The day she came.
She wore a beautiful cashmere camel coat, very classy, and a dusky blue silk scarf over her head. Doreen had never forgotten the sunglasses. Why did she wear dark glasses indoors? In February? She was very tall and austere and, once they were on their own, took off her glasses and fixed Doreen with a steady stare.
‘Doreen Coddle,’ she said in a husky Yankee twang, ‘Ah’m Katherine Hepburn and ah want to talk to you about saving the world!’
To say Doreen was stunned would have just about been the biggest understatement of her life. Kate laughed merrily at Doreen’s goggle-eyed expression. ‘Do you know, dahling, that’s the exact same look I had on my face when Clemmie Churchill drove up to my front door in her lovely Rolls-Royce and told me it was my turn to save the world. I think it’s a natural reaction, but hear me out.’
‘I – I –’ stuttered Doreen impressively.
‘That’s my girl,’ chuckled Kate, patting Doreen’s inert hand. ‘Ah’m going to tell you a story, sweetheart. It’s a very long story, one which spans centuries, but take it from me you’ll not get bored. You’ll discover why your hair is the colour it is and why you, of all women on earth, are destined for this task. Don’t worry, dahling, surely ruling the world can’t be as difficult as bringing up two children, and you’ve made a very fine job of that.’
‘I – uh!’
‘Still monosyllabic? Only to be expected. Sit yourself down. Ah’ll brew up, as you British like to say, and then we’ll begin.’
And so it was that Doreen Coddle inherited the title from Kate and became Gaia, Supreme Goddess of the Sisterhood of Helen, Defender of Knowledge and Mother of Blessed Lycia, descended by clear and unbroken bloodline from Helen of Troy herself, committed by solemn oath to nurture, preserve and protect the Earth for the sakes of her own children and those of every mother on the planet.
What a day!
Doreen poured the coffee, picked up the tray of steaming mugs and chocolate digestive biscuits, and nudged her way out of the kitchenette through a pair of battered swinging doors and into the salon beyond.
‘Here we go, girls, and I’ve found some naughty bum-fatteners to dunk!’
Doreen Coddle ran the world.
She was a hairdresser from Chipping Sodbury.
CHAPTER TWO
The lush green fields of the Severn Vale wheeled sedately, turning slowly as the bird circled high above, his senses alert to the faint thermal rising from the chequerboard of sun-heated pastures far below. He soared effortlessly as the rising updraught caught him, lifting him on wings spread wide. He rarely flew this high, preferring to flit among the trees, but the day was so grand he just had to give in to instinct. The feeling of freedom was profoundly pleasurable, as it was to all birds who could be bothered to heave their sorry feathered butts into the air. This particular bird had little sympathy for his cousins who merely strutted and fluttered on the ground. They were invariably nervous, always looking over their shoulders for predators. He avoided nervous birds if he could. Their conversation tended to be stressful, to say the least. Another swirl of warm air caught him at an awkward angle and he adjusted his body without even thinking, such was his consummate mastery of flying. He prided himself on his skills and could be as nimble of wing as a hawk, no mean feat for such a big bird. Yes, it was a lovely afternoon and he basked in the bright sunshine, his back and head warmed pleasantly by that friendly yellow ball in the sky.
Presently, peering to the side, he spied the Lady River Buzzard a little way off. She swung in closer, riding the airs effortlessly, and joined him on the other side of the thermal, the two swinging around in a lazy, unhurried circle, nonchalantly spiralling ever upwards with leisurely elegance. Slowly, she caught him up until the two were flying almost wing tip to wing tip. She was acquainted with him and called out politely. He replied with a brief squawk of his own. With the courtesies nicely handled, the buzzard dipped her wings fractionally in respect, then rolled away and dived, peeling off to patrol her favourite hunting grounds along the banks of the Severn. Any vole or rabbit foolhardy enough not to keep its eyes peeled wouldn’t survive long with such an accomplished hunter stalking from above.
