This was more like it. A surge of hope filled my mind and I willingly wielded a frying pan.
“Certainly Archie. One or two eggs? Or two or three? And how do you feel about your bacon? I like it crisp enough to shatter, myself. Tea or coffee? And I don’t think that it would be beyond the realms of the gluttonous to introduce a sausage or two, do you?”
Archie groaned greedily and slumped forwards onto the table, cradling his poor head in his hands again.
As I busied myself cooking this most uncomplicated and quintessentially English repast, I pondered the fate of Archie.
It was in my hands. How merciful was I feeling? I turned the bacon and pressed it flat to the hot pan with a palette knife, feeling it sizzle. Perhaps I could persuade them to go away anyway, if not to the ambiguous charms of Thailand then maybe to the distinctly clammy shores of Lake Windermere? Or would Archie benefit from a dose of hard reality by staying in the blitzed house and dealing with his daughter? I prodded the bursting sausages delicately with the tip of my knife, nudging them around in the frying pan to colour evenly. Sausages have to be slightly burnt. I think that there should be a law passed to that effect. I cracked the eggs into the pan and turned the heat down so that they gently turned opaque. The toaster popped and I slid the toast onto a plate and slathered them with butter. I then poured hot water over strong coffee and stirred in copious amounts of sugar and cream before handing it to Archie. I even went against all my aesthetic principals by making it in his favourite mug – a revolting specimen of fired clay of a particularly nasty custard yellow hue – and it had slogans scrawled all over it, too. Something about Is yours Doric or Ionic? As I placed the plate of food in front of Archie, I heard his fervently muttered thanks, and he shakily took up a knife and fork. My work done, I allowed myself a slice of dry toast, and a cup of green tea enlivened with a slug of the plum brandy that I’d noticed lurking at the back of the cupboard. No doubt Maria’s.
I watched Archie for a while as he slowly and greedily ate his way past the pain barrier.
As he was gratefully wiping a slice of bread around the remains of egg yolk and HP sauce that smeared his plate, he lifted his eyes to me with the look of a man whose life had been recently saved.
“Think nothing of it, Archie,” I said forestalling the embarrassing flow of gratitude that would come pouring from his mouth if I gave him but half a chance.
“Now then,” I continued, knowing that the bossy head-prefect voice was perfect for Archie when he was feeling this vulnerable, “On to more pressing matters. I really think, Archie dear, that we’d better cut our losses with Sir George, don’t you? And really, after last night I think we have very little option, but no matter. Onwards and upwards. How do you feel about thatched cottages?”
Archie looked blankly at me.
“What?”
“Thatched cottages,” I repeated as if to a backward child.
“Umm, I don’t know. I suppose they’re OK,” Archie said, as if unwilling to commit himself to a binding verbal contract.
“Well, that’s a relief. At least you don’t actively hate them. There’s an awful lot of thatching in Cumbria.”
“Yes, I believe so too,” Archie said politely.
There was a comfortable enough silence between us as Archie’s abused digestive system made ominous rumbles.
He cleared his throat again, but I pre-empted him.
“I’d cut along to bed again Archie, if I were you. Leave Sir George and your letter of resignation to me –“
“Resignation?”
“Oh, I think so. Far the best thing. You were never really happy there, were you?”
“Umm, well no, but –“
“No buts. Off you go. Take a sleeping pill and you’ll feel as right as rain in the morning. Oh, and don’t disturb Sylvia, there’s a good chap.” I put my head on one side and gave a smile of dismissal.
Archie was reminded of being hauled in front of a starchy matron at prep school, and really, if I’d had a teddy bear I swear I would have placed it in his arms as he left the kitchen.
I surveyed the remains of the greasy cooking detritus and gave a small moue of distaste. Lucky for Bella that there would be a little job for her first thing in the morning I decided, as I too left the room a moment later, clicking the light off behind me. I called Marmaduke to me, and fastened his lead to his collar.
