Beautiful Creatures

by Lulu Taylor

  And her social life … well, that was something else. Under Gerry’s auspices, she was being well and truly introduced to society. He’d taken it upon himself to become her walker, escorting her to parties, launches, openings and events. The extravagant birthday party – Aunt Frances’s farewell hurrah – had made people aware of her name but she’d no influential friends and certainly wasn’t on any of the guest lists that counted. All that was swiftly changing thanks to Gerry. Now she was inundated with stiff cards requesting the pleasure of her company here, there and everywhere. On top of that, there were endless letters from charities requesting her patronage or asking her to join a committee, or help organise some ball or other. It sounded boring, but Gerry had helped her sift through them all and had pointed out the ones she should say yes to.

  ‘Darling, this one is lovely Xenia Popolova’s pet charity, it provides toys for Russian orphanages. You know, she had a simply tragic childhood as a penniless orphan in Moscow, and now that’s she’s married a gazillionaire, she’s giving a little back. So sweet of her. You must join this committee, you’ll meet the best people.’

  Or: ‘Has the dear duchess asked you to support her garden at Gorton House? It’s going to be wonderful. You must! And then you’ll be asked for one of her weekends. They’re a bit tedious, to be honest, and one has to pretend a huge interest in gardening to stay on her good side – but then, she is a duchess!’

  Octavia did whatever he said, grateful that she had a friend who could help her through this strange new world, full of so many unknown people who all knew how to behave in it. So she wrote the cheques and Gerry sent them on, once he’d ordered her some smart new stationery from Smythson, pale grey cards with her name in flowing mauve engraved script: Octavia Beaufort.

  ‘I’m your social secretary!’ he said gaily, sticking down another pale grey envelope.

  ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, Gerry,’ she said sincerely. ‘I’d be completely lost.’

  ‘Darling, it’s my pleasure. It really is.’ He’d given her a broad smile. ‘We make a wonderful team, don’t we?’

  She knew he loved it: walking her into a party, her arm tucked through his. He always wore one of his signature silver-grey suits with a slender tie and knitted waistcoat, a neutral look that always complemented hers. She would totter beside him in her towering heels, showing off her latest designer purchases. It helped that she had a size eight figure: for one thing, the boutiques always had her size. For another, she knew that Gerry loathed fat women – anyone who was over a size ten was fat in his book. The slimmer the better, as far as he was concerned. ‘I prefer the race horse to the plump pony,’ he explained. ‘The thoroughbred rather than the Shire workhorse.’

  He had introduced her to some girls her own age but Octavia found them rather frightening. They seemed so worldly wise and sophisticated. Of course, they were friendly, but they’d all known each other since birth, had been to the same schools and were filled to the brim with confidence. Octavia preferred to hang out with Gerry on his own, and he didn’t seem to mind too much. In fact, if Octavia hadn’t known that he was gay, she would have thought that he was in love with her. He phoned her first thing in the morning, saw her at least once a day, and telephoned several more times if they were apart, not to mention the deluge of emails and texts. If he saw a pretty dress, he’d send a picture over, urging her to come at once and try it.

  Octavia reached the end of Beauchamp Place and wondered where to go next. To her right was Harrods, then the Burberry store where she’d recently dropped several thousand pounds in one sitting, and then, of course, Harvey Nicks, where she could happily wander for hours, shut off from the busy Knightsbridge streets outside, in an artificially lit, calm and comfortable world where people rushed to get her whatever she wanted.

  Across the road was a huge building with a domed roof.

  What’s that? she wondered. A church?

  She crossed the road and saw from the sign outside that it was a Catholic church. As she looked at the large blue-painted doors beneath the great stone portico, one opened and an ordinary-looking woman in a mac came out and hurried down the front steps. Whatever the place was, it was obviously open. On impulse, Octavia walked through the iron gate and up the stone steps. Pushing open the door, she stepped cautiously inside.

  Within was a stunning and enormous space, like a cathedral, with a long central aisle that led to an ornate circular altar area directly beneath the great dome. The altar-piece was a riot of gold and jewel-bright colours, with a fresco depicting Christ in glory upon a throne of clouds, beneath a blazing sun and above His beseeching saints.