He watched her glide away until she was just a tiny dot, then looked to his own affairs. Below, he recognised the intricate jigsaw pattern of tree-dotted hedges, of roofs and roads, streams and ponds, and took great comfort from their familiarity. Down there, amongst the scattered dark green copses and golden squares of rape, lay the tiny village of Prior’s Norton and home.
Home! The bird was entirely familiar with the human concept of home: a place of belonging, somewhere comfortable and safe, where good food and interesting conversation could be enjoyed, and where love could be shared. The bird knew all about love. He loved as a child loves, unreservedly, uncomplicated, as deep as the soul; and he knew his love was returned with the same simple intensity. This was the cornerstone of his life. Most people just couldn’t understand, just did not comprehend how a creature, a mere bird, could enjoy and reciprocate such an intensely human emotion, but the bird did not care about them. All he cared about was his mummy and daddy.
He took one final look around. The landscape was breathtaking: the rollercoaster humpbacked Malverns to the north; the bare-breasted convexity of May Hill crowned by its nipple of fir trees to the west; the dark rolling woodlands of the Forest of Dean spreading south, the shining silver band of the river snaking through its fertile grasslands; and dominating the east, the long solid ridge of the Cotswold escarpment. Yes, it really was very nice indeed – but not quite as nice as Brazil!
Tucking in his wings, Bertie angled down into a delightful shallow dive, his feathers ruffling pleasantly. Wind hissed softly as his speed increased, but he did things with his long tail to scrub off some of the excess velocity, keeping things nicely dignified. After all, he was a hyacinth macaw and knew all about dignity.
Below, he saw Celeste sitting at a table set on the lawn beside a shady tree. She was engrossed in her book and so he trilled a happy call. She looked up, waved and patted the chair next to her. ‘Here, Bertie. Mummy loves you.’ The sound of her voice filled him with a deep joy and he spiralled down in a tight corkscrew, banking to display his full wingspan, before executing a perfect landing on the back of the chair. It swayed and creaked under his weight. He sidled over for petting and nibbles. Celeste obliged both generously, putting her book to one side and concentrating on her beloved Bertie. He lapped up the attention and, as he always did nowadays, broke into a paean of contented purring.
Presently, she rummaged in a bowl and handed a fat walnut to him. He crushed the tough shell with ease and extracted the oily nut inside with delicate dexterity. ‘Thank you, Mummy,’ he said, as polite as always. He’d been brought up well.
‘My pleasure. Do you want some more?’
‘Yes, I do,’ came the immediate reply. He knew the answer to that question and was rewarded with another nut as an extra treat. Celeste stroked along his back and down the length of his majestic tail feathers. Now thirty-seven years old, Bertie was well into his prime, a stocky, heavily-bodied macaw with a head bigger than her fist, forty inches in length and with a five-foot wingspan. His thick plumage was immaculate, a deep violet-blue, dazzling in the warm sunshine. His entire body was covered in glorious azure except for glowing yellow patches bordering his bill and matching panda rings around his alert brown eyes.
Not a feather was out of place. He groomed every day without fail and was as fastidious in his personal habits as any fashion-conscious teenager. Celeste tickled under his viciously curved black bill and the purring waxed. He closed his brown eyes and lapped up the attention. Now that Sebastian was gone, he had no rival. The Persian found country living just too messy. He was simply too hirsute; a town cat, he needed to be near a grooming salon. A few months at the cottage had reduced his effeminate fur to a muddy tangle of matted knots interspersed with the occasional captured twig. The final straw came when sever
al robins checked him out as a possible nesting site. He now lived in pampered luxury with Patti Duke-Warrender at her London home where, apparently, he’d taken to pissing on her prized peonies. Bertie was not surprised at the cat’s total lack of respect and thought his departure no loss to the household, but was saddened when his great friend Barnstable scuttled off to hamster heaven at the advanced age of four. Bertie really liked the little chap, often feeding him nut after nut just to see how big his bulging cheeks could actually get, and stood with Celeste when James buried him under the oak at the top of the garden.
So now the household just comprised Bertie with his mum and dad, and all three couldn’t be happier.
