irene and Martin appeared, walking across the grass from the direction of the museum.
‘Oh…my…God,’ Louise said, unable to take her eyes off Irene.
Neither, it appeared, could anyone else as heads rapidly turned in her direction.
‘What the hell has she got on?’ Louise asked.
What Irene had on was an eye-watering flamingo-pink ‘play suit’. The shorts sat snugly on her waist but ended only inches below her buttocks, giving everyone an eyeful of her firm, bare thighs. The top was a sleeveless shirt, with
several buttons undone to display plenty of cleavage, and tied under the bust to show off her enviably flat midriff. On her feet were matching pink high-heeled wedge sandals, and her hair was tied back with a pink-and-black-patterned chiffon scarf. Martin walked a few feet behind her, very unselfconsciously, Allie thought, given that nearly five hundred people were staring at them.
‘Hi!’ Irene called out as they approached.
Bug-eyed, Sonny, Terry and Rob managed to say hello.
Martin produced a rug from the bag he was carrying, laid it on the grass with a flourish, and he and Irene sat down.
‘Love your outfit,’ Louise said.
‘Yes, it’s fun, isn’t it?’ Irene replied. Catching the expression on Louise’s face, she laughed. ‘Well, someone has to make a spectacle of themselves today, so I thought it might as well be me.’
‘I really like it,’ Daisy said, enviously eyeing Irene’s flat stomach.
‘Hello, Martin,’ Allie said.
She’d met Martin several times before and, to her surprise, had found she rather liked him. Based on Irene’s frequent complaints, she’d been expecting some boring old bloke with no sense of humour and terrible dress sense, but he was only in his late twenties, and was actually quite nice-looking, even if he did wear glasses, and in her opinion his clothes always looked fine. Conservative, yes, but nicely cut and of very good quality.
‘Hi, Allie. How are you?’ Martin’s voice was warm.
‘Good, thanks. I don’t think you’ve met my boyfriend, Sonny Manaia?’ Boyfriend: even just the word gave Allie a warm and slightly smug feeling of pride and happiness.
Martin shook hands with Sonny. He already knew Rob and Terry.
‘Good day for it,’ he said.
‘What time’s the food?’ Irene asked. ‘I’m so hungry I could eat a baby’s bum through the bars of a cot.’
‘Irene!’ Daisy exclaimed, a hand protectively on her belly.
‘What? Oh, sorry, but I haven’t had anything to eat for hours.’
‘Looks like they’re getting it ready now,’ Terry said, nodding towards the vans where the caterers were unloading trestle tables, stacks of plates, serving utensils, boxes and trays of food and various other bits and pieces.
In fifteen minutes it had all been set up, and the word went around that everyone was to collect a plate and form orderly queues at the ends of the tables.
‘Look, there’s Miss Willow and Miss Button,’ Daisy said as they were waiting in line. She waved enthusiastically.
When they’d loaded up their plates with sandwiches, sausage rolls, savouries and cake, and grapes and watermelon from the enormous fruit platter, they returned to their rugs and sat down to enjoy it. Then there were cups of tea or coffee from several enormous urns, and cigarette smoke rose as everyone lounged about in the sunshine.
As the caterers began to clear away the picnic things, Mr Max, who had eaten his lunch with his own family and those of the very upper echelon of Dunbar & Jones’s management hierarchy, moved to the centre of the mosaic of rugs, blankets and deckchairs and made an announcement.
‘Shortly,’ he began, almost shouting so that everyone could hear him, ‘we’ll start the afternoon’s games off with
an egg-and-spoon race, followed by a three-legged race, a sack race and then light-the-cigarette. Children will have their own special games, of course. For those of you who don’t want to tear up and down the sportsfield making fools of yourselves’—polite laughter from everyone—‘there will be cricket, quoits and croquet. Lastly, I’ve heard it rumoured, and this is mainly for the benefit of the little ones here today, that…’ he paused, stretching the moment out as long as possible, ‘that, yes, Santa Claus himself will be putting in an appearance!’
All around him, children, not all coached by their parents, let out an enthusiastic ‘Yay!’
Mr Max beamed. ‘Yes, that’s right!
And
, I believe he might just have a little something for all of you!’
A very hearty ‘Yay!’ this time.
‘So, grown-ups, perhaps we should now get under way. Oh, and thank you all very much for putting in such a lot of hard work during the year, and especially that concerning the preparations for Her Majesty’s arrival on Wednesday, which I’m sure you’re all looking forward to as much as my family and I are.’
There was a round of applause, and everyone made a move towards the sportsfield.
‘He’s a good sort, Mr Max, isn’t he?’ Daisy said. ‘And of course, hats, dresses and lingerie will win the prize again.’
Irene snorted. ‘Not likely. Accounts and typists have got some strong runners this year.’
‘Except that no one will be doing much actual running, will they?’ Allie countered. ‘Not while they’re balancing eggs or with their legs tied to someone else’s.’
The department whose individual members accrued the most points in the games would receive an engraved
trophy and a free morning tea in the cafeteria for every person. After the competition’s inaugural year, there had been complaints that chocolates and condiments, for example, hadn’t had a hope of competing successfully against a department as big as, say, floorings, so now the departments had been divided up into more or less equal groups, which meant that Allie, Louise and Daisy were on the same team. Only Irene was in a different group.
As announced, the egg-and-spoon was first. There were several dozen heats in each event, but fortunately each race only covered fifty yards. Daisy, who refused to run properly in case she jiggled the baby, came last in hers, but Irene, who was a powerful runner once she kicked her sandals off, and who had very good hand-eye co-ordination, won hers.
None of them did well in the sack race, they were laughing so much, but Allie and Louise both came first in their heats in the three-legged race, although Allie whacked Sonny on the nose with her elbow and made his eyes water, and grazed her knee when she fell over at the end. The light-the-cigarette race was possibly the most fun, and the most dangerous, though it did preclude non-smokers. The idea was that teams of equal numbers lined up, a lit cigarette was handed to the first ones to go, who then belted down the field to their partner or team-mate waiting at the other end, who had to light a cigarette off the first one, without anyone using their hands. A bit of fun for those grabbing the opportunity for a quick cuddle, much hilarity for spectators, and the odd cigarette burn.
At two-thirty, the games adjourned for afternoon tea and everyone collapsed onto their rugs. Irene, noticing
that Vince Reynolds had moved his rug closer to hers and Martin’s, even though he had brought his trout of a wife Cynthia with him, set about tidying her hair and applying fresh lipstick. Sonny and Allie lay on their backs, surreptitiously holding hands, staring up at the sky and telling each other what shapes the clouds were. Rob was talking to Terry about cars while Louise and Daisy had taken Susan for a walk to the toilet. Ted Horrocks was tucking into a slice of fruit cake and telling his wife that it wasn’t a patch on hers, and Ruby Willow and Beatrice Button were trying to decide whether the caterers had used real tea or those dreadful new bags Lipton had put out. The latter, they suspected.