  Octavia walked forward. The place seemed empty. She remembered when Aunt Frances had taken them on a tour of Europe. They had been marched into so many grand churches and cathedrals that they had blurred into one for Octavia, the Duomo in Florence mixed up in her mind with St Peter’s in Rome. But she recalled now how the Catholic churches always had small chapels along the side walls, each dedicated to a particular saint and decorated with more frescoes or hung with oil paintings. There would be iron stands in front of each one, flickering with candles lit to help a prayer ascend to heaven.

  This place was like those French and Italian churches, she realised. It was beautiful. She walked a little way down the aisle towards the altar, which sat beneath a magnificent gold and turquoise canopy. Everywhere she looked were carvings, mosaics, gilt and colour. She stopped and stared upwards, then sidled into a row of chairs and sat down.

  It was peaceful here, and the air was redolent of a rich incense. She tried to imagine praying but it seemed an odd thing to do. Churches as anything other than a tourist attraction were strange to her. Aunt Frances was not religious. While Sundays were usually spent quietly at Homerton, the girls were never taken to a service.

  Sundays. Octavia shuddered. The boredom, the mind-numbing boredom of life with Aunt Frances – and Sundays were the worst of all. In the winter, they would have to spend hours in the library, reading or playing silent card games. The Brigadier would be there, rustling the papers and puffing on that awful pipe, while Aunt Frances would work at her embroidery – those nasty cushion covers that looked old and faded as soon as they were finished. God only knew where they ended up, they were never seen again once they were done.

  They were not allowed to watch television, or do anything frivolous, listen to recordings of unidentified classical music and read improving books to pass the time. Sometimes Octavia had had the urge to race about the room, screaming and pulling the untouched leather volumes from the shelves, to make something happen. But she’d never been brave enough. After all, she’d been punished before and it had not been nice. Aunt Frances had demanded complete obedience and, if she didn’t get it, there had been unpleasant consequences. Octavia still remembered the time that the Brigadier had come into her room, armed with a wooden paddle like a ping-pong bat, his jumper off, his face red and his breath, musty and horrid with stale tobacco, coming fast and noisily through his nose. He had ordered her to lift her skirt and bend over the arm of the sofa. Then, to her horror, he’d reached out a bony hand and pulled down her knickers, exposing her bottom to him. The violent embarrassment had made her go hot all over, a sick feeling in her stomach – and that had been much worse than the pain of the six, stinging whacks on her buttocks.

  ‘That hurt me much more than it hurt you,’ he said in a hoarse voice when it was finished, and left her just as she was, bent half-naked over the armchair.

  What a stupid lie, she’d thought contemptuously. Miserable old bastard. Well, I’m not going to let you see me cry.

  It was that thought that had stopped the tears in their tracks, and enabled her to face them all again, with her shoulders straight and her nose in the air, though she’d refused to look at the Brigadier for days. She took plenty of beatings after that, and always made sure it was she who got them, rather than Flora. She knew that her sensitive sister would be destroyed by the experie
nce. They had decided that they hated the Brigadier, even more than Aunt Frances. He was old and ugly with hairs in his nose and ears; he smelt strange, and was always so quiet, his bloodshot rheumy old eyes fixed on them at all times. He never contradicted Aunt Frances, just seemed to be waiting for those times when he took Octavia upstairs, pulled down her knickers and thwacked her bottom with the paddle. Each time he seemed to take just a little longer over it, and give her one more stroke. Octavia thought privately he was a dirty old man and called him the Perv-adier, but Flora seemed to have a particular horror of him and could never bear to be alone with him.

  Octavia didn’t mind the old man that much. She wouldn’t waste her emotions on him. She was proud of her self-control and her refusal to shed a tear when he hit her. But then, there was not much else she could control in her own life. Everything was dictated: every hour of her time, everything she wore, every morsel of food that passed her lips. She was constantly examined, as though she were some kind of prize animal being bred to be best in show: the hours she’d spent in her vest and knickers with Aunt Frances and various doctors and health practitioners – half of them quacks, no doubt – all of them staring at her while she was weighed and pinched and injected and fed tablets … But what they hadn’t realised was that Octavia had her own, very special ways of rebelling.

