Mood Indigo (7 page)

‘Fine,' said Nicholas.

He put the plate on the table.

‘Aren't you going to kiss me?' said Alyssum.

‘Be my guest, Nicholas,' said Colin. ‘You'd make me very happy if you'd come and have dinner with us …'

‘Oh! Do …' said Alyssum. ‘Come and eat with us.'

‘Mr Colin plunges me into confusion, sir,' said Nicholas. ‘I can hardly sit down at Mr Colin's table in these clothes …'

‘Listen, Nicholas,' said Colin. ‘Hurry off and change if you must – but I'm giving you orders to come and have dinner with us.'

‘Thank you, Mr Colin, sir,' said Nicholas. ‘I'll go and change then.'

He left the plate on the table and went out. ‘Now,' said Alyssum, ‘tell us about Chloe …'

‘Help yourselves,' said Colin. ‘I don't know what it is, but it's bound to be good.'

‘Tell us about Chloe! …' screamed Chick. ‘Our tongues are hanging out!'

‘I'm going to marry Chloe in a month from today,' said Colin. ‘And, oh, I wish it were going to be tomorrow! …'

‘You're so lucky!' said Alyssum.

Colin felt happy that he was so rich.

‘Listen, Chick,' he said. ‘Would you like some of my money?'

Alyssum looked at Colin with great tenderness. He was so nice that you could see the blue and mauve thoughts running through the veins on the backs of his hands.

‘I couldn't accept it,' said Chick.

‘You'd be able to marry Alyssum,' said Colin.

‘Her parents don't want us to,' replied Chick, ‘and I don't want her to quarrel with them. Besides, she's too young …'

‘I'm not as young as all that,' said Alyssum, suddenly sitting up straight on the quilted seat and bringing out the full value of her provocative breasts.

‘That's not what he meant! …' interrupted Colin. ‘Listen, Chick. I've got a hundred thousand doublezoons. I'll give you a quarter and then you'll be able to live in peace. You can carry on working – and like that, things should work out fine.'

‘I'll never be able to thank you enough,' said Chick.

‘Don't thank me,' said Colin. ‘I'm not interested in the happiness of all men, but only in the happiness of each.' The door bell rang.

‘I'll go and see who it is,' said Alyssum, ‘I'm the youngest! Remember you were just complaining about it …'

She got up and her little feet skimmed the surface of the carpet.

It was Nicholas. He had gone down the fire escape and had come back dressed in a thick fawn and green sporran-spun herringbone tweed overcoat and a flat doughboy stetson. He had gloves of disinherited pigskin, and shoes made of solid snakeskin. When he took off his overcoat he appeared in all his splendour. His corduroy jacket was in rich chestnut with ivory furrows, and he wore it over essoblue trousers with five-and-a-half-inch turnups.

‘Oh!' said Alyssum. ‘How smart you are! …'

‘And how's my little niece? Just as lovely as ever? …' His hands roamed over her breasts and bottom.

‘Come and sit down,' said Alyssum.

‘Hallo, boys,' said Nicholas as he came in.

‘At last!' said Colin. ‘So you've finally decided to talk like everybody else!'

‘Of course!' said Nicholas. ‘I can do it when I want to. And while we're at it, shall we kick all the other formalities down the fire escape too? …'

‘Of course,' said Colin. ‘Sit down.'

Nicholas sat down facing Chick.

‘Help yourself to hors d'oeuvres,' said Chick.

‘Now,' said Colin, ‘would you like to be my best man, Chick? And Nicholas, would you like to give Chloe away?'

‘We'd love to,' beamed Nicholas. ‘But don't try to match us up with any horrible bridesmaids. People are always trying to do that …'

‘We're going to ask Alyssum and Isis to be bridesmaids,' said Colin, ‘and the Kissitwell brothers to be fairies of honour.'

‘Then it's all settled,' said Chick.

‘Alyssum,' Nicholas went on, ‘go to the kitchen and bring in the dish that's in the oven. It should be ready by now.'

She did as she was told and came back with a massive silver plate. And when Chick lifted the cover, they found underneath it two little figures carved from pâté de foie gras representing Colin in a top-hat and Chloe as a bride. All round the edge was written the date of the wedding and in a corner was the artist's signature –
Nicholas
.

