Mustang Case File #1

Chapter Eleven

SATURDAY

ANOTHER GLORIOUS SUNNY DAY in Akaroa and Dermot awoke to clattering coming from the kitchen and a waft of coffee and something else he couldn't quite put his finger on. "Dermot, five minutes and breakfast is on the table," she called out. He couldn't decide whether it was a corporate or a loopy breakfast he would be sampling.

"Sleep well?" Gran asked. What was going on in that poor woman's head now? She had her flowery frock on with her corporate jacket over it and her brogue shoes. "I couldn't decide," she said and initially Dermot thought she was referring to the state of her attire but he soon realized it was in fact the breakfast she had prepared.

He was pleased it wasn't the rolled oat porridge. He'd had to chuck the pot out with several hours of cooking stuck to its bottom. It was a wonder she hadn't burnt the place down. So, from then on, he'd unplugged the cooker so she couldn't cook anything unless he was around. And too late he remembered he hadn't plugged the cooker back in last night, so he was very interested to see what his breakfast looked like. He hoped it would just be her usual mueslis.

And then he spotted the electric fry pan and a mixing bowl. "Pancakes," he said happily.

"Yes," she said equally happily. She dished out four rather large lumpy pancakes onto two plates and placed one in front of him. They both took a bite at the same time.

"Ooh," she said distastefully as she forked a piece into her mouth.

"Ooh," he said as he bit into his. "And what is the crunchy bit in the pancake?" he asked.

"It's macaroni," she said. "Maybe I shouldn't have added it."

NO. Definitely not the uncooked variety, Dermot thought as he spat his mouthful back onto his plate aware of his gran's tut tutting but didn't care that his table manners would be the topic of conversation for a century, should Natasha ever get wind of it. But with decades of feuding, he didn't think that likely.

Over the breakfast that neither of them ate, Dermot asked, "Gran, can you tell me about Alice?"

"No, I don't think so. She doesn't want anyone to know about Alice."

"Who doesn't?"

"She doesn't," Gran said with finality.

"So, tell me about my father," he asked.

"Who is that then?"

Dermot heaved a sigh and mumbled to himself, "Samuel bloody Mustangonavich, who do you think?"

"Oh Sammy?" she said, her eyes lighting up.

"Yes, Sammy. Tell me about him."

"He was such a lovely little chap. Such a good little baby," she said smiling in remembrance. "Sammy was very clever at school, got such good reports," and Dermot wondered if his father had recycled his school reports too!

"He was very athletic you know. Good at sports—cross country run, football and when he was an older young lad, he took up boxing."

"Really?" Dermot wondered how an active youth could have become such a sedentary and overweight adult. Samuel Mustang, the father he had known was bordering on lazy. It was his mother who washed the car, mowed the lawns and kept the garden tidy all with her long red fingernails intact. He tried to remember what his father actually did at the weekends. He couldn't recall anything except watching T.V. He'd always thought it was because he had a very active job. But Dermot wasn't exactly sure what that was. All he knew was his father was away most of the working week and his mother was very evasive whenever he asked about his father's job. "Travelling salesman," Natasha would reel out whenever she was asked and no further explanation was ever given.