Authors: Laura Lockington
“No,
they are ravens.”
“Oh?
And do tell, what’s the charming folk lore connected with those particularly ugly birds?”
“They
belong to St Benedict of Narsia,” (rapid touching of chest, forehead and both sides of collar bone)
“Ah,
I see,” I said confidently, “He’s the one who guards against servants who have broken something of their masters, isn’t he? Well, come along Maria, own up, what is it you’ve smashed? If it’s Archie’s particularly nasty coffee mug that he uses in the morning, you know the one with
I’m
the
boss
on it, I’m sure he won’t mind. Well, what is it?” I waited impatiently for her to answer me, but I could see that none was going to be forthcoming. She had turned slightly away from me, but still keeping me in her sight she began to peel some green apples. It looked as if she didn’t want to expose her back to me and needed to keep me where she could see me. I laughed and made myself go to her. I put my arm around her unyielding shoulders, feeling the stiffness there, and told her not to be silly.
“Whatever
it is that you’ve broken, it can’t be that bad Maria. Try not to worry about it. Oh, and please, do stop with the bacofoil origami, won’t you?”
I
left her peeling the fruits of temptation and wandered through the house, parting curtains of heavy see through plastic that the builders had put up to minimise the dust. Of course, the curtains do no such thing, but they add a suitable backdrop to scenes of carnage. One builder was up a ladder hacking away at the old plaster whilst another was tackling the ceiling. They were wearing space age boiler suits and masks which gave them an air of a medical team attending a road accident. Fiachra was supervising the men replacing the rotten floorboards in what had been the music room, and he had a small radio on playing jangly music. When he saw me approach he straightened himself and turned the pop music off, ready to give me a progress report.
“Not
long now miss, before you see the colours go up, that’ll make all the difference, you’ll see.”
I
agreed, and studied him for a moment. Apart from a very unattractive spot on his chin he was, I suppose, quite good looking, if you like that sort of thing. Dark hair, blue eyes and well built. The effect was marred slightly by the appalling accent (to my ears anyway– but then you can’t have everything can you?) He also showed rather a charming air of confidence. Usually I intimidate builders, and this one showed no sign of kowtowing.
“It’s
about this time miss I pop outside for a cig. Will you be joining me now I wonder?” he smiled at me, showing a chipped broken tooth. Easily mended of course, but initially off putting.
I
thanked him for his offer but declined.
“Another
time perhaps miss?” Fiachra insisted.
“Indeed.
Perhaps later during the week you’ll do me the honour of being my guest at The Plumbers Arms and join me for a glass of stout?” I said pleasantly.
His
face brightened. “Is it Guinness you’d be speaking of? That I will and it would be my pleasure,” He said doffing an imaginary hat.
No-one,
but
no
-
one
knows or understands the lengths I go to in doing my job well and thoroughly. It’s not everyone who would be so conscientious in their work, I can assure you. I was willing to take on an evening of degradation and boredom (taking one for the team, I believe it’s called) for the sake of the Ambles and not all of my kind would do so.
I
smiled and made my way to my room and decided that it would be a good time for my weekly cleansing routine. That, and a clear cold eye in the mirror. This routine which I have been faithfully adhering to for years is part of my life now and onerous as it is, it simply cannot be skimped. Of course some people pay a fortune and go to Harley street or some other clinic or spa, but really it can be simply and cheaply done at home with a length of stout rubber hose and a steady hand. It takes time, of course and then I like to follow it with a salt scrub and facial mask. I would urge you to try it. The feeling of cleanliness afterwards is invigorating and calming at the same time. Delicious. The mirror told me the truth. I had to have a Treatment very soon.
I
went to lie on my bed for fifteen minutes, allowing time for the clay face mask to penetrate the epidermis when I spied, in the corner of my room, tucked behind the leg of a chair a silver shape. It was one of Maria’s ravens. I laughed at her foolishness and crushed it in my hand. It was well known that St Benedict was the patron saint of (amongst other things) farm workers, nettle rash and witchcraft. I laughed so much that I cracked the clay face mask and had to re-apply it.
In the shed Maria silently handed Jack the squat brown glass bottle of cough mixture that the woman Flora had given her for him. They both regarded it in silence.
“Do
not take it, I beg of you,” Maria implored him, twisting her hands together anxiously.
