Moorcock, Michael - Jerry Cornelius 07

by The Adventures Of Una Perrson (and Catherinr Cornelius) (v1. 0)

  The taxi took the short, privileged route through the city and was soon in the suburbs, driving along streets lined with pines and birches, the timber houses of the rich, set back from the street, consciously built in the Swiss chalet style beloved of Edwardians who had settled in the English Lake District. These streets reminded her of New England and she felt a pang of loss.

  The airport came in sight. She rubbed at the misted windows of the taxi. There were several gigantic airships moored there, most of them military craft, drifting at their masts in the wind. She saw the only civil vessel with its Cyrillic inscriptions, its black imperial eagles on their yellow backgrounds. In the semi-darkness its cabin lights were already glowing. Masses of lambent grey cloud swelled on the horizon. She anticipated the warmth and the luxury of the ship.

  The taxi crossed the grass. Porters came forward to remove her trunks as the hovercab's engine stopped and the machine sighed to a halt. A loading derrick had been manoeuvred into position. The porters fitted her trunks onto its platform. An office, in the dark green of the civil air service, politely took her papers. It was obvious that he had been expecting her, for he hardly looked at the documents before handing them back. He was quietly admiring. His nose wrinkled as her perfume reached him. 'We are honoured to have you with us on this flight, Mademoiselle Persson.'

  'You are kind.' She gave him one of her endless smiles.

  He led her to the passenger derrick. Unlike the other one, this was covered in sheets of aluminium, decorated with the insignia of the Swedish airline. She entered the lift. He pressed the button for her.

  'You are holidaying in Russia?' he wanted to know.

  'A little pleasure, a little work,' she told him.

  The lift stopped and the door slid open. The short covered gangway between the derrick and the ship moved very slightly as she crossed it to be greeted by a steward in white and green livery. 'Good evening, ma'am.' He was English and seemed glad to welcome a fellow national.

  The officer said: 'Will you show mademoiselle to her cabin?'

  'With pleasure.' He led her along the narrow companionway. Tiny bulbs lit it, set into the slightly curved roof With a key he opened a door about half-way along. He switched on a light for her. 'There is a bedroom through there,' he said. The cabin was quite small, but comfortably furnished. She would have been glad of a window in the far wall, but the only porthole looked out onto the companionway and the observation windows beyond it. No airship cabins looked directly out into the sky.

  She took her tiny purse from her muff and tipped the steward. He thanked her enthusiastically, showing her where she could find the service bell, the telephone if she wished the wireless operator to connect her with a number. When he had gone she shrugged off the furs and lay down on the wide bed, reading the standard literature, which was in Russian, smoking one of the cigarettes from the box the company had provided. She slid her hand over her silk dress, pulling the material up so that she could scratch her leg where her stocking met her suspender. She felt wonderful.

  A little later she sensed the ship shudder as it freed itself from its mooring and turned slowly towards the east. By morning they would be over St. Petersburg.

  She undressed and got into her black pyjamas, putting on a matching cap to protect her elaborately waved hair, removing her makeup. Then she got into bed, put out the light and let the distant sound of the motors, the gentle swaying of the ship, send her to sleep.

  She was awakened by a juddering, by gunfire. She ran to the porthole, seeing nothing but darkness on the other side of the observation windows. She put on her dressing-gown, opened the cabin door, went out to peer downwards through the perspex. She heard the booming of big guns, saw their flashes below. Searchlights suddenly blinded her. Her steward ran up. 'Best get inside, ma'am.'

  ‘This is horrible!' she complained, as if he was at fault. The war is over!'

  ‘For most people, ma'am.' . The airline should have warned us of any potential trouble.' She retreated and slumped on her bed. 'Oh, it's too bad!'

  'Don't worry. We'll soon be out of range. We're making very good speed, with the wind behind us.'

  'But we are losing height!'

  'It'll be all right.'

  She knew enough about the handling of airships to realize that his assurances were meaningless. The ship lurched. The steward fell against her, clutching the rail above the bed. 'Beg pardon, ma'am.' He tried to steady her with his free hand. She shook him off. 'Well,' he said, 'I'd better . . . ' He staggered through the door and she slammed it behind him. She began to dress and make-up. Her old instincts were coming back. If the ship did go down it was as well to be ready for whoever might have won her.

