Chapter 1
Maddy and Bolt Jones own and operate a recovery 'Health Farm' on a semi-remoted place amid grassland farming and forests on the Banks Peninsular, 90 miles drive from Christchurch, the largest city in the South Island of New Zealand.
The peninsular is a rugged but nevertheless charming area, surrounded by marvellous ocean vistas and peppered with a mix of large harbour, small bays and almost hidden coves that are surrounded on three sides by steep hills.
The summers are hot and the small villages, the largest being the originally French-settled Akaroa that is called a town but with fewer than 700 permanent residents is no more than a township) the attracts holidaymakers, weekend private cabin dwellers, campers, cruise ships, hikers (trampers) and permanent and semi-permanent dwellers who include potters, painters, spinners, writers, and other artistic bent crafts people plus people wanting a quiet life with access to quality bars and cafes.
The Jones's H&R Farm (health and recuperation retreat) offers luxury accommodation and high-quality 'care support' and is priced accordingly high that also serves to keep the riff-raff at bay.
Maddy runs the staff while Bolt is satisfied as being the head groundsman, the 'Mr Fix-it' and takes care of ordering in supplies, dealing with any troublemakers and unwanted trespassers by setting loose two hunting dogs trained to scare the crap out of humans but not to maul them while Bolt usually watches such encounters in delight, cradling a semi-automatic shot-gun.
He also takes fitter guests out to photograph game such as wild goats and deer up close or taking to the sea in small-boat cruising. At times, he takes up to eight guests that wish to go day sailing on a 54-foot keeler .
The Jones' H&R Farm has a maximum occupancy of sixty guests.
Bolt returned from clearing a blocked toilet in Chalet 19, the blockage caused by six panties presumable flushed away on separate occasions.
As expected, the sole occupant, Mrs Armstrong from Petaluma, Northern California wondered how they had got there, claiming it must have been a previous resident.
Bolt nodded and said it must have been and, as expected, his offer to have Maddy call next time she was going to Akaroa to ask Mrs Armstrong was there any replacement clothing she wished Maddy to buy for her and the offer was accepted with thanks.
Bolt showered and changed into leisure-wear and found Maddy and asked did she want sex or coffee or both and, as anticipating the reply to go bury his head as it was only 11 am but he could make her coffee in a few minutes.
When free to sit for morning tea, Maddy said breathlessly, "I've received a call that a senior official in Wellington will arrive here tomorrow for a lunch meeting accompanied by two high-ranking officials from the Australian Government in Canberra, representing the Prime Minister's Office."
"Omigod, our time has come. That young Aussie PM wants to pay a mint for regular accommodation here as somewhere to take the occasional cuddly woman to entertain her in private."
Maddy's eyes widened.
"Omigod, you've said a couple of times seeing them on TV lately that his wife looks too much of a wildfire for him."
"Well, she was looking bored," Bolt said.
Maddy said thoughtfully, "Perhaps if he attends long sessions of Parliament, long meetings, the heaps of other official duties loaded on to a Prime Minister and plied with too much liquor, possibly his ability to perform well in bed has diminished."
"Thoughtful thinking, Maddy," Bolt said.
"What?" she said, looking surprised.
"I wasn't aware that you were an authority on marital sexuality problems, being a fan for wanting it no more than twice a week to preserve your figure and ensure copulation remained enjoyable for you."
"Oh, you stupid twit," she said, showing her teeth and then, fighting to hold back her laugh, told her husband to pour her another coffee and then to crack the whip to get all staff to get everything looking first rate in preparation for VIP visitors arriving by helicopter at 11.00 in the morning.
Her final dig was, "You do talk shit at times and don't forget I no longer have sugar with my flat white."
"Yes dear," he said, mischievously touching his forelock.
Maddy sighed heavily.
The helicopter had left Christchurch Airport and was probably only three or four minutes away from the retreat when Bolt arrived on to the lawn and admired his wife wearing her favourite best dress.
She screamed, "Get the fuck back to the bedroom and change into a suit. Those jeans and Hawaiian shirt are totally unsuitable."
"My suit is still covered with vomit from the last time I wore it to a funeral about eight months ago," he lied.
She screamed, "Bolt, get into something decent or I'll deal with you painfully."
He thought he shouldn't upset her further, and raced off.
Bolt re-emerged wearing a beautifully tailored blue jacket, white shirt, cream pants and had remembered to put on socks and wore his favourite highly polished brown shoes.
"That's much better," yelled his wife, who then turned to the landing military chopper waving her handkerchief and many of the watching residents also began waving.
"Omigod, take your hands out of your fucking pockets," Maddy yelled to Bolt and he and most of the men pulled their hands out of pockets and stood with clasped hands in front of them as if protecting their 'privates'.
A few minutes later Maddy, finding her rarely used cultural voice, introduced the VIPs to her husband and, "This is our company chairman and general manager of our highly prestigious enterprise, Mr Bolt Jones."
One of the Australian's asked, "Are you two related Mrs Jones?" while a companion said, "Omigod, Bolt Jones, the best Rugby League forward that New Zealand has even produced by a country mile."
"Lads, I think it's time for a beer."
Horrified, Maddy called sounding much like a stall seller at a fish-market, "No, come this way for Champagne, gentlemen."
The men, now including the pilot and co-pilot headed off with Bolt to the lounge/dinning veranda with its marvellous mid-distance view of the harbour.
"Some place you have here, Bolt," said the head of VIP Liaisons of New Zealand's Department of Internal Affairs.
Maddy looked shocked, wonder how on earth had Bolt without lifting a finger or opening his mouth, drawn out that accolade and now the two Aussies were murmuring responses in agreement with the beauty of the setting.
She was about to yell 'Get those two fucking dogs out of there' to the kitchen chef when the dogs leapt on to the verandas with the appearance of being welcomed guests. Bolt warned the two Aussies with outstretched hands not to pat them as they were trained guard dogs capable of removing hands from the wrist if they believed they were being attacked, that being total bullshit. But each Aussie pulled back his outstretched arm and put that hand in his pants pocket, holding his bottle of beer in the other hand.
Maddy raced up with a tray of glasses but none were used.
She was ignored and returned to the large table under a huge umbrella and began gulping down champagne alone, trying to settle her upset. Fucking goodness sake, the dogs were partly muted idiots and only created any sign of menace if Bolt, being their sole food provider, appeared to be under imminent attack by Maddy or anyone else.
With most of her first bottle of champagne almost gone, she was relieved when Boris the chef returned and signalled lunch was ready.
She had thoughtfully told the chef and his two assistants to prepare of meal of cold meats, and assortment of hot green vegetables, plus plates of Kiwifruit, Australian pineapple, and an assortment of hot quiches.
Maddy finished the bottle of champagne and followed the men in and became filled with pride when hearing the men already inside saying in admiration, 'What a spread' and 'Golly, Bolt how on earth do you retain your slim figure when you are served up tucker like this?'
But on entering the dining room, Maddy almost had a seizure.
Nothing from the menu she'd given Boris was on the table that was almost bending under the weight of food. She saw heaps of green lipped mussels, plates of salmon fillets, oysters in the shell, barbequed sausages, mixed lettuce salads, and wire baskets of golden potato chips and, for fuck sake, tinned spaghetti pizza with six Pavlovas to follow for dessert.
