Then they were in Sand in Taufers: swept streets and big square Austrian — style houses, all with the same steep roof, the same wide, pine — fronted balconies, the same fierce geranium displays blazing in the early evening light. Everywhere there were Zimmer frei signs and gift shops, a general impression of regimented colour, authorised souvenirs. Posters in three languages proclaimed a festival of traditional horn music. A photograph showed a bearded man in lederhosen blowing into a horn at least six feet long, resting on the ground in front of him. The little supermarket, when they found it, was called EuroSpin, its windows plastered with international brand names, credit card signs. It was curious, Vince thought, how nothing seemed unfamiliar anymore, excepting one’s state of mind, perhaps. He found it strange how at ease he felt with these kids.
A stiff little man in a white coat, his eyes bloodshot, turned from stacking Nestlé’s snacks. Guten abend, he said throatily. Velcum to mai umble ‘ome, Max whispered. Are we in Italy or what? Guten abend,Tom replied politely.
Vince found a trolley. Remember, everything we get is for fifteen, okay? Almost at once the youngsters were giggling at the sausage section. Great curved turgid things wrapped in red and yellow cellophane. You don’t see these in England. Wurst und wurst! Amelia cried, picking up a particularly obscene example and waving it at Tom. The shopkeeper shifted from the doorway to keep an eye down their aisle. You choose, Amelia was telling the boy.
The store had the cluttered shelves of a restricted space trying to satisfy every need. Again the attendant moved as they rounded the end of the aisle. Ve arr being voched, Max whispered. Everything Vince chose— there were sandwich things to get and chicken pieces for this evening’s dinner— Amelia asked Tom if it was right. Don’t you think we’d be better with long — life milk? She had straight black hair clipped in a fringe above a puckered, solemn forehead and at a certain point she contrived to pick up a can of peeled tomatoes that Tom already had his hands on. The young man studied the labels intently, until, to everybody’s surprise, Max walked straight down the aisle and addressed the shopkeeper in fluent German. He spoke for at least a minute, with some expression, gesturing at the shelves. The stiff man smiled, took him to the meat counter, then another shelf. That’s the sauce for the chicken casserole, the blonde boy said. His shirt seemed freshly ironed, likewise the white cotton trousers. The spuds are round the corner. Brilliant, Vince told him. I did French, Tom advised Amelia. He took her by the elbow.
Vince bought sun cream, matches, a roll of duct tape and a second tray of beers. Actually, we don’t need those, Tom said. We’ve already got a tray. But there are thirteen of us, Vince explained, fifteen with Clive and his girlfriend. Seven or eight are under age, Tom pointed out. Oh come on, Max protested. This is piss beer, this Kraut stuff. Most of us were swigging stronger stuff than this before we could walk. Mandy said no, Tom insisted. Amelia couldn’t make up her mind whether to support him or not. I have to get something for Caroline’s chapped lips. Does your dad let you drink? Vince asked the girl. She wore a short skirt over thin, coltish legs. Sometimes, she said. Aping the adult, she folded her arms, shifted her weight. I believe Mandy actually signed something, Tom was saying now. He seemed genuinely concerned that a rule might be broken. We could add a tray of Cokes, he suggested, for the kids.
Vince gave the black wallet with the Waterworld kitty to Max and told the boys to carry out the boxes. Then he invited Amelia back into the shop and with his own money bought two more trays of beer and various goodies: marshmallows and skewers, in case they made a fire, and three bottles of sparkling wine. Since we’re the Pigs, let’s be pigs, he announced. He felt cheerful. You’re a tempter, Mr Marshall, Amelia laughed. Vince, he again insisted. Why couldn’t they use his name? You don’t call Keith Mr Whatever, do you? Bags I the front seat, Max rushed. Tom and Amelia were quiet in the back.
No! Mandy said. No drinking! No, no, no! Keith overruled her. The group leader seemed extravagantly, even brutally merry. Suck on that. He gave a can to Caroline, another to Amelia. Adam was evidently irritated. He gets like this, Mandy shook her head. Soon he’ll be flirting with the under — sixteens. It’s only beer, Keith insisted breezily. Drink, he told Mark. You’re not on the river now. A holiday’s a holiday. Even when it’s a community experience, Amelia chipped in. And if you want to be really English— Keith handed another can to Michela— you’ll have to get in training. You know the British government’s thinking of introducing an alcohol test for citizenship: ability to imbibe five pints a day, five days running. A working week, no less, Brian observed. Mark took his beer and sat on the ground beside Amal. The boy had barely spoken after his accident at the rapid. On the table in the kitchen tent, the hamster began to beat his drum. I think I love you. Oh no! the children groaned. Turn the beast off! I think I hate you, Phil laughed. Vince couldn’t help noticing the way he and Caroline leaned on each other as they sat.
At the meeting, after the casserole, Louise nominated her father for Wally and the vote was unanimous. Only an idiot could capsize in six inches of water. Public humiliation! Keith demanded. On his third beer, Vince was nervous and pleased. I am becoming part of the group, he thought. But what was the punishment to be? Something really degrading! Louise shrieked, can in hand. Gloria had never let her drink. Uncle Jasper’s family was even stricter. You decide, Mandy told Caroline. Vince had seen how carefully the older woman brought in everybody. There would be no faces missing from the website. The big girl grimaced and chewed, then looked to Amelia. There was an old complicity between the two. They burst out laughing. The Chicken Song! Both struggled to their feet, stood side by side in the tight circle of the tent, where the gas lamp was throwing shadows as the twilight faded. Caroline was almost a head taller than her friend, her thighs heavy, wrists and ankles thick, her manner timid, but when she began to dance there was a mad energy and unexpected elegance to her. Incongruous together, the two girls kicked their legs, flapped their arms. I’m a chubby chicken, ready for the chop, they’ll cut my pretty head off, stricken, plop, but still I run around and kick ‘em. Hop Hop! The girls pulled faces, lolled their heads, broke one one way and one the other, running round the group kicking at people.
Pathetic! Brian and Max shrilled. Naff!
I have to do that? Vince asked.
You’re getting off lightly, Mandy told him. She smiled indulgently. Everybody was looking.
With the actions or without?
He took his place in the centre of the circle. Michela is watching me, he saw, and my daughter. Vince danced, Vince who never danced. He was wearing corduroys and a thin sweater. I’m a chubby chicken, he sang. He heard his voice singing. He and Gloria had never danced. He tried to do it well. He was absurd. Gloria did every kind of sport, but didn’t dance. It was strange at fifty to be making yourself so ridiculous. I am director of all overseas accounts, he told himself. The kids were giggling. He tried to remember the words. Ready for the chop! The others were clapping and as he made to kick at them, they jumped to their feet and dashed out of the tent. Rise, Sir Wally, Keith said, dropping the creature over his head on a piece of string. Thou must take care of he who protects us. Pathetic! Phil shrieked.