  One Christmas they had been allowed to watch a film on the television, called The Great Escape, about prisoners-of-war in a German camp who used all their cunning and guile to break out. Octavia had watched it, spellbound. That’s us! she had thought, astonished. Flora and I are the prisoners and THEY are the guards. She’d glanced carefully at her aunt and uncle to see if they were noting the parallels, but of course they weren’t. The film inspired her. From then on, she considered herself to be engaged in a hidden and ongoing war against her captors, to win as much freedom for herself as she could. She also embarked on a campaign of quiet destruction: all around the house, pictures, sculptures and vases acquired minuscule additions – a pen scribble here or a smear of correction fluid there – somewhere could not be seen. Nearly every curtain had threads pulled out of it, or its tassels trimmed in one place. Each cushion had little scissor snips in it. Book after book had one page neatly torn out, so discreetly done it was impossible to notice unless they were read, which they never were. Wherever she went, Octavia committed miniature acts of vandalism. I’m undermining the enemy, she told herself. Sapping his morale. Using up his resources.

  It gave her a sense of hidden triumph, knowing that the perfect house was in fact far from that.

  Now she got up and made her way back towards the door of the church, smiling to herself as she remembered. It’s no wonder I’m relishing my liberty. It’s taken a goddamned long time to get here. And now I’m going to enjoy every single minute.

  Flora stood on the terrace looking at the magnificent view of the city. A sharp breeze blew over the rooftops, ruffling her hair and making her shiver slightly. London was beautiful and terrifying at the same time. It was magnificent and imposing, with its lavish buildings and the scent of money everywhere – but it was also chaotic, frantic, and full of people, rushing about on whatever business they had. Today she’d passed a man lying on the pavement on a scrap of old filthy carpet, his face lined with dirt and holey boots on his feet. Beside him a scrawny dog had been tucked up asleep, and in front of them both was a greasy cap with some change inside it. She’d stared at him appalled. Were there still people like this in London? She’d seen beggars when they’d travelled abroad – she remembered the fright she’d had once when they’d been engulfed by a swarm of barefooted children in Rome, pulling at her clothes and chattering away in high-pitched Italian, begging for coins. The Brigadier had slapped them away with some shouts and curses – but she’d had no idea that there were beggars like that here, in this city.

  We’ve been protected, she realised. From everything. Everything except …

  She shuddered.

  A memory floated into her head. She and Octavia were about ten, and they had sneaked out of their schoolroom. Miss Bailey, the latest of their governesses, had slowly but inexorably fallen asleep in the warm, fusty afternoon atmosphere, her head nodding over the book she was reading while the girls did their Latin exercises. As soon as she’d slumped over, head on shoulder, mouth hanging open, Octavia had whispered, ‘Come on!’

  She’d been up and out of the room in an instant. Flora had glanced at Miss Bailey, and then followed. ‘Where are we going?’ she’d asked, nervous, her tummy fizzing with adrenaline.

  ‘Wherever! Come on. Aunt’s out, the Brig is playing golf today. We can have an explore.’

  It was dangerous but Miss Bailey did seem sound asleep. And if she woke, she was hardly like to admit to Aunt Frances that she’d nodded off and allowed the girls to go unsupervised.

  ‘Let’s find Jo,’ suggested Octavia. ‘She might give us something.’

  In the kitchen, they found the the cook rolling out pastry for a steak-and-kidney pie.

  ‘What are you girls doing here?’ she’d demanded, but in a kindly voice. ‘You’re supposed to be doing lessons. I’ve got tea ready for you when you’ve finished.’

  ‘What is it?’ Flora asked.

  ‘Don’t get excited, it’s not this.’ Jo indicated the pastry. ‘That’s for your aunt and uncle. You know you’re not allowed pastry. It’s a red day today, so you’ll be eating cold chicken and salad.’

  ‘Pudding?’ Octavia asked hopefully.

  ‘Fruit, as usual. Plain yoghurt.’

  Both the girls groaned.