Colin sprinted through the streets.

‘It's going to be a lovely wedding … And it's tomorrow – tomorrow morning. And all my friends are going to be there …'

The street led straight to Chloe.

‘Chloe, your lips are honey. Your complexion is peaches. Your eyes see things as we all should see them. Your body makes me feel warm …'

Glass marbles careered through the streets with children behind them.

‘It will take months and months for your kisses to quench the thirst they have inspired in me. It will take years and years to extinguish the kisses I want to shower over you – on your hands, on your hair, on your eyes, on the nape of your neck …'

There were three little girls in the street. They were singing a very round round and dancing to it in a triangle.

‘Chloe, I want to feel your breasts against my chest, with my two hands wrapped round you, your arms about my neck, your perfumed head in the hollow of my shoulder, and your palpitating skin and the scent of your body …'

The sky was blue and brilliant. The cold was still biting, but not quite so deeply. The trees, still deep black, displayed fat green buds at the tips of their lack-lustre limbs.

‘When you are far from me, I see you in that dress with the silver buttons – but were you wearing it then? No, not the first time! You had it on the day we went out, under your soft heavy coat, but nothing under the dress …' He
pushed open the shop door and went in. ‘I'd like masses and masses of flowers for Chloe, please,' he said.

‘When would you like them delivered?' asked the florist. She was a frail young girl with raw red hands. She loved flowers very much.

‘Take them round tomorrow morning – and then bring some to me. I want our room to be full of white flowers – lilies, gladioli, roses and everything else that is white – and, right in the middle, an enormous bunch of red roses.'

The Kissitwell brothers were getting themselves ready for the wedding. They were often asked to be pansy page-boys because their appearance always added a fragrant charm to such occasions. They were twins. The name of the eldest was Coriolanus. He had wavy black hair, soft white skin, an air of virginity, the straightest of noses and blue eyes that sheltered behind heavy lids of creamy amber.

The youngest was called Pegasus, and looked very much like his brother, except that his eyelids were emerald green – and this was usually quite enough for people to tell one from the other. They had taken up homosexuality as a career because they had a vocation for it, and also because they needed the money. But, as they were being so well-paid for being pansy page-boys, they hardly worked seriously any more, and the noxious idleness that this thrust upon them drove them into the clutches of vice from time to time. And thus it was that, only yesterday, Coriolanus had behaved very naughtily with a little girl, Pegasus was lecturing him
furiously, while massaging himself with rose-hip syrup (made from male bushes) in front of a big three-sided mirror.

‘And what time did you get home last night, I'd like to know?' said Pegasus.

‘I forget,' said Coriolanus. ‘And don't stick your fat bottom into places that don't concern you!'

Coriolanus plucked at his eyebrows with pressurized tweezers.

‘You're obscene!' said Pegasus. ‘And with a girl too! … What would auntie say if she found out! …'

‘Oh! … Haven't you ever stayed out late for a bit of fun then? Eh?' said Coriolanus, accusingly.

‘When, I should like to know?' said Pegasus – the first signs of a little anxious frown beginning to appear all the same.

He stopped his auto-massage and began his slimming limbering-up exercises in front of the glass.

‘All right,' said Coriolanus, ‘I won't persecute you. I don't want to drive you back to where you came from. Come and zip up my pantees for me instead.'

They had specially made trousers with the flies up the back and they were difficult to do up alone.

‘There!' sneered Pegasus, ‘You see! You can't talk!'

‘All right, that's enough!' repeated Coriolanus. ‘Whose wedding are we going to today?'

‘It's Colin marrying that Chloe,' said his brother disgustedly.

‘Why d'you say it like that?' asked Coriolanus. ‘He's a lovely boy.'

‘Oh, yes, he's lovely all right,' said Pegasus, putting his tongue round his lips. ‘But Chloe! She's got such round little titties that you could never take her for a boy! …'

Coriolanus blushed.

‘Well I think she's sweet …' he murmured. ‘She makes you feel you want to touch them … Doesn't she have that effect on you? …'

His brother looked at him, stupefied.

