Bertie and the Hairdresser Who Ruled the World

by Mike A Vickers

  ‘Jenny looks after the gardens and grows our vegetables. She’s also a very good cook. Then there’s me and Mama, Maggie the demon turf-tipper and Gaia’s assistant, Sandra. She comes over at weekends because she’s not getting any cock and has nothing better to do.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’

  ‘It’s a source of amusement to us all.’

  ‘And how many abroad?’

  ‘Sisters are close to the powerful in just about every country in the world,’ said Doreen. ‘You know what they say – behind every man is a great woman. There’s more truth in that than you can imagine. In all, there’s about four hundred. Also, because of our long association with Turkey, our chief historian, Jodi Taylor, is currently overseeing the restoration of Patara, and a fine job she’s doing as well. Jodi has induced the authorities to commence a reinstatement of the old pharos, the lighthouse at the entrance to the harbour. The Turks have only recently begun to appreciate their staggering archaeological heritage and, unlike in this country, where we merely preserve our ruins, they’ve adopted an enthusiastic policy of reconstructing their ancient buildings using all the original stones, most of which still lie where they fell. It’s a remarkable programme and we’re proud to be involved, albeit in our usual subtle manner.’

  ‘The Lycians established their national assembly in Patara and a bouletarion was built there, next to the amphitheatre,’ added Cutie.

  ‘What the hell’s a bouletarion?’

  ‘A council building,’ explained Doreen. ‘It’s like a smaller version of the main theatre, but a bit grander. The Lycian Federation met there to vote on the issues of the day, but it also doubled up as the venue for the new Sisterhood. It’s lost its roof now, but you can still visit Patara and see the ruins. I’ve been there myself. Got some photos somewhere of Bernie pottering around. You and I will have to go. Even we have traditions, and each new Gaia is dedicated inside the bouletarion at Patara.’

  ‘I can’t go to Turkey!’

  ‘Of course you can. We’ll drive to Birmingham and jump on an Airbus! We’ll have a great time. It was in Patara that the fledgling concepts of democracy and representation were established. Lovely, bountiful, rich, peaceful Lycia had already proved democracy could work, and the sisters went out to spread the message throughout the world.’

  Cutie nodded. ‘Its matriarchal society was dedicated to nurturing and caring. The Lycians were peaceful unless threatened, strong in defence, generous in spirit, just in law and fair in judgement. We know all this today because the Sisterhood had long established itself at the heart of their society and our records are very clear – you can read them yourself if your Lycian and ancient Greek are up to scratch.’

  ‘I’m hungry,’ announced Bertie to no one in particular. It was one of his regular general requests for comestibles.

  ‘There’s some fruit in the kitchen,’ said Martha, joining them. ‘What does he eat?’

  ‘Ask him yourself,’ replied Celeste. ‘Use simple words and you’ll probably get a response.’

  ‘Simple words?’

  ‘Yes. Monosyllabic.’ She paused, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. ‘I’ve been led to believe you’re good at Scrabble, Martha, so I’m sure you can think of a few.’ She winked at Cutie, who was trying desperately to stifle her giggles at Mama’s sudden discomfort. The situation appeared to be causing some considerable confusion for Martha. She glanced at Doreen, perhaps hoping for a word of encouragement from her Gaia, but all Doreen did was raise an eyebrow fractionally. Cutie, helpfully, slapped Martha hard between the shoulder-blades and she stumbled forward, suddenly finding herself face to face with the big macaw. Bertie regarded her with what could only be described as a withering stare.

  ‘Bertie?’ she asked, somewhat querulously.

  ‘Yes,’ came the response. ‘I’m Bertie. Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Martha.’

  ‘Oh. Jolly good.’ This was a new phrase for Bertie. He’d been waiting for the appropriate moment to use it. This seemed the time. It was delivered with all the haughty disdain of a dowager duchess encountering an unhygienic gentleman of the road while out walking her pompadoured Pekingese.

  ‘Do you want some fruit?’

  Bertie recognised the words and their pleasurable consequence. Perhaps this old grey woman was nice after all. Wilf was nice. He was old and grey as well. Perhaps this was something common to all old and grey people. He thought for a moment, then said, ‘Yes.’ There was another short pause. ‘Please,’ he added, remembering his manners.