  The cabin tilted from stem to stern. All her belongings slid along the floor into a heap against the wall. The ship righted herself slightly, but then came a terrifying scraping from below, a trembling bump. Quite suddenly all motion ceased. Una got her door open, swaying on high heels. The steward was still in the companionway. His head was bleeding. The perspex of the observation windows was smashed. They appeared to have crashed in a forest. She saw the outlines of pines. She saw figures moving amongst the trees. Riders appeared in the dawn light, their long hair blowing behind them. They were dressed in wolfskin and leather. They had rifles.

  Una returned to her cabin and sat down miserably on her bed. She was far too tired for any more excitement.

  There were no more shots, but she heard yells, screams, raised voices. She experienced a passing flash oidejd vu. She heard people in the companionway. She went outside.

  The marauders who had brought down the ship were gently forcing the passengers back into the cabins. T'm sorry,' one of them said, 'we thought this was a warship. We'll do what we can for you.' All the marauders were female. All were good-looking. Some were very young, barely more than ten years old. They had fresh, healthy faces. It was as if nuns and their pupils had become long-haired bandits overnight. They all had rifles slung on their backs and had thick fur jerkins, almost as a uniform.

  'Don't you know the war is over?' Una asked one of the children. 'Didn't you know that?'

  The girl looked at her uncomprehendingly. Una said in Russian: There is an amnesty for everyone. The war is finished.'

  The girl smiled and touched her dress. 'You are very pretty.' She fingered Una between her legs.

  'Oh!' Una was exasperated. 'Who is your commander? Where is he?' She half-suspected Cornelius.

  The child pointed down the companionway. A girl, in black and white skins, was marching towards them, her face brightening as she recognized Una. 'Get the cargo off. Hurry, girls!' She was eating a piece of meat. 'Well, well, well. This is a turn up, eh, Una? Were you after this ship, too?'

  'I just wanted to go to St Petersburg in peace.' Una realized she was still wearing her night-cap and snatched it off, patting at her hair. 'Are these your people, Catherine? What point is there in shooting us down?'

  'We thought it was a military airship, honestly. I'm very sorry, Una. Aren't you pleased to see me?'

  'Haven't you heard about the amnesty?'

  'No. We're a bit cut off here, me and my gang.'

  'Gang? You with a gang?'

  'I used to have a gang, years ago. In Whitechapel. Before I got caught and improved.' Catherine was in a jolly mood. Her laughter was hearty. 1 haven't introduced us properly. Catherine Cornelius and her All Girl Guerrillas! Aren't you tickled?' She was as bad as her brother, when she felt like it.

  But Una was in no state of mind to accept Catherine's levity. Her new way of life had cost her too much. 'You've ruined everything, Catherine. Playing at soldiers.'

  'It runs in the family,' Catherine told her. 'Actually, I had a feeling I might be bumping into you soon.'

  'How on earth did you turn up in this zone? In this godforsaken place?'

  'It suited me. I had to get away from it all.' Catherine studied her friend's face. 'You're not yourself today, are you, Una?'

  'No thanks to
you, you silly bitch.' Una simply did not see any reason for disguising her feelings. She had never been more angry, yet already the intensity of her emotion was fading and when Catherine seized her head between her mittened hands and kissed her firmly, Una did not resist.

  'I said I was sorry,' Catherine told her, nuzzling her ear. 'You're looking so lovely. And since we managed to hit the ship, we might as well loot it. My kids are starving.'

  'Why did you bring them out here?'

  'I didn't know there was an amnesty, did I? We'd blown up all these bridges, for one thing. And railways. And there was the garrison we massacred. We were trying to free the Ukraine.' Catherine swept her hair from her face. 'We got pushed back, of course. Oh, don't be so bloody pompous, Una. It's not like you!'

  Una sulked on principle.

  'Did you say you were going to St Petersburg?' asked Catherine.

  'I had everything set up,' Una complained. 'The last thing I needed was another shambles. I'm tired. I want peace. Order. A quiet life with no responsibilities. Have you seen your brother?'

  'No. I thought he was with you.'

  'He's out. I was getting out. Frank's out. Even Major bloody Nye is out. But you're suddenly right in it, for the first time, doing God knows what damage!'