It had been two years since Vivian Bell won the election, an election precipitated by Bertie, whose innocent and entirely unexpected outing of James Timbrill had been the last straw for the old Government. Now sulking in opposition, they and James had parted company with little love lost on either side. Incredibly, James was still the MP for Gloucester North, even though he’d tried really hard to retire. Unfortunately, he’d not taken into account the strength of feeling and stubborn loyalty of his constituents, who had cajoled, badgered and bullied him into standing as an Independent, and he’d romped home at the election with all the other candidates losing their deposits – no MP had a greater majority. He had entirely misjudged their mood, expecting condemnation and vilification, but instead finding that they cared not one jot for his well-publicised proclivities. He was universally liked in the city and commanded huge local support – unlike at Westminster, where his life was made spectacularly uncomfortable by every other Member in the House.
Unsurprisingly, the political establishment was horrified at his reappearance and viewed this trend towards active local democracy as a direct threat to their cosy lifestyles and troughing ways. At first James was the only Independent MP in the House and had a tough time. Parliament was a place where original thinking had long been discouraged. Spank-happy leather fetishists they could just about tolerate, the Speaker sensibly invoking the general principle of stones and greenhouses, but a combination of both independence of mind and political persuasion were regarded with deep antipathy.
And then the inevitable happened. An unusually high number of by-elections had, astonishingly, all returned Independent MPs, cutting into Viv’s majority and eroding his power steadily. Commonly referred to as the IMPS, James now found himself as unofficial leader of a loosely affiliated group of six Independents who owed no allegiance to any party and were pledged to reflect the wishes of their constituents. As was pointed out regularly in the political press, the only whip he now enjoyed was Celeste’s!
Inevitably, and to much chortling amusement, as Gloucester’s IMP, he was now widely and aptly referred to as the GIMP. Some of those who’d also suffered from Hugo Chaplain’s malign influence re-entered Parliament as Independents and looked to James as their saviour. By some bizarre quirk of fate, all became known by their geographical location. Peterborough’s independent adopted the somewhat unfortunate title of PIMP, Shrewsbury became SHRIMP, Blyth became BLIMP and Crewe, CRIMP. Poor unfortunate Loughborough very definitely became LIMP, and finally there was the other one no one could ever remember because Exeter simply didn’t alliterate. Although the subject of much ridicule in the corridors of power, and universally vilified in the House, the IMPs were held in great respect by their constituents, many of whom developed a thriving interest in politics once they knew they actually had a say in proceedings.
The other parties did not like this.
James found life suddenly very agreeable indeed. He and Celeste had been happily married for two years. Wife, lover and mistress still, she controlled him with consummate skill, providing a rock-solid home life which helped him cope with the pressures of Westminster. Sustained by her love and the unqualified support of his constituents, he had gained a reputation as an excellent Parliamentarian, either voting for, or against, the Government in accordance with the wishes of his constituents.
The other parties did not like this, either.
Being an IMP, he was no longer at the beck and call of the executive. His status as persona non grata meant his mobile phone remained mercifully silent. Mornings were usually spent in the constituency, dealing with local matters, conducting consultations and attending surgeries. He canvassed views utilizing an interactive website which explained the arcane mysteries of Westminster in layman’s terms. This website was much visited and whenever he held meetings, James found his constituents intelligent and well aware of the implications of upcoming legislation. James debated and answered questions, then his constituents voted on whether they felt he should or should not support the Government and James trotted off to the House to oblige them accordingly.
And boy, did the other parties really not like this. Not one bit!
Viv’s Government had enjoyed the usual hundred days’ honeymoon period before slowly sliding into a morass of ill-conceived legislation and financial scandal. The trouble was, as it had been with the previous government, the calibre of his MPs. This was questionable to say the least, and the lure of fiddling their expenses, hawking their services to vested interests and awarding themselves obscene pay rises proved just too much of a temptation. The gravy train was up and running bang on schedule again, with stops at Greed Junction, Backhander Halt and Dirty Money Depot. The public had shown their disgust in the usual way, firstly with another lively egging campaign, then following this up by returning IMP after IMP at each by-election – and slowly but surely, Bell’s slender majority shrank. People liked what James was doing. Only he and his little band of IMPs were effective in tackling voter apathy and general political despondency. The main party MPs were again exposed as career politicians, their absolute priority being to continue their careers, usually to the detriment of their constituents. These characters possessed second-rate brains but excellent vision – both eyes firmly fixed on the main chance.