Jack
unscrewed the bottle and took a cautious sniff. He reeled back, and solemnly re-corked it.
All
his life he had tended plants and living things with due care and attention, the sick plants he treated with a countryman’s eye for the dying. He felt his time was due soon, but he wasn’t going to hasten it by swallowing some foreign mixture.
“She’s
a right one, that Flora Tate, isn’t she?” he remarked to Maria.
Maria
burst into tears, leaving Jack to marvel at the complexity of all women and foreigners. It was something in the blood, he reckoned that made them so flighty. Flora had foreign blood, he’d bet on that.
Rule
Number Thirteen
“
A
currency
is
a
thing
of
value
that
is
tradable
.
Money
or
plastic
or
whatever
you
may
use
to
get
by
is
not
the
only
currency
of
value
.
And
not
everyone
values
all
currencies
the
same
.
And
all
currencies
are
not
of
the
same
value
.”
With Sylvia safely tucked up in bed administered by Maria with trays of highly indigestible looking snacks and pot after pot of tea, I was free for the next day. Archie was starting to look dishevelled almost becoming unravelled, by his home circumstances. Nothing was where it had been, nothing was normal for him any more. His wife was in another room, seemingly ill, his house was in disorder, even his clothes had suffered from the usual cycle of laundry to wardrobe. His shirts had lost their snowy white starchiness, his dry cleaning wasn’t picked up, his meal times were disrupted, and the hole in his bank balance was being gently eroded by the ever growing demands of John Taylor who – I must say - was doing sterling work. Archie dragged himself around his home with the air of a man living in borrowed clothes. He had taken to following me from room to room, pathetically grateful for any attention that I gave him, and trying to engage me in conversations that started nowhere and ended even further from a point that was never made.
Bella
was angelic in all of this. She picked up on any hints that I gave with the quickness of a ferret. I had,
naturellement
, been correct about the tattoo parlour, and she proudly showed me the hideous wound of black markings across the dimpled cheeks of her buttocks. Imaginatively, for Bella, it was of a large feathered quill, that stretched across the not inconsiderable width of her torso.
“What
do you think Flora?” She asked proudly, twisting around in her effort to see herself in my bedroom mirror. Her t-shirt was rucked up, and her jeans were pulled around her thighs giving me ample time to see the gory mess.
“Hmm,
well, it’s a little sore right now, but I’m sure that once it’s healed it will look divine. Tell me Bella, what’s the significance of the quill? I mean, it is a quill, isn’t it?” I had a sudden misgiving, perhaps it was indeed just a feather after all.
“Oh
yes, I mean, well, Lord Byron and all of that, though I don’t actually know that he wrote with a quill, but then he must have, mustn’t he?” She said anxiously, straining to see the full effect of the marking on her body.
“Yes
darling, biros weren’t invented then I promise.”
“How
long do you think before I can – “
“Show
it to anyone? Oh, a week or so, I would think.” I answered, making a gloomy mental note in my diary to take on the evening with Fiachra before then.
Bella
blushed and asked if she could help me with anything. She was a girl only really happy in the employ of others – a trait that would have to be curbed in later life or she would be swamped by the demands of the wildly unscrupulous.
“I
suppose a foot rub would be rather nice,” I said stretching out on the bed. “And then perhaps you’d be an angel and count my collection of marbles for me? I do like to keep an accurate tally. So soothing in the middle of the night to know
exactly
how many one has.” I motioned to a large glass jar of the darling things. Of course, I knew precisely the amount I had, but a pair of young eyes and a second opinion never goes amiss.
“What
are the marbles for Flora?”
“Oh,
you know, games and the like. One can never have too many of them,” I said lightly, thankful that Bella was sweetly possessed of an uncurious nature.
They
were no such thing of course, but a tally of my life. As I have said before, they represented the passions of my past and the consolations of my future, the days I had dedicated working on behalf of others, mainly. I needed them to barter with. They were my accounts too, every glass or stone sphere represented a sum of money. I shan’t tell you how many there were in the jar or how much each one represented. You may become envious of my perceived wealth, and that would never do. You’re on my side, after all, remember?
