The Adventures Of Una Perrson

by Michael Moorcock

  'I hadn't thought. I'll go into town and get some meat. Or a chicken. What else, do you think?'

  'I'll do the cooking, if you like. Shall I write out a list?'

  'Okay.' Una was amused by the transformation in Catherine who, up until this moment, had been content to let her prepare the small amounts of food they had been eating. 'He might sleep on, past dinner.'

  'We'll wake him up. I could do with a good feed myself.' Catherine pushed herself out of the chair. 'Perhaps we'll both go into town. I've only seen the place once, and that was at night.'

  'What if Mr Bannerman is a thief?'

  'What is there for him to steal?' Her eye swept the room.

  'The boat. But it wouldn't do him much good.' Una smiled. 'You'd better dress carefully, if you're coming. Nothing out of period.'

  'You should know me better!'

  'Sorry.' Una swung her arms as she followed Catherine upstairs and into the bedroom.

  'This is a bit too chic for Briggstown, I suppose,' said Catherine, holding up a blue and yellow Chanel tunic dress, 'also it's four or five years out of date, but maybe one offsets the other.'

  'It'll do. Put it on.' Una donned an incongruous gingham over her bathing costume.

  Catherine wriggled into her bra and pants. 'These do feel strange.' She pulled the dress over her head and straightened it on her body. 'There!'

  'Fine.'

  They found shoes for themselves and tottered downstairs and out to the Duesenberg. Catherine sat beside Una as she turned the engine over and put the car into gear. 'It's really falling to bits,' said Una. 'All it needs is a service. Maybe I'll book it for one while we're in town.'

  ‘I thought we were leaving soon.'

  “The car can't.'

  The engine growled; the body lurched backwards as Una reversed; gravel crunched and spattered. Una hauled on the big steering wheel, changed, and drove down the path towards the iron gate which had hung by only one of its hinges since they had arrived. She was able to squeeze the car through the gap without Catherine having to get out to open the gate further, and then they were bumping down the track towards the road. 1 wouldn't like a car like this to rot,' Una said. 'I mean, think how much they're going to be worth in thirty years' time.'

  'You sound like my brother.' Catherine sighed.

  I'll say that for him. Frank made himself a rich man by thinking ahead.'

  'But who wants a family fortune based on old copies of the Wizard and Hotspur?' complained Catherine.

  'He couldn't do much else. You know the dangers of people like us manipulating the stock market, or even buying gold. He kept a low profile. He invested in cheap, trashy comic books.'

  'It's a bit vulgar, though, isn't it?'

  They turned onto the Briggstown road; here the hills were gentler and unwooded; in drowsy fields cows and sheep panted and the countryside was broken only by the occasional Pennsylvania Dutch farmhouse or National Recovery billboard.

  Tt's very peaceful,' said Catherine as she brushed her hair. 'What a pity they don't have stereo yet.'

  THREE

  In which Mr William Bannermann comes into an unexpected inheritance

  Catherine leaned towards the full-length mirror; she puckered her lips; she dabbed delicately with the lip-rouge brush; she fluttered mascaraed lashes. Una grinned. There was no response from Catherine, who was concentrating.

  The black chiffon, I see!' Una fingered it.

  Catherine gave an affirmative grunt.

  'Well, it always suited you better than me.'

  Catherine had not heard her. She was stepping back from the mirror with a dissatisfied sigh, shaking her head. 'It doesn't take long to lose the knack, does it?'

  Una shrugged and made a humorous face. She already had on her dark blue costume. 'You're really giving our guest the works,' she said. 'He might be shocked—by the make-up.'

  'I'm doing it for the fun of it.' Catherine was defensive. 'I mean, it's been such a long time . . .'

  'I'm only taking the piss.' Una lifted a calming hand. 'Can you take him in a cup of coffee and wake him while I go and look at the dinner?'

  Absently, Catherine nodded, her attention drifting back towards the mirror. 'Are you sure this is all right?'

  'It's simple and elegant.' Una patted Catherine's bare shoulder. 'You look lovely.'

  'But do I look lovely enough?' With a snort of self-mockery, Catherine put her lip-rouge away. 'You know what a perfectionist I can be.'

  'Poor Mr Bannermann's going to be overwhelmed. He saw a pair of scruffy slags and he wakes up to find us transformed into fancy harlots.'