“A night time stroll in the park, I think, don’t you boy? “ I whispered in his ears as I caressed his loyal and trusting face. Marmaduke wagged his tail as an answer. I wound a black cashmere scarf around my head and pulled on my elbow-length kid gloves. It was cold enough inside the house but no doubt freezing outside.
I was right.
The air was frosty and the night clear and bright with silver moonlight. I quickened my pace and soon felt the rush of blood warming my body as we stepped smartly down the road and so through to the park. It was silent outside, apart from the gentle roar of discreet traffic coming from beyond the park. I slipped Marmaduke off his lead and watched as he joyfully bounded away from me in a delight of freedom. He was soon lost to the night, the golden shape of him becoming blurred against the darkness.
The darkness suits me in more ways than one. Have you noticed how some people are naturally drawn to sunlight and convince themselves that they are suffering from SAD? Then, when November comes inexorably around they start whining on about dark days and having to put the lights on at three in the afternoon? Ridiculous. Go and live on the equator and stop bothering the rest of us, that’s my advice. Then there are those people who simply adore the harsh light of mornings – up with the lark and all that hearty palaver. Equally as annoying. No, all my best ideas come to me in the dark. I love it. The shadows provide shelter and inspiration to creatures like myself. The sun is far too harsh, it bares all in front of it leaving no secrets, nothing to interpret.
The shadowy hinterland is my natural habitat, and I have never felt afraid in the dark. Indeed, quite the opposite. I relish it.
I called softly to Marmaduke and within seconds he was bounding out of the shadows towards me. He contentedly loped along at my side as I took the night air. Ahead of me on a park bench was the huddled shape of a man. One glance was enough to tell that he was suffering from the effects of too much cheap alcohol over many years of abuse, and the curse of modern times – no home to call his own. A series of plastic bags held his belongings, and a rusty supermarket trolley was laden with the junk that he had accumulated on his travels. As I drew closer he shifted in his seat and raised a bearded face towards me.
“Good evening,” I said.
“Evenin’ miss. Your dog won’t bother me will he?”
I glanced down at Marmaduke, and reassured the man that he would most definitely not.
Enlivened by this the tramp then chanced his arm by asking if I had enough change for a cup of tea.
“Why yes, of course I have,” I said.
There was a moment of surprised silence between us.
“Ah! I see, you meant do I have enough change for a cup of tea for yourself,” I added pleasantly. “You should have perhaps been clearer in your speech.”
“Thass right. I meant meself. Course I did.” The man gave a very unpleasant cough and spat at his feet.
I stopped and rootled in my pockets for some coins. Tea was of course out of the question, the man badly wanted some barley wine, cider or possibly worse and who amongst us can say that if we were living on a park bench we wouldn’t choose the same method of oblivion?
I passed the tramp some coins and he thanked me. I bade him a good evening and passed on my way.
Of course part of my contentment in being out on the dark had a lot to do with the pearl handled switch knife that I always carry with me. Not a weapon I would recommend willy nilly, I hasten to add, but I have been taught by a master, Italian of course, as every form of underhand cunning usually relates back to that particular country. The fatal stabbing blow by the way, is up throu
gh the ribs to the heart, never downwards as the blade will merely clatter off the protective ribcage. Then of course, you are left with the sticky question of how to dispose of a body, easier to do in Italy or so I understand than in a large London park, but, that’s the price we pay of living in a civilised country. No bodies, or relatively few anyway, end up dead on your doorstep with a flower tucked in the corpse’s buttonhole.
Rule Number Twenty-One
“A woman must endure many treatments—most beyond the ken of men. Some women require exceptionally special care. None more so than myself, but vanity can quell the queasiest of stomachs.”
Once back in the cold and dusty house, I decided that a hot bath would be the only thing to revive me after a strenuous walk in the frosty air. A quick glance in the mirror told me that I’d have to get a move on. It would soon be time for a Treatment. Usually it’s about every ten years or so. We can go on longer, of course, but on the whole it usually works out to once a decade.