  ‘Not pears,’ advised Celeste. ‘Definitely not pears!’

  ‘I think we have some apples and bananas.’

  ‘Thank you, that will be fine.’ Martha scuttled off to the kitchens, relieved to have survived the short interview.

  ‘Mummy?’

  ‘Yes, my love.’

  ‘Fly?’

  ‘Yes.’

  With permission granted, Bertie leapt up and, with a powerful sweep of his wings, soared away over the gables. The conversation had been too quick and complex for him to understand so, with boredom setting in, he decided to explore while waiting for his food. The Hall swung around beneath him, surrounded by its fertile, kaleidoscopic gardens. The rounded hill covering the Temple was dotted with snoozing sheep. Another building nearby took his interest and he swooped in for a closer look. A pentagonal folly housed the primary mirror for the Temple’s peerless lighting system. Visible only from the air, the structure was subtly camouflaged from prying eyes by a thick ring of holly trees.

  Bertie took it all in. This was a very pretty place. The trees reminded him of the jungle back in Brazil. Not quite as dense, of course, but quite acceptable nonetheless – and the sun above was most agreeably warm on his back. He floated on air both warm and sweetly scented, drifting at leisure, then saw the old lady returning with fruit. He descended in a stately manner to land on the back of his chair again in a rush of air, then sidled up to the bowl and got stuck into an apple, trilling happily to himself as he peeled off the skin. Yes, perhaps she wasn’t so bad after all.

  Celeste stroked him gently. She stared around at the Hall and its exquisite gardens. ‘How on earth do you pay for all this? Sorry to bring up something so mundane as money, but I just can’t see how it’s done.’

  ‘Well, for a start we don’t pay any salaries,’ said Cutie, ‘which is why Gaia still owns her own hairdressing salon. This is a vocation, not a career. Also, in an organization as old as ours, we have accrued substantial resources over the centuries by the simple process of natural accumulation – if you invested a few pounds each year starting at the end of the English Civil War then the compound interest over the best part of four hundred years would now make it many hundreds of thousands of pounds. In addition, the Home Farm attached to Temple Hall has always been extremely profitable, so that takes care of our everyday needs and gives us all a share of the surplus at the end of the year. None of us need much to live on. Our board and lodgings are free, the food is home grown and there’s always the Pythia’s betting tips to top up the kitty, keeping me in clothes and paying for Mama’s weekly lessons at Grumpy College!’

  Doreen gave Celeste a speculative glance. ‘All these questions. Yes, I can understand your desire to know more, but I think you’ve been procrastinating. There’s one question you haven’t asked, yet it’s the most important.’

  Celeste nodded. She felt a growing admiration and respect for this Doreen. ‘Why now?’ she asked.

  ‘Because we have to help you fight this conspiracy. You’re family now, Celeste, and we protect our own. That attack on James was just the beginning. You and Bertie are now also under immediate threat and we can’t allow that. You’re too important, and not just to us. Your husband is on the verge of changing the political landscape of this country – and for the better. That process has to continue at all costs and this will be the only chance we have of stopping those who oppose him. Do not underestimate how far they’ll go to preserve their influence
and fortunes.

  ‘There is also a danger to the Sisterhood. Should these men achieve their goal, then our influence in this country will be severely diminished. Left unchecked, who knows what catastrophes these idiots will lead us into. Consequences could ripple out across the world, setting us back for decades. There’s a lot at stake here, Celeste, and we will do our best to help. Our resources may seem scanty, but my girls all punch above their weight, as you will find out when you’re Gaia. However, it also appears we have a champion.’ Doreen pointed at Bertie, who sat on the back of the chair opposite the table and watched proceedings with his usual lively attention, the half-eaten apple still in one claw.

  ‘Hello,’ he chirped conversationally, aware that he had suddenly become the centre of attention. ‘Buy one, get one free!’

  ‘Maggie’s quite certain. Bertie has an absolutely vital role to play in all this, even though it’s obvious we don’t know what that role is precisely.’