  'He seemed pretty overwhelmed to begin with!' They went out onto the landing, dropping their voices. 'Are you sure you don't want me to do my salad?'

  It isn't worth it. You be the hostess. I'll be the cook.'

  'Don't tell me I've got the easiest job this time.'

  They crept downstairs. In the kitchen Una opened the oven and looked at her chickens. Catherine smacked her lips. 'Oh, that really smells delicious. And all the trimmings, too. It's like Christmas. Did you have Christmas, Una, when you were a little girl?'

  'Oh, yes.' Una carried the dishes to the table and began to baste the birds. 'Oh, yes. Trees and tinsel and so on.' She spoke vaguely, as if she could not really remember; as if it had occurred to her that her memories might be false, based on films she had seen and books she had read rather than on direct experience.

  'Is that your amnesia?' Catherine asked tentatively. 'Can't you—?'

  'Just a minute.' Una replaced the chickens in the oven. She took the lid off a saucepan and studied the contents. 'What did you say?'

  Catherine heaped coffee into the filter pot; she filled it with cold water and put it on the stove. She lit the gas.

  'What were you saying?' Una stepped aside.

  'I was saying about your amnesia. You know—those areas of childhood you find hard to recall. You've told me about them . . .'

  'Have I? Yes?'

  'Christmas . . .'

  'Oh. Yes, maybe you're fight.' Una rinsed her basting spoon under the hot tap.

  'Am I in your way?' asked Catherine.

  Una kissed her. 'I hadn't thought about it, but, yes, you probably are.'

  'You're feeling a bit solitary again, aren't you?'

  'It's only temporary.'

  Catherine wandered out of the kitchen and into the living room. She was whistling to herself as she stood looking through the windows; it was not yet sunset; a breeze had sprung up and was moving the tops of the elms; birds of some kind wheeled in a flock over the boy scout camp. Catherine fancied they were vultures and the boy scouts had all been wiped out by Indians, but a distant blaring assured her that at least some of the scouts had survived. Then she saw two canoes, filled with small green- and khaki-clad figures paddling hard against the current, come slowly round the bend, heading for the camp. All at once she felt self-conscious, as if she were wearing an imperfect disguise. She wondered if one only wore clothes for reasons of disguise not, as she usually thought, to emphasize one's 'personality'. She shrugged and moved away from the window, entering the small dining-room where the table had already been laid. It would have been nice, she thought, to have had some good wine, but the California rose wasn't all that bad. She was tempted to open a bottle and try some; instead she turned to the sideboard behind her and poured from a decanter half a glass of Madeira (the last of the businessman's supply). Feeling a little guilty, for she didn't like the Madeira very much and knew that it was supposed to be very good, she knocked it back. A snort of fine cocaine had the effect on her which others claimed for favourite wines. She resisted the temptation to pour herself another glass and returned to the kitchen where Una was bending over a salad, picking delicately at some cucumber and tomatoes. The water had boiled and Una had already turned the pot over. Catherine could hear the water dripping through the filter. She took a cup from its hook and put it in a saucer; she filled the cup, put it on a tray, found sugar
and milk and placed them beside the cup.

  ‘I'll take it up,' she said.

  ‘Fine,' said Una without turning.

  Catherine carried the coffee to the top of the stairs, pausing outside the spare room and balancing the tray on one hand while she knocked on the door. There was no answer, so she went inside. It took her a few moments to make out Mr Bannermann in the bed. His head lay awkwardly against the pillow; his mouth was open and he was snoring quietly. Catherine thought he looked more attractive now. She leaned forward and shook him gently by the shoulder. He grunted, opened his eyes, licked his lips.

  'Coffee?' she said. She put it on the bedside table. 'Dinner's almost ready. We're making a special one. In your honour.'

  Mr Bannermann's mouth moved, but he said nothing. His expression was almost ludicrously puzzled.

  'Quarter of an hour,' said Catherine. 'For dinner?'

  'Oh, right. . .'

  'It's chicken.'

  He began to wake up. 'Chicken!'

  Pleased by his response Catherine left him with his coffee and his bewilderment.

  When Mr Bannermann came down, his hair carefully combed, his eyes betraying an eager appetite, a neat tie at his throat, Catherine Cornehus was jigging about the living room to the scratchy strains of 'Livin' in the Sunlight, Lovin' in the Moonlight' by Paul Whiteman. Outside, the sky was spread with the oranges and purples of an Italian religious lithograph, almost incredibly lurid, and no lights burned indoors as yet. 'Feeling better, Mr Bannermann?' The chiffon swished. 'Can I get you a drink?'