With James and the IMPs blazing a trail of honesty through the House, these inadequacies were highlighted time and again, giving leather-loving bondage boy James ample opportunity to take the moral high ground on honesty and probity – something which always tickled the press, exasperated his former colleagues and entertained the public. Suddenly, politics was fun again.
James enjoyed bumbling around his constituency meeting people. He opened new shops, awarded prizes at village fetes and led sponsored walks for charities, and wherever he went he was invariably met with a grin and a wink. Elderly ladies, in particular, always seemed far more interested in his private life than his political effectiveness. He now expected a little teasing before matters turned political, but no longer found such good-humoured comments offensive and managed to fend off all enquiries as to the specifics with a knowing smile. What would have been a perversion too far a few years ago was now accepted as a lifestyle choice. Well, it was in Gloucester, anyway!
If James was at home, nobody bothered to call him after lunch. They knew he would be indisposed. It was well known he spent most afternoons ‘meditating’, as Celeste once told the press. This fooled no one, of course. The entire country knew exactly what was going on, and ‘meditating’ was fast becoming a popular euphemism.
‘Shall we go home and meditate, dear?’
‘I’m going to meditate your arse off!’
‘If you think I’m going to meditate in the back of that crappy little Vauxhall Corsa, think again!’
This caused untold problems for British Buddhists.
Celeste, too, had become something of a celebrity, despite her very best efforts to avoid such a catastrophic career move. She preferred to live a quiet life at home in the country. She sometimes missed London. Well, the shows at any rate, but little else. It was definitely a young person’s place, dynamic and bustling, but Gloucestershire was drop dead gorgeous and the people fantastically eccentric, which made up for its occasional cultural poverty.
Media interest remained unabated after the
election and she had to fend off tiresome enquiries and turn away interview offers on an almost daily basis. Lenses poked over the hedge and took long-range snaps but no paparazzi had the courage to get any closer. Bertie’s fearsome reputation was sufficient to discourage even the most determined hack, but she was thankful that these irritations had finally declined in the last year or so, leaving her to pastoral tranquillity.
It had all been far too exciting, but now the three of them had settled into domestic bliss, a hackneyed phrase but in this case actually true.
Thoroughly contented after his nutty snack and made drowsy by the warmth, Bertie was taken unawares by a short snooze, so Celeste returned to her book. She relaxed in perfect comfort, despite the unusual nature of her outfit. She wore a high-necked blouse, double-breasted with shiny silver buttons; a stiff Victorian-style corset; a calf-length pencil skirt, pleasantly tight about her hips; nylons and towering stiletto court shoes. Impractical on a lawn, certainly, but at least the turf got aerated regularly. All this sun-heated black leather exuded a deliciously earthy aroma which she found delightful. Her uniquely burnished red hair glowed like molten copper, the wavy tresses held back tightly by a simple studded strap, the ponytail flowing down over one leather-clad shoulder in a torrent of liquid ginger. This was her signature look, and despite her best efforts to avoid such a fate, she had graced the front cover of not a few magazines, from gossip rags to coffee table classics. Laboratories across the country scrambled to produce a hair dye that replicated the colour but somehow still couldn’t quite get it right.
Peace settled like a balm over the garden. Constricted delightfully by her stylish costume, Celeste smiled in utter contentment. All was well, all was calm, all was under control. James was on his way home from Westminster for a well-deserved weekend of meditation and the outré costume she wore had been carefully chosen as a welcome home treat. She had something special lined up for him, a task for him to complete. He’d attempted this task a number of times before and had always been unsuccessful, inevitably because his excitement got the better of him, but she’d been training him diligently and was confident her wonderful slave and gorgeous husband would come through with flying colours this time. If not – well, there was always the whip to help him concentrate. And, of course, the whip would still be used as a reward for success.
Bertie and the Hairdresser Who Ruled the World Page 2