  ‘Bertie!’ exclaimed Celeste, finally descending into a splendid state of total confusion.

  ‘Yes. Bizarre, isn’t it. Somehow, somewhere, and very soon, something is going to happen that only Bertie can resolve, and if he fails, it seems certain this resurgence in democracy, your life with James – and our legacy – will be utterly destroyed!’

  Two hundred yards away, hidden in a copse, the man watched through field glasses. My, this target got about. All these locations she was visiting. This place was something else, mind you. Very pretty – but also nicely isolated. Miller would be tactically interested in that, but not as interested as knowing exactly why she and the bird were here. Something was definitely going on at this Hall.

  His notebook was filling up fast.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ ground out Wilf as Celeste breezed through the front door, Bertie waddling along beside her, chattering happily to himself.

  ‘At the hairdressers, where else – and I’ll thank you not to take that tone with me,’ she said primly.

  ‘With Bertie?’

  ‘Of course not. I found him perched in a tree down the lane. Didn’t you notice he was gone?’

  ‘I – er, well, he may have given me the slip.’

  ‘I warned you about leaving windows open. Didn’t do a very good job, did you. Fine minder you turned out to be, letting my baby roam around outside on his own. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you fell asleep.’

  ‘Um … I might have dozed for a while,’ admitted Wilf with, it has to be said, a hangdog expression of guilt.

  ‘Wilf, I’m disappointed. Surely you’re not so old you need to have a catnap every afternoon.’

  ‘I am certainly not,’ he replied indignantly, then regarded her with a narrowed expression. She was uncharacteristically calm. Experience had taught Wilf that when it came to Bertie, Celeste veered towards passionate, to say the least. ‘Have you been somewhere?’ he asked suspiciously. ‘Somewhere without me? You’ve been gone a long time.’

  ‘Of course I’ve been somewhere. I visited the bank, shopped a little and had a coffee. I’ve spent the rest of my time at the hairdressers. Honestly, Wilf, you can tell you’re not married. Any husband will tell you this is a serious business.’

  ‘Anywhere else?’ he probed. Her explanation, although reasonable, was not entirely satisfactory. Wilf had been around for long enough to sense when something didn’t add up. For her part, Celeste was determined not to lie. Wilf deserved more, but there was no chance she would ever tell him of her trip to Temple Hall. She suddenly began to realise the enormity of the responsibility Doreen had laid on her and its implications with regard to her personal relationships. The thought of keeping this from James did not sit comfortably.

  ‘You have to understand it takes me longer at the salon than most. I have my image to maintain.’ She tossed her head in the manner she’d seen on those black and white shampoo adverts where moody models smouldered in wild and windswept locations, then threw in a generous amount of pouting for good measure. ‘And you haven’t even complimented me on my hair.’

  Wilf sighed heavily, admitting defeat. ‘It looks very nice,’ he said wearily.

  ‘Too late,’ she sniffed. ‘You had your chance.’

  ‘Get that, would you, Wilf,’ called Celeste from the depths of the cottage. ‘Might be someone you recognise.’

  Wilf considered this highly unlikely as he put down his newspaper, levered his lanky frame off the sofa and went to the front door. He was still in the doghouse from the previous day, but whether for letting Bertie escape or for not noticing her hair was difficult to tell. He knew precisely no one in Gloucestershire so had little confidence this situation was likely to change. ‘All right, I’m coming,’ he muttered in response to another heavy knock. ‘Keep your hair on.’

  If only he had been able to follow his own advice.

  ‘Hello, Wilf. It’s been a while.’

  Wilf gaped, then grinned with delight. ‘Colin! This is a surprise.’

  Colin Kynes pumped his hand enthusiastically, a happy smile splitting his narrow, restless face. ‘How the devil are you? Still catching crims?’

  ‘Fine and yes, or at least for the next few days.’

  ‘Retirement, eh. Good man.’

  ‘Not particularly happy about it, but there isn’t a lot I can do.’

  ‘You’ll survive,’ replied Colin unsympathetically. ‘Great to see you again. Lovely place, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very nice,’ agreed Wilf. Best keep his real reasons for visiting quiet. ‘What on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘It’s a regular trip for me. And for her,’ Colin added, stepping aside to reveal a large cage supported on a wheeled frame. Inside, haughty and aloof as ever, sat a magnificent hyacinth macaw.