  Catherine was hurt. 'I thought I was helping.'

  'It's a fine fucking time to decide to become an activist, just when everything's settling down.'

  That's hardly my fault.'

  'Oh, bugger off,' said Una. She returned to her cabin and sat on her bed again. 1||

  Catherine followed her in. 'I wanted to do something useful,' she said plaintively.

  Una scowled at her.

  'Look,' said Catherine, taking her friend's limp hand. 'What you need is a holiday.'

  'I was just about to have one!'

  'Let's have one together, then? Wouldn't you like that? Like old times?'

  'Together? Riding about the frozen bloody forest shooting at airships?'

  'If the war's over, there's nothing left for us to do. You and I'll go somewhere. I'll tell my girls about the amnesty. They'll be all right.'

  Una sucked her lower lip as tenderly Catherine stroked her face. 'I'll look after you,' said Catherine. 'It seems as if things have been rough. I'll keep you safe and warm, Una.'

  Una buried her head in Catherine's half-cured skins and began, contentedly, to sob.

  Catherine raised her to her feet. 'Come on, then, love.' Una let Catherine lead her through the embarkation doors, down the metal stairway to the ground. A big roan stallion snorted as he recognized his mistress. His breath was white and warm. There was a smell of snow. Catherine climbed into her saddle and reached down to help her friend up. Una sat sideways on the horse in front of Catherine who kicked at the stallion's flanks. The sun was rising as the roan galloped through the frosty trees towards the east. Red light flooded the snow. 'New century soon,' said Catherine, as if to comfort Una. 'All in all I didn't think a lot of the last one.'

  Una felt her spirits rising, for all that the jogging motion of the horse was making her slightly sick. She put her arms around Catherine's neck and kissed her. Catherine supported her back with a strong right hand. 'This won't take long. I've a jeep waiting in the valley.'

  'Where are we going?' Una asked. Like a damsel in distress she had been rescued and was reconciled.

  'Somewhere nice,' Catherine promised.

  'Not the future?'

  'Of course not. Somewhere safe.'

  The hard earth gave way to grass. The snow had almost all melted here, for the proper winter had hardly begun. The horse slowed its pace as they descended towards a number of shacks in the valley below. That was our camp,' said Catherine. 'We were almost completely self-sufficient.'

  'I've made such a balls-up of things,' said Una.

  'Nonsense. I bet you've done wonders. You're the finest Elfberg of them all!'

  Una stared up at her friend in astonishment. Then she kissed her firmly on the cheek.

  Catherine pursed her lips in a confident whistle.

  Part Three

  LIMPING HOME: THE PROBLEMS OF RETIREMENT

  So you thought silk stockings had had their day. Think again. Besides the male enthusiasts who bemoan the end of the suspender era they now have a new fan. None other than the fashion queen Mary Quant! She believes that 1976 will be The Year of the Sensual Woman and, to celebrate, she has produced a range of beautiful real silk stockings. Mary says: 'Not only will you feel like a lady, but you will have to be treated like one. Things like car doors will have to be opened for you, simply because you cannot afford to snag these stockings.'

  DAILY MIRROR, 3 November 1975

  TWENTY-FOUR

  In which our heroines, for the moment weary from their exploits in the world, enjoy the comforts of peacetime

  It was 1939 on a warm sunny day and Catherine Cornelius took Una Persson to tea in the roof garden of Derry and Toms. The garden had only been opened that year and it was to enjoy considerable vogue before the war came to make such places unfashionable. Both ladies were dressed to the nines in the styles they were favouring this summer, Catherine in her rather sporty tweed jacket and golfing skirt and Una in her pale green chiffon frock. Conscious of the other women sitting at the little white tables overlooking the ornamental ponds, Catherine was careful not to touch Una who was, as it happened, in one of her sensitive moods.

  They chewed their cucumber sandwiches. They sipped weak tea. Around them came the sounds of lazy bees.

  All day Catherine had been trying to amuse Una, to draw her out of her mood of sultry melancholy. 'You are looking so much better, dear,' she said now. 'Has your head gone?'

  ‘It's still there.' Una languidly laid her sandwich upon its plate. 'But it's better.' She sighed.

  'And the cinema? Do you still want to go?'

  ‘I am rather fatigued, after all the shopping.'