The
most enchanting thing about them was that they were all unique, so that I could remember every event that had trapped them within my jar. The cloudy green one that held a small chip of jade within it was the first one that I had ever earned. It was given to me by my grandmother, for services that may shock you, but were at the time necessary. I know that fire can be dangerous but this one was glorious. I had been the only one small enough to crawl into the cranny of the church and adjacent school to set the fire with petrol drenched-rags, and I remember very well the feeling of exaltation as we watched the dry tinder of the soaring gilt and wooden roof rise to the heavens. Of course, my grandmother most prudently kept me within a safe distance, well away from the danger. But we watched all the same, squeezing our hands together in excitement as the fire brigade faffed ineffectually around. The casualties were minimal, the only fatality being a much loathed maths teacher who made the pupil’s life a torment. The apple orchard that she re-planted over the land (that rightly belonged to our family centuries before the church had got their greedy grubby claws on it) gives a delicious crop of James Grieve, Foxwhelp, Court Royal and Gloria Mundi every year. Not to mention our favourite harvest of all, the magnificent and ancient plant that we all used to venerate in this country, the creamy berried, oval leafed mistletoe.
I
almost become sentimental when I think about my grandmother. She was a very great lady indeed. Some still remember her in certain parts of the country and her name is whispered now and again in the oak-lined corridors of power.
I
watched Bella as she tipped the marbles onto the bed and they obligingly swirled and tumbled around like a constellation brought down to earth for a mortal whim.
“Flora,
they’re beautiful,” Bella exclaimed picking up a pretty rose quartz orb.
“Aren’t
they?”
They
invited you to touch and hold them. But you could cradle them in the palm of your hand for a long time and they would never warm, they always stayed cool to the touch.
I
picked up a small tiger striped agate globe and rolled it between my hands. This one I had earned by helping a woman in the depths of Shropshire many years ago. I had helped rid herself of a bullying husband and a spiteful mother in law. I could clearly recall the look on her face as I had left her, it was one of disbelief that I was going. She, poor soul, had truly believed that I would stay forever. They all do.
I
left Bella laboriously counting out the multi-coloured magical globes and went to see if Marmaduke was outside my door. He was devotedly guarding me as usual, but I fancied that the poodle next door must have seduced him recently because he was looking exhausted, he could barely be bothered to thump his tail on the floor as a greeting. I stroked his head and went back to my room. Bella was laboriously counting out the marbles, the pink tip of her tongue pushed between her teeth.
She
was particularly taken with a small marble of black onyx, and kept it in her left hand whilst she sorted the others with her right. It was one of my favourites, too. A shiny black glossy ball, with tiny criss crossing veins of silver malachite. I had earned it recently on the ill-fated Italian job. Ill fated for me, I hasten to add, not for my clients. Oh no, they came out of it very well indeed but it had cost me my health for some time afterwards. I hadn’t realised that I was so susceptible to foreign influences. Those dank alley ways of Venice held much more potency then I had ever imagined, and were not only full of raw sewage, rats and starving cats but riddled with the ghosts of the past as well. They had called to me nightly and ravaged my sleep and dreams. Even the gondoliers had woken me, moving as they do with a spectral ease through the canals. I had found an air of malevolence over the place and wasn’t fooled for one minute by the ever constant tide of tourists that swept through St Marks square every day. The mosquitoes were amongst the most vicious in the world, and they all drank their fill of me every night. It had taken me weeks to remove the smell of citronella oil from my clothes and hair, my cat, Percy had delicately sniffed me when I returned and then sneezed in a very pointed way and turned his back on me. Beastly place. The whole city had reminded me of a decaying Victorian wedding cake, but then, I am
very
sensitive to such things.
Bella
told me the final tally and I smiled with pleasure.
“Thank
you darling, most kind of you.”
“Can
I get you anything Flora? Before I do your foot massage?” Bella asked, standing on one awkward leg, holding the seat of her jeans away from the discomfort of her new, raw tattoo.
“Do
you know, I am rather peckish. I think I’d like something eggy on a tray. What about two coddled eggs and one slice of your most delicious bread?”
Bella
bounced happily out of the room, intent on a mission.