  ‘Milly?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You’re not going to bend my ear again, are you?’ asked Wilf cautiously. He had first-hand experience of just how acid-tongued Colin could be, particularly when some randy bird flies in and vigorously shags his prize virgin macaw.

  ‘Not this time, Wilf, but you may remember what I said to you at the time.’

  ‘If I recall correctly – and I do – you said quite a lot of things to me, some of which could have got you arrested.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I was angry.’

  ‘You don’t say. I’d never have guessed, and were you upset because hyacinths mate for life and that Bertie and princess here had tied the matrimonial knot? Till death do us part.’

  ‘I was, they do, and yes, and as a result I have to bring Milly here for regular spells of love leave.’

  ‘So Bertie’s a dad.’

  ‘Twice over. She and Bertie have been good parents and the chicks are strong and healthy. We’re hoping for a third this year, which is why we’re here.’

  ‘Why doesn’t she just come and live here with Bertie? asked Wilf, helping Colin to wheel the cumbersome cage into the lounge.

  ‘The zoo authorities won’t allow it. Milly is far too valuable a specimen to simply give away. Besides, she’s become a bit of a celebrity herself as a result of her association with Bertie, boosting attendance to the aviaries at Regent’s Park.’

  ‘Milly!’ Bertie scampered into the room, his claws clicking on the old oak floorboards. He squawked discordantly, head bobbing, calling out happily.

  ‘Dogger,’ announced Milly in a distinct voice. ‘Moderate or good, occasionally poor.’

  Whether this was a comment on Bertie’s performance was not clear. ‘Never mind,’ he replied.

  ‘Hello, Colin. Lovely to see you again.’ Celeste appeared, kissed the slightly embarrassed aviarist on the cheek and turned her attention to the cage. ‘Hello, Milly, how are you?’ She opened the cage door and drew Milly out on her wrist. Milly’s claws were considerably smaller and less needle-tipped than Bertie’s, but she was careful nonetheless. Milly was still quite capable of drawing blood. She was deposited on top of her cage and stroked affectionately.


  ‘Shall we, gentlemen? Tea in the kitchen, I think. Let’s give these two a little privacy. From past experience, this shouldn’t take long,’ she added wryly. The kitchen was typically country cottage, with a stone flagged floor and old-fashioned oak cabinets. An Aga the size of Doncaster dominated the room. Some of Celeste’s unique mementoes had made the trip from London, including, perched up on a shelf, Brazilian Big Boy and his unfeasibly engorged fertility phallus. Wilf smirked. Now, there was a bloke who could boast proper wood!

  They sat around the table listening to the muffled sounds of raucous squawking coming through the closed door. Bertie was doing his ten-second thing again. Celeste brewed and handed around the dunkers. Digestives. Plain ones. The supreme dunking biscuit, requiring skill to prevent soggy collapse, yet unsurpassed in texture and taste. The little ritual was held in silence, but much appreciated by all.

  ‘Where’s James?’ asked Colin eventually.

  ‘He’s tied up in London,’ replied Celeste, ‘and before you ask, I had nothing to do with it this time. He’s got an important vote in the House tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘Still observing the will of the people.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘I’m full of admiration. Wish we had an MP like him.’

  ‘Well, Colin, if you feel that strongly about it why don’t you stand at the next election. All it’ll cost you is the deposit. You could join my husband’s little band of rebels. What’s your constituency?’

  ‘Chipping Barnet.’

  ‘That would make you a CHIMP.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ he chuckled.

  ‘Will you be staying long? You’re welcome to join us for dinner.’

  ‘I’d love to, Celeste, but I have to get back to work. I’ve an unwell military macaw that needs some TLC.’

  ‘How long will Milly be with us this time?’

  ‘We can spare her for a week if that’s OK with you, although judging by the post-coital silence, I might as well take her home now.’

  ‘At least give them some time together. Bertie does enjoy her visits. Well, he does most of the time, but I don’t think it’s wise to leave her any longer.’