Margaret Mahy - Twenty-Four Hours

“Don’t look so furtive!” muttered Jackie. “Chill out, man!” He improvised a dance step. “Just stroll on in and say, ‘Hey folks! Your lucky day! Here we are! Now the fun begins!’”

“I don’t look furtive,” said Ellis indignantly. “And I know this crowd, which I reckon you don’t. The Kilmers are friends of ours – friends of my parents, that is! They’ve got one of those apartments in the old library, but this is their real home. I’ve visited them twenty million times before.” He looked sideways at Jackie, half-expecting to see capitulation of some kind, or even respect (because, after all, the Kilmers were rich). But in the clear, early twilight, Jackie’s expression was that of a child seeing a vision of wonder. Then he flung an arm across Ellis’s shoulder.

“Hey, Ellis!” he cried softly. “Has anyone told you how beautiful you are? A car! Naturally curly hair! And rich friends! The lot! I love you! I love you! And, hey, isn’t that sunshine? Let’s enjoy ourselves.”

Ellis stepped on to the wide, grassy terrace that led down from the veranda of the Kilmer’s house to the garden below, a familiar enchantment immediately taking hold of him. For there it all was: women in summer dresses, laughing and talking, leaning sexily into the intrusive wind; men in shorts hoisting long glasses of pale-gold lager. Elegant music came towards them in gusts and then retreated. Ellis recognised it as the theme tune of a television commercial in which an expensive car moved with grace and power through a bare, sculptural landscape. Farmers on horses (along with their dogs) watched the car go by with admiration and envy, and a beautiful woman studied it with voluptuous attention, licking her full, red lips.

Jackie seemed to react to the gusts of music, too. He came to a standstill and Ellis saw him grimace.

“Vivaldi!” he exclaimed, half-turning towards Ellis. “Poor bugger! Mind you, those musical jokers wrote a lot of stuff for parties, didn’t they?” Ellis found he had assumed yet again that, in spite of his unexpected accent, Jackie was a man without culture. “I mean, it’s so beautiful,” Jackie added. “But, by now, whenever I hear it going Tah dah dah dah da-da dah, I want to laugh. It’s become its own sort of joke. And it wasn’t meant to be funny, was it?”

“Ellis!” called an astonished voice. “Who is it?” hissed Jackie.

“Meg Kilmer! Hostess. Lives here,” Ellis muttered, grinning studiously at his mother’s friend and feeling suddenly treacherous. Why – why – had Jackie been so desperate to come here? There must have been other parties he could have gatecrashed – parties that were much more his sort of thing. Ellis wondered if he had unwittingly helped an enemy insinuate himself. For he was with Jackie, whose coat had one elbow burned out of it, who was barefoot, who was laughing at the idea of Vivaldi being played as background music, but who was also, at that very moment, turning to greet the hostess with a wide smile.

“Ellis … lovely to see you,” Meg cried, seeming only slightly surprised that he should be there at all.

“Just passing!” Ellis said, smiling too – the sort of frank, boyish smile a friend of one’s mother could trust – an actor’s smile. “Didn’t know you were having a party. Sorry!” He was relieved to find just how easily deception came to him. Though, after all, he hadn’t known: he was speaking the truth.

“Well, we did invite Kit and Dave,” said Meg Kilmer, referring to Ellis’s parents, “but Kit said she was having a few friends round tonight. Of course, she may have felt shy. People think it’s a bit strange celebrating a separation.”

“Well, I think the Robsons are looking in,” said Ellis, his voice hesitant, wondering if he had really heard Meg say what she appeared to have said. His voice seemed to come and go in his own ears. “But Jackie and I – oh, this is my friend, Jackie Cattle, by the way. And Jackie, this is Meg Kilmer who lives here – well, we’ve been cruising around …”

“Ellis shot home from school last night,” interrupted Jackie, speaking rather more easily than Ellis himself. “He’s getting himself reacquainted with this part of the world.”

Ellis saw Meg exchange a worldly glance with Jackie at the expense of a younger man.

“Well, lovely to see you,” said Meg warmly. “Go down to the lower lawn by the barbecue. There’s masses to eat and drink.” In spite of his ease and open smile, she was suddenly studying Jackie rather more intently. Ellis saw her expression change slightly – as if something was disturbing her. He felt she was aware of something rather more anarchic than either Jackie’s bare feet or battered coat. And Jackie, too, seemed to recognise her doubt.

“I don’t want to push in,” he said, smiling with old-world courtesy.

“Oh, you’re welcome,” Meg said, relaxing a little. “We always overdo things, so there’s plenty.” Someone called her name. She turned, laughed, and retreated, then looked over her shoulder, pointing vaguely into the crowd.

“Christo’s somewhere around,” she called. “Be nice to him! He’s so grumpy these days.”

Jackie and Ellis moved across the upper lawn between groups of chattering guests, nearly all protecting piled cardboard plates and glasses of wine from the wind, then down three wide, stone steps to a lower lawn. In spite of the big, brick barbecue, it was much less crowded, perhaps because the shade of tall lime trees imparted an early twilight to this part of the garden.

“So you don’t want to push in,” muttered Ellis as they walked towards two long tables covered with bottles and plates. “You know, you’re a real bull artist!”

“It’s my gift,” Jackie replied, “and we ought to use our talents. The Bible says so.”

“You do what the Bible says?” Ellis asked, leaning back from Jackie and studying him with exaggerated scepticism.

“When it’s in my interests,” Jackie replied, his own smile vanishing.

Alan Kilmer came to meet them with a bottle of wine and what was left of a jug of beer balanced on a tray. He was wearing a striped apron and a cook’s hat with the word Chef printed on it in flowing letters.

“I suppose you drink all the beer you can get these days, young Ellis,” he cried in the voice of a surrogate father keen to show how understanding he could be.

“I’m driving …” Ellis said, and had a vision of the curls and the clean, open face that had flickered briefly across the looking-glass panel in the city street.

“Oh, one won’t hurt you,” Alan said, “though you’re right to be careful. I only wish Christo was careful … But you’re a big boy now. Take it! Food and plates over there by the barbie. I imagine you’ve heard our news? Meg and I are separating. After all, Sophie’s left home – she’s over in Sydney doing very well, and of course Christo’s grown up.”

“Gosh, I didn’t know …” began Ellis.

“It’s time,” said Alan, a touch of mysticism creeping into his voice. “Meg and I both feel these rites of passage deserve celebration.” His voice became friendly and fatherly again. “Now, just help yourselves.”

“We haven’t come to eat …” Ellis began guiltily.

“We’re starving,” declared Jackie, interrupting before Ellis could reject the offers of food and drink, or ask for Kilmer family news.

“Well, cram in all you can,” said Alan cheerfully. “We always cater for too many people. The steak’s from our own beast … but it’ll be dog tucker by tomorrow. Strike while the sausage is hot, eh?”