I know others that have kept the same place for years on end, but it becomes very hard to know the neighbours for all that time and not change appearances, people start to ask questions and then before you know it, it all starts to go wrong. Anyway, The Treatments. Well, they keep me looking as I do. My age? Don’t be ridiculous, of course I’m not going to tell you, what lady would? But I see that you’re interested in the process. It’s a method of blood transfusion, involving replacing some of the scarlet life liquid with a mixture that hasn’t changed for centuries. The receipt is more closely guarded than Coca Cola. Other things are involved as well, some pleasant and some not. It takes a month or so of bed rest to recuperate, which is a good time to familiarise yourself with your new name. I’m sure you’ve guessed that I am not entirely mortal by now, but as to what I am, that is hard to explain. My blood line is associated with longevity and the commercial trade of human spirits. As a recompense for this work we are rewarded with the choice of taking The Treatments. Most of us do. Well, you would, wouldn’t you? But it’s all accounted for and I’ve never really bothered myself too much with the ins and outs of finance. Oh no, not finance as you know it. Though of course living as we do in this world a little gold never goes amiss. No money actually changes hands. The balance sheets are made up of our deeds. It’s all entered in the ledgers. And our deeds are represented by marbles. Some of us are not very scrupulous in our dealings with the human spirits that we have to account for.
If you are thinking that this is nonsense, let me refresh your memory a bit. Have you never met someone who has done something for you for apparently no reason? And when I say something, it could be something detrimental or something rather wonderful. The person who helped you with your homework, or the boss you once had who really had it in for you. I see you’re looking blank. Let me be a little more specific.
Remember that time that you were waiting for a taxi in the rain? You were late (something to do with a faulty alarm clock – I told you never to rely on them). You were in a hurry, the bath water was cold, the shirt that you’d pressed so carefully the night before unaccountably now had marmalade on the collar, the umbrella was missing, and the phone was dead. Your heart rate was raised as you started to deal in minutes of being late for the meeting that you were convinced was going to change your life. What was it now? The tryst at Heathrow with the lover of your dreams? Or the interview for the job that would let your ambition and talent soar? You now were dealing in blocks of borrowed time, bargaining with whoever it is to not make you later than twenty minutes, re-assuring yourself that anyone would wait for you for twenty minutes, after all, twenty minutes wasn’t too outrageous, it hardly even verged on being late, just slightly unpunctual, surely? Twenty minutes never counted against you, did it? Doubts began to creep in after the calculation that it was going to be more like three quarters of an hour. The rain slowed traffic to grid lock. No welcome orange lights of a free taxi were even on the horizon. Then, you spied one. Ignoring the puddles you leapt from the kerb to flag it down. Not only were you soaked to the skin by wheels rolling through the rain-soaked gutters, but a woman jumped into the back of the cab. Your cab. The woman’s face looked at you smilingly from the back of the taxi as it glided away and you felt something akin to dancing with rage on the pavement. It was too late now. The lover would be gone, the interview filled or the meeting finished. And you would never know what might have been. The changed life, the change of fortunes, the changing of your very world. Well, the woman in the back of the cab, might well have been me, and I would have earned a small fee for that moment of snatching part of your spirit (spirit is not quite the right word, nor is soul, but the word we use is not to be told). Of course, I may have saved you from disaster. The lover might have been a murderous sociopath who ruined your life, the career opportunity might have turned you into an ulcerous bully with no happiness or joy in your life and the prospect of fortune may not have brought happiness. But you’ll never ever know, for the moment, like all moments of importance are but fleeting and can change simply through missing a taxi. It’s no coincidence that my favourite ditty is; For the want of a nail the shoe was lost, for the want of a shoe the horse was lost, For the want of a horse the rider was lost, For the want of a rider the battle was lost, For the want of a battle the kingdom was lost and all for the want of a horseshoe nail. It sums it up really, one tiny little thing, something so banal and ordinary that can wreck a kingdom. And, after all your life is your own kingdom isn’t it?