  'A beer, if you have it. You're very kind.'

  'We all have our parts to play.' She swayed to the table where she had already laid out the drinks. 'Whisky?'

  'Well, if. . .' He nodded.

  'Soda?'

  'To the top. I'm not really used . . .' He took note of her perfume as she handed him the glass. She saw his adam's apple give a convulsive movement.

  'Do you like Paul Whiteman?'

  'He's the tops.'

  'He is here,' she said mysteriously. She skipped a few more steps, doing a kind of modified jitterbug which was interrupted by the thump and click of the record ending. She lifted the lid, selecting another record. 'It's almost all Paul Whiteman. What about "My Suppressed Desire"?'

  'Your—?'

  ' "Suppressed Desire". Bing Crosby vocals, too.'

  'He's great. Have you seen any of the movies?'

  'I might have done,' she replied vaguely. She had probably seen some on television.

  Una entered as the record started. She lit a cigarette and smiled at Mr Bannermann. 'It's almost ready,' she said. She sank, with a sigh, onto the sofa. 'I hope you like fowl, Mr Bannermann.'

  He leaned forward to show that he had not quite caught the remark.

  'Fowl,' she hissed. He blushed.

  'Do you dance, Mr Bannermann?' Catherine opened her arms.

  He cleared his throat. 'Uh.'

  Mockingly reproving, Una said: 'Mr Bannermann's only just woken up, Catherine.'

  'I'm a bit drunk.' Catherine excused herself. 'Oh, I feel smashing!' She continued to dance.

  'Sit down for a second, Mr Bannermann.' Una patted the sofa. He obeyed, sipping his Scotch. 'You must forgive us if we seem rude,' continued Una. 'We haven't had a visitor here before. You can imagine, I'm sure, how a pair of spinsters, with only one another's company, can get a bit strange . . .'

  'Oh, no! Miss—?'

  ‘Persson. You see, we haven't even thought of introducing ourselves. I'm Una Persson and this is Catherine Cornelius.'

  'It seems an odd place, ma'am, to find two English ladies living alone. Aren't you ever scared?'

  ‘I think we can look after ourselves when we need to, Mr Bannermann. And there aren't many dangers we need worry about in this part of the world, are there?'

  ‘There are stories of roving gangs, looters, hobos . . .'

  ‘I'm sure they're exaggerated.' She rose to her feet. ‘I’ll get dinner. Catherine, would you like to escort Mr Bannermann in?'

  Catherine took Mr. Bannermann's arm.

  'It's through here.'

  'My, that looks good,' said Mr Bannermann. He eyed the cucumber salad, the mushroom salad, the tuna fish salad, the dish of roast potatoes, the sweetcorn, the squash. He stared reverently at the chickens as Una carved. 'A real country meal.'

  'Help yourself to some tuna fish salad,' said Una. 'I'm sorry there's no soup. Treat the tuna fish as an hors d'oeuvre. Pour Mr Bannermann some of that rose, Catherine. Do you prefer breast or leg, Mr Bannermann?'

  'As it comes, ma'am.'

  'There you are.' She handed him the plate. He put down the spoon with which he had been about to take some tuna fish salad. He accepted the plate. 'Gravy's there,' she said, 'and cranberry sauce, if you like it. Have as many potatoes as you like. We don't eat them.'

  'You must let me do some work around the house for you before I go,' he said. 'Just to repay your kindness.'

  'We're better off than you, Mr Bannermann. It's our duty to do what we can,' said Catherine piously. She put out her fork and impaled two potatoes. 'Besides, we're leaving tomorrow.'

  'Oh, which way are you heading?'

  'We're going up-river,' said Una. 'I'm sorry we can't give you a lift.'

  'It wasn't—I didn't mean . . .'

  'You haven't had the cucumber yet.' Catherine handed him the dish. 'Take a lot. It's lovely.'

  'Squash?' said Una.

  'Well, if you don't mind . . .'

  'You don't like it.' Catherine winked at him. 'Neither do 1.1 never did. Of course, we don't have it in England. Do we, Una?'

  'No, not squash. Swedes.'

  'Something like it,' said Catherine. 'Parsnips are okay, though, sometimes.'