When
she had gone, I pulled out a photograph I had borrowed of Sylvia twenty odd years ago. It was when she and Archie were on their honeymoon. I studied it carefully as I was going to have to reproduce what she was wearing to accompany Archie on his soiree on Friday. Ossie Clark, I think. Luckily for me the dead designer was very much back in vogue at the moment and fashion journalists were always wittering on about his genius for cutting and styling. There were several museums with collections in, and I was sure that I could pull in a few favours and borrow one for the night. In the photograph Sylvia looked still and calm. Her hair was shoulder length and softly waving, her neck was encompassed by pearls and she had a passive quality that said she was a woman who was loved.
I
picked up the phone to make a few calls. One was to a hairdresser, and this wasn’t an easy task for me. I was prepared to look like Sylvia for the evening, but I was not going to go the lengths of having all my hair cut off – an approximation would have to do. After all, I wasn’t going to be impersonating her, just giving Archie an impression of her.
The
next call was to the curator of the museum of modern clothes.
“Yes,
that’s right Flora Tate. No, no, only one night. Really? How kind of you. Well now how shall I describe it? It’s a wrap around, long chiffon dress. Very low cut with elbow length sleeves, printed in Celia Birtwell’s colourful tulip and daisy print on a black background, very floaty, with a slit up to the navel I would think. If you could courier it to me I would be most grateful. Please send my regards to your father, won’t you? Thank you.”
That
was that then.
I
studied the photograph more carefully. For such a sensual revealing dress no wonder Sylvia looked passive. She daren’t move. She probably had on a lot of underwear as well, and I noticed that her left hand in the picture was holding together the dress and the superfluous silk scarf at her throat covered her breasts. Ah Sylvia, the habits of the English middle class playing at being grown up and dressing up from the charade box are never really left behind, are they?
I
remembered the make-up that I had bought Bella as a present, and resolved to borrow them for Friday. They would have the exact colours needed for the look. What a shame that Biba had closed, I still missed it, although the make-up now had gone full circle again and the sooty eyes and plum coloured lips were now touted as being new. I have had the time and leisure to observe that fashion, with all its quirks and frou frou does indeed come round time and time again. Although some of it would never return of course. We now know that the Elizabethan habit of painting the face with lead is extremely dangerous, or the Regency fad for dressing in soaking wet clothes so that the dress moulded itself to their curves, giving them all nasty cases of pneumonia in the winter months. A pity really. Still, I like a little danger mixed with my pleasure, don’t you?
I
eagerly eat my eggs. They were done to perfection, each egg swaddled in cream and baked in the oven with a twist of sea salt and black pepper. The whites were milky firm and the golden yolks gloriously runny. Bella had a remarkably light hand in the kitchen, of that there was no doubt. Her bread today was a dark walnut one, satisfyingly moist on the inside and crunchy outside.
This
yearning, this need that Bella had to spend her life with bread was perhaps not so strange after all. It is the staff of life, as anyone who has witnessed the every day miracle of yeast and flour can testify. Perhaps we all seek comfort and security in things that others might well find banal or common place. Besides, we eat, or at least we purchase eleven million loaves a day in Britain, there has to be a shared love of such a commodity. This love of yeast and grain had taken root deep within Bella’s soul and I knew that she would never be happy without it. God forbid that she ends up living in Thailand or Japan where their natural carbohydrate is rice. Perhaps Bella was remembering a happier existence when she was the fat rosy cheeked wife of a miller in one of the many windmills that used to be such a prevalent sight in our country. I could see her now in a clean white linen blouse tucked into a woollen skirt, her hair braided and with a mob cap on, happily kneading the dough in her flag stoned kitchen stepping over a cat and her young children playing contentedly on the floor with some pieces of dough or a pile of wooden bricks. The window she stood at would overlook rippling fields of wheat dotted with poppies and the air would be clean and sweet. In that life she could quite reasonably expect to marry at fifteen and be pregnant at sixteen, of course she could well be dead and buried by the time she was twenty one, but then again a bus could kill her tomorrow in the twenty first century. And now all she could do was to tattoo her body and worry about failing exams that would never lead her anywhere and eat her breads with a guilty heart, noting the spread of her thighs as she did so. How much happier she would have been brushing with death at twenty one and loving with all her might her undemanding life. The girls of Bella’s generation sometimes pulled at my heart. A simple life was a hard choice for them. It seems soon that they will be forced into taking a degree to earn the privilege of making something as simple and life affirming as bread. Not qualified enough to be a dustman soon.
Ridiculous
.