  Then we'll go straight home,' said Catherine. 'You can relax and ril cook you a charming supper.'

  'You are so good to me, my dear,' said Una raising a wide grey eye. 'If I were only healthier . . . ' She uttered a delicate cough.

  'You are an artist,' Catherine told her, 'and artists must be nurtured. Ah, look, here is Mr Koutrouboussis.' Mr Koutrouboussis was an impresario who had telephoned Una that morning to offer her the star part in his new West End production. 'Hello, Mr Koutrouboussis.'

  The dignified old man sailed up to them, lifting his topper. 'Ladies, What a pleasure! Ladies!'

  'You will join us for a moment, Mr Koutrouboussis?'

  'Oh, ladies! An honour.' He removed his hat and held it with his gloves and cane in his left hand, drawing forth a chair. He seated himself. 'You have had time to consider my suggestion. Miss Pers-son?'

  'Not yet, I fear. Too soon. Too soon, Mr Koutrouboussis.' J

  'Aha. Of course.' He stroked his imperial beard as he contemplated the menu. 'Hm. Tea.'

  'He . . . ' Catherine Cornelius hesitated, looking at Una through intense china-blue eyes. 'You . . .'

  'Who?' Mr Koutrouboussis raised his own eyes above the level of the menu.

  'Una. Una,' said Catherine. 'What's the part?'

  ‘Today?'

  'The play,' clarified Catherine.

  'An excellent part,' said Mr Koutrouboussis. 'Perfect for Miss Per-sson. From Yictory, you know. With music'

  'A musical comedy?' Catherine asked. 'How lovely.' |

  'Based on Conrad,' said Una, without inflection. '

  'Do you know Conrad, Miss Cornelius?' asked Mr. Koutrouboussis.

  'The name rings a bell,' said Catherine. 'Once, perhaps. Long ago.' ; She watched as a large, fat clergyman and his skinny daughter sat down at the next table and ordered pastries.

  'He was a sweetie,' said Una. 'A sweetie.'

  'All my life,' said Mr Koutrouboussis, 'I have admired his eye, exactitude, his sweep.'

  'My brother,' said Catherine, 'has arrived, I gather, and is staying at Blenheim Crescent, while Moth
er . . .'

  'He was abroad?' said Una.

  'A postcard came. From Pom Pen. In China.'

  'What was he doing there?' Una asked. fl

  'Wasting time, as usual, I suppose.' She saw someone she recog-^ nized, sitting on her own at a table in the far corner. She leaned forward to whisper to Una. 'Don't look now, but that's our old schoolteacher, Miss Brunner. Hasn't she aged!'

  'Your brother's bete noir?”

  'That's the one.' Catherine could not resist a second glance. Miss

  Brunner was being joined by another amazon. 'She's meeting our old German teacher here. Ho, ho! What can they be up to?'

  'Very little, by the look of 'em,' said Una with some sudden animation. She relaxed again, studying Mr K as he studied the menu. 'Hm.'

  She produced a jade holder and fitted a cigarette. Mr Koutrou-boussis hurried through his pockets and found a gold lighter. She puffed.

  Catherine giggled to herself.

  Una, with a glance at her tiny watch, rose. 'Well.'

  Mr Koutrouboussis leapt to his feet.

  ‘Please don't,' said Una. He descended.

  Catherine began to gather up their parcels.

  'A lift,' said Mr Koutrouboussis. 'Could I offer?'

  'No,' said Una. 'Thank you. We have the car.'

  'Oh, Una,' said Catherine as they paid at the till, 'you were so haughty.'

  Una smiled.

  When they arrived at the exit they saw that the sky had clouded. Wait here, darling.' Catherine put the parcels into the arms of a doorman. 'I'll fetch the car. It's turning chilly.'

  With poise Una waited until Catherine drove up to the kerb. The doorman piled the parcels into the back of the car. Una sat beside Catherine.

  They drove through the afternoon streets of Kensington and arrived at last at the house in Holland Park Avenue, borrowed from Catherine's brother. It was high and white. Catherine drove the car into the garage. They disembarked, carrying their parcels to the front door.

  Their arrival had been observed. The door opened. Mrs Cornelius stood there, a cigarette in her carmine lips. She was expressionless.