  An expression akin to terror came and went in Mr Bannermann's mild brown eyes.

  They fell silent as they ate.

  'Phew!' said Mr Bannermann, after a while. He put down his knife and fork and sipped his wine. The alcohol had made him relax more; for the first time his smile was not nervous. 'I think this is the best dinner I've ever had.'

  'It makes a nice change for us, too,' said Una. 'Would you like some more chicken?'

  'Not just yet, ma'am, thank you.'

  'Do you like the house, Mr Bannermann?' Una became thoughtful.

  'Very much. And the country.'

  'Do you drive?'

  'Yes, ma'am.'

  Catherine filled Mr Bannermann's glass to the brim. She touched his wrist as she steadied herself. Open-mouthed, he turned to look at her. He shut his mouth.

  'There!' she said, settling back. She lifted her own glass. 'Here's to you, Mr Bannermann. To your improved fortune!'

  'Well, I will drink to that, if you don't mind.' He grinned and clinked his glass against hers. Pink wine spilled on the cloth. He offered his glass to Una and she put down her own cutlery to join in the toast.

  'To your improved fortune, Mr Bannermann.'

  He downed the wine in one enormous swallow. 'This is so strange. It's like a dream. Like a story.' He became enthusiastic. 'You're like goddesses, both of you. Diana and Venus. I'm sorry. I'm drunk.'

  'Carry on, Mr Bannermann!' This time Una filled his glass for him. 'It's lovely.' She glanced at Catherine who uttered a luxurious sigh. 'Who would have guessed you had a penchant for poetry.'

  'You're making fun of me, ma'am.' He was flattered.

  'Not at all,' Catherine told him.

  Una frowned. 'We must get an early start.'

  Catherine and Mr Bannermann stared at her without speaking.

  'In the morning,' said Una.

  'It can't be that late.' Catherine cast about for a clock. 'Can it?'

  'Well.' Una smiled apologetically at Mr Bannermann. 'After dessert and coffee—that'll take us to eleven.' Having suddenly developed a lust for Catherine and seeing Mr Bannermann as a rival she was having a hard time controlling her manners. 'We ought to try to get as much sleep as possible.'

  Catherine, who had ta
ken a fancy to Mr Bannermann, felt that Una was being a bit of a killjoy. She considered making this observation directly to Una but contented herself with: 'You've had a tiring day, really, Una—and then doing all the cooking.'

  'Actually, I feel very fresh.' Una was anxious to make it clear that she was motivated only by commonsense. 'But we had agreed . . .'

  Mr Bannermann, having taken another half-glass, began to tell a joke about two Jewish stockbrokers which was not improved for Una by the fact that she had read that morning an almost identical story in an 1897 number of Life. She began to collect up plates. Catherine, unable to sustain as much interest in Mr Bannermann's joke as she would have liked, helped her. Una, with a slightly malicious wink at her friend, carried the plates to the kitchen.

  Mr Bannermann finished his joke and began to laugh. Catherine did her best to join in and was very glad when Una returned with the dish of trifle. Mr Bannermann was also pleased. It had dawned on him that his story had not gone over well. Una felt that a relaxed Mr Bannermann lost much of his charm. She offered him the bowl and the serving spoon.

  'I could trifle with some trifle, I think,' he said.

  It surprised Una when Catherine found this amusing. Mr Bannermann winked at Catherine in recognition of her appreciation and Catherine added with drunken archness: 'I hope you're not trifling with my affections, Mr Bannermann, when I have entrusted you with the custardy of my heart.'

  Una found it difficult to remain silent. She ate her own trifle with surly steadiness.

  Becoming conscious of a change in the atmosphere but unable to identify its source Mr Bannermann complimented Una on the dessert. 'It's very sweet,' he said. 'I love sweet things.'

  'You're very sweet, too, Mr Bannermann.' Catherine, giggling, helped herself to more wine. 'Isn't he, Una?'

  'We're not being very polite, tonight, I'm afraid, Mr Bannermann.' Una put down her spoon.

  Mr Bannerman half-rose, steadying himself with one hand on the table as he lifted his glass. A little indistinctly he said: 'Nonsense! I give a toast to the two most charming ladies in the whole US of A!'

  Una's mood passed. She could see that Mr Bannermann was very drunk and she blamed herself. She should have realized that he had not eaten any proper food for days. She had overwhelmed him.