‘You're a rotten pig!' he spluttered, using all his energy. ‘You're the most depraved person I know … One of these days you'll end up marrying a woman! …'

Father Phigga came out of the undervestry, followed by his Unisexton Bedull and a Husher. They were carrying colossal corrugated cardboard cartons crammed with candles, coloured crepe and carnival decorations.

‘When the Daubers' van comes, ask it to drive right up to the altar, Aubrey,' he said to the Husher.

This was because the majority of professional Hushers are called Marmaduke.

‘And everything has got to be yellow?' said Aubrey.

‘With purple stripes,' said the Unisexton Bedull. His name on the charts was Adam Browbeadle but he was really called Jeremiah Jingo. He was a big friendly rascal whose gold chain and uniform shone as brightly as a row of frozen noses.

‘Yes,' said Father Phigga, ‘because the Hamarishi Pibosh is coming on later in his caravan to give them the blessing. Come on, let's tart up the Minstrels' Gallery with the things in these boxes.'

‘How many Minstrels are there?' asked the Husher.

‘Three score and thirteen,' said the Unisexton Bedull.

‘And twenty Twenty-Four-Sheet Music Boys,' said Father Phigga proudly.

The Husher gave a long low whistle.

‘And only two people getting married!' he said with admiration.

‘Yes,' said Father Phigga. ‘That's the way rich folk do things.'

‘And are there many people coming?' asked the Unisexton Bedull.

‘Millions!' said the Husher. ‘I'm going to carry my long red pikestaff and my big stick with the red knob.'

‘Oh, no!' said Father Phigga. ‘You ought to carry the yellow pikestaff and the purple stick – they're much more uppercrust, and you'll be as swish as a Swiss Guard.'

By now they were under the gallery. Father Phigga opened a little secret door in one of the supporting pillars. Like an Archimedean screw they began climbing up the narrow winding stair, one after the other. A vague glimmer of light came down on them from above.

After twenty-four turns of the screw they stopped for breath.

‘It's hard work!' said Father Phigga.

The Husher, who was at the bottom, agreed, and Adam Browbeadle, who was in the middle, concurred with this observation.

‘Only two more turns and a half,' said Father Phigga.

They emerged on to a platform at the opposite end of the church to the altar, a hundred yards up in the air, and the floor below could be barely seen through the mist. Clouds drifted into the church and floated across the nave in fat faithful flocks.

‘It's going to be fine,' said the Unisexton Bedull, sniffing at the clouds. ‘I can smell thyme passing.'

‘There's hawthorn and catkin too,' said the Husher. ‘I'm sure I got a whiff of them.'

‘I hope the service will be a success!' said Father Phigga.

They put down their boxes and began to decorate the Minstrels' music-stands with chains and bells. The Husher unwrapped them, blew away the dust, and then passed them on to the Unisexton Bedull and Father Phigga.

Above them the pillars rose and rose and appeared to join together far, far away. The matt stone, a lovely creamy white in colour, was bathed in a calm, clear light reflected from the soft, sweet burst of day that caressed the church. At the very top everything was peacock-blue and turquoise.

‘We'll have to polish up the mikes,' said Father Phigga to the Husher.

‘I'm just unwinding my last chain!' said the Husher, ‘then I'll get on with it.'

He took a red woollen duster out of his satchel and energetically began to rub the first microphone stand. There were four mikes, set out in a straight line at the front of the Minstrels' gallery and rigged up so that every time there was a peal of bells outside the church, a tune would be played inside.

‘Hurry up, Aubrey,' said Father Phigga. ‘Jeremiah and myself have finished.'

‘Wait for me then,' said the Husher, ‘I've got five minutes' grace.'

Adam Browbeadle and Father Phigga put the lids back on the boxes of decorations and stacked them in a corner of the gallery where they could easily be found again after the wedding.

‘I'm ready,' said the Husher.

All three buckled the belts of their parachutes and leapt gracefully out into space. With a silky splash the three big rainbow-coloured flowers burst open and, some time later, they made perfect landings on the polished paving of the nave.

‘Am I pretty?'