  Jo softened. ‘Here … seeing as there’s no one about … I’ll give you each a biscuit, but you mustn’t tell anyone or I’ll be in trouble. And get yourselves back to the schoolroom. Does Miss Bailey know what you’re up to?’

  They’d taken a chocolate chip cookie each and wandered along the ground floor, nibbling tiny, sweet morsels off their prizes as they went. It was rare to get a biscuit. Cake was only allowed on birthdays, biscuits once a week at formal tea. They found themselves in the library.

  ‘Look,’ Octavia whispered. ‘Come and see my hiding place.’

  She led Flora towards the large tables at the back of the room, the ones that were hidden in the shadows beneath the gallery and covered with dark green cloths.

  They don’t look like tables, Flora thought. They’re not flat, for one thing.

  The girls scrambled underneath one and sat in the darkness, finishing off their biscuits.

  ‘Oh, I wish I had another,’ sighed Octavia, licking her fingers.

  ‘Me too.’ Flora savoured the last bit of chocolate chip as it melted on her tongue. Why were there so many rules? Why was everything nice forbidden? ‘What are these funny tables?’ she said at last. ‘Why are they slopey?’

  ‘Let’s look.’

  They crawled out from beneath their hiding place. There were two tables close together. They were high and the girls could only just see the tops. Octavia pushed back the dark green cloth that was covering one of them, and revealed glass beneath. Beneath the glass was a display: rows and rows of brightly coloured butterflies, each one pierced through the middle with a brass-topped pin.

  ‘Oh!’ cried Flora. ‘Are they dead?’

  ‘Of course they are, stupid. Do you think they’d be alive when they’ve been put on the end of a pin?’ Octavia leant forward for a closer look, peering through the glass. ‘Aren’t they pretty?’

  Flora stared down at the tiny bodies: they were startlingly perfect, with long curling black antennae, jewel-coloured wings – blue fading into turquoise fading into green, dustings of gold and silver, velvety black spots on the feathery wings. She felt heartbroken by the sight. ‘How can anyone do this? They should be out, flying around, not stuck in this horrible case!’

  ‘It’s the Brig, I expect.’ Octavia stroked the glass above a beautiful yellow specimen with orange patterns on its splayed wings.

  Hot tears stung Flora’s eyes. Seeing
all these poor dead creatures, made to be fluttering amongst meadow flowers, mummified and frozen for ever, she felt her head spin. ‘It’s disgusting,’ she said breathlessly. ‘Disgusting!’

  ‘Let’s look in the others.’ Octavia went to the other table, pushed back the green cloth and gave a little scream. Flora hurried over. This cabinet was full of skeletons: a collection of tiny, fragile-looking, greyish-yellow bones, all that was left of mice, frogs, shrews, rabbits and other small creatures.

  ‘I don’t like it!’ Flora cried in fright. She looked over at the other tables, her eyes fearful. What further horrors were there in those? Severed limbs? Dead babies? ‘Let’s go, Octavia, please!’ She grabbed her sister’s hand and tugged at it. ‘Please.’

  ‘All right,’ Octavia said, her own nerve obviously failing her. ‘All right, let’s go.’

  They’d run back to the schoolroom, at their desks only a few moments before Miss Bailey had snorted, woken up and composed herself, evidently hoping she hadn’t been asleep for long.

  Flora had been tormented for months by the thought of the dead butterflies, lying frozen in the dark, beneath the glass. They haunted her dreams. Made her feel desperately, suffocatingly frightened.

  I’m free now, she thought, as she stared over the rooftops. Why am I still frightened? She shivered. I can’t be alone, not right now. I need someone to help me. Octavia had gone out and said she would not be back until after dinner. Gerry was taking her to the theatre or something, but Flora hadn’t wanted to go. She couldn’t face the idea of being surrounded by people. Her hand went automatically to her hair and she ran her fingers through it anxiously. Not having Octavia near was making her panic. She turned and went back inside the apartment. Picking up the telephone, she dialled a number. ‘Vicky? It’s me. I want you to come here. Now.’

  ‘Now?’ Her cousin’s voice came down the line, full of surprise. ‘But I’m at work. I haven’t finished my notice yet.’