The Treatments can be addictive, which is why we have them only once a decade.
Rule Number Twenty Two
“Eating in bed is a slovenly, sluttish act and will only lead to slovenly, sluttish ways.”
All this thought of the Treatments was making me tired. I realised that I needed to coddle myself a little and take it easy. What better way than a long hot bath, followed by an M.F. Nothing so cheers one as a Midnight Feast in the comfort of one’s own bed I always think. This was the time that I longed for some company that was truly mine. A friend, a lover, a companion that would ease my tiredness and loneliness. I gave myself a shake. Perhaps I had spent too long around a family? I reminded myself that human relationships have no great shelf life after all.
I eased my body into the hot water and gave a small sigh of pleasure. Really, the body is a miraculous thing that we are all guilty of taking for granted, yet it is so easily placated by paying but the smallest of attentions to it. I floated some lavender oil in the water and breathed deeply, closing my eyes and pretending for one moment that I was back in the summer garden of my grandmother’s house, with the honey bees collecting pollen from the misty bushes of ancient lavender that grew beside the warm yellow brick walls. Now there was a woman worth remembering. She lived a long and fulfilled life, leaving behind her a legacy of inspirational work; The Treaty of Versailles and commercial cultivation of espaliered apple trees to name but two. Everyone who was anyone came to pay respect to my grandmother, and had brought with them the traditional apple pie and a caged lark (they were all released in the orchard later.) What a party we’d had. Almost a rout.
I stood in front of the misty mirror in the bathroom, and assessed myself. I wiped a towel over the looking glass and stared at my reflection dispassionately. I lifted a hand and unpinned my hair, noting with satisfaction that it was already growing back. I felt behind my left ear for the raised bumps of the marks of the needles from the last Treatments and felt them, like fledgling hedgehog spikes under the skin. How soon would I need another one? I counted the years back to the last time, seven, eight, nine, years ago, plus some long months. Well, I had a week or so left. That should be enough. The amount of unused marbles in my collection would pay for several Treatments and the amount of cash in my Swiss bank account would keep me in luxury for many years if I never worked again. Some of us choose to live the last ten years of our lives as normal humans, and experience that most fleeting of emotions – love. It’s never really appealed to me, I must say.
I wrapped myself in the handy towelling dressing gown that I had purloined from Archie’s hotel and slipped on the freebie matching slippers to pad downstairs.
I am a connoisseur of the M.F. and am well acquainted with what works and what doesn’t. Toast definitely falls into the latter. The crumbs seem to have an extended shelf life and can lie in the hidden folds and creases of a sheet for days. Whereas a pure and simple bowl of pommes purée with a dab of melted butter and a lavish hand with the seasoning most definitely falls into the former. Something fairly hearty can be called for, now and again, especially if the world has left you utterly enraged by some unexpected atrocity that has blighted your day. A long simmering goose cassoulet with a booming glass of red will do the trick. On the other hand, a stuffed artichoke with its undeniable overtones of elegance, can turn the most modest of beds into a boudoir of delights. If your troubles are as numerous and recurrent as Mr Macgregor’s with Peter Rabbit, a smooth, unctuous bunny and prune pâté taken with a calming cup of camomile tea will give you a certain surly comfort as well as doing your bit in keeping the rabbit population down. Of course, if you are in that sort of inconsolable mood anyway, anything eaten in bed will buck you up. I’d also recommend getting into bed from the Wrong Side – you’ve got nothing to lose anyway, so you might as well relax with a little nourishment. For those of us with the most portentous of woes, a chicken, cooked in butter, herbs and lemon and allowed to cool in a little white wine is reserved. It’s not to be frittered away on occasions which, whilst mournful enough, don’t plumb the very depths of your soul.
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