Before and After (21 page)

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
through 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.

The
marble jar was full. I wouldn’t have to be an addict to The Treatments, I was far too sensible for that. Of course, there are drawbacks to my way of life. I have no close friends, or lovers that can last past ten years (and so find it easier to have none at all) but really, is that so bad? Very few of us have children, but then again, is that so bad? No. I stared at myself in the steamy bathroom and conceded that I looked as good as I could at the moment, and left it at that. So what if Archie had escaped me in the hotel? I put it down to nerves. Silly man.

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.

I
wasn’t quite at that stage, but I needed something
courageous
. Let’s not forget that the minor woes of life are real and painful, and we all deserve something nestling in our stomachs that fortifies as well as nourishes us.

I
knew the very thing I needed.

Golden
Eggs.

Nothing
so comforting as a plate full of these little treasures, and accompanied by a glass of champagne they will reach beyond the cockles of your heart to cheer you on any occasion. They have the added advantage of being loaded with an item of consumption which falls into ‘the scarcity theory of value’. Caviar. And if you’re one of those people who question if caviar is really worth it, consider this. The sturgeon, one of the oldest animals on this planet, produces these rare, exotic, delicate eggs in a habitat that hasn’t changed for over a hundred million years. The fish, which can grow to enormous lengths, has a nose, or snout, that roots for food in the sea bed. Then when harvested, the skill and ancient knowledge of the process of salting is a staggering feat. And a hideously expensive mistake, if things go wrong. So. On the whole, I think the answer is yes. It most definitely
is
worth it. Caviar is graded, by the way, according to the size of the grains, beluga being the biggest, then ossetra, then sevruga. I always order ossetra malassol which means lightly salted. Luckily for me I had added this to the Ambles shopping list. I do so like knowing that there’s a little treat waiting for me, should I feel the need for it, don’t you?

Anyway,
Golden Eggs.

Peel
and split lengthwise as many hard (but not
too
hard) boiled free range eggs as you think you and your appetite can handle.

Scoop
out the yolks and mash them with a more than generous helping of caviar. Stuff this mixture back into the whites, and top with a dollop of crème fraiche into which you have mixed some finely diced onion. Gently squeeze some lemon juice over them and then dust with cayenne pepper.

There
is a certain sort of frivolous elegance about this dish which lightens the heart, I promise. Just try it next time you are feeling in the need of an M.F.

I
had just assembled this spectacular treat on a tray and was in the very act of gently popping a cork of one of Archie’s rather wonderful bottles of champagne when the kitchen door slowly opened. I turned my head and saw Archie slowly enter his kitchen like an uninvited guest at a cocktail party.

Damn.

Solitary M.F’s are by far the best. And sharing Golden Eggs with anyone
is
a bit of a bore.

Still,
I hid my annoyance well and smiled as pleasantly as I could. It spoke volumes for the changes wrought in Archie that he didn’t immediately start making proprietarily noises about
his
champagne in
his
kitchen, I suppose.

He
glanced at the tempting tray and gave a little sigh.

“Feeling
peckish, hmm?”

“Not
at all,” I replied tartly, “I thought I’d take this to the homeless shelter at the end of the road.”

“What?
Is there one?” Archie said staring incredulously at what tramps ate these days.

“You
really wouldn’t know would you?” I said, taking pity on him. “No, there isn’t. I was being facetious, not something that needs to be encouraged and I apologise for it. I was taking this to my bed, to nibble on. One way and another I’ve had a very trying sort of day. “

“Oh.”

“As you have too, I’m sure. Did you manage to sleep at all?” I added.

“Of
sorts.”

We
regarded one another in silence, broken only by the slight flapping of some plastic sheeting caught in the draught of the open door.

“Well,
fetch yourself a glass and those two very crisp apples, James Grieve if I’m not mistaken, and the hunk of Roquefort cheese which you’ll be able to find by the judicious use of your nose, and come and join me, if you’d like.” I said, moving around Archie who was seemingly glued to the floor.

“What?”

“Come and join me. It’s far too cold in here and bed’s the only place I really enjoy caviar.”

I
heard Archie stumble around the kitchen and then dutifully follow me up the stairs.

I
slid between the blankets and invitingly flipped the satin eiderdown open for Archie, who was on my heels clutching the loot from the kitchen. He looked hesitantly at the sight of the bed, but like a horse shy of its box he eventually got there, after ensuring that his dressing gown was suitably closed and giving the belt a manly tug.

“There.
Not so very dangerous, is it?” I said, making room for the tray between us. I propped myself comfortably against the headboard with a sensible amount of pillows and motioned for Archie to pour the champagne. He raised his glass and I handed him one of the caviar-laden egg halves.

A
small moan of greed escaped his lips and I smiled approvingly at him. Archie licked his lips and reached for another egg half.

“Remarkably
good,” he commented.

I
picked up my champagne glass and raised it towards Archie. What should we drink to? I couldn’t think of anything, or rather all the things I could think of were perhaps a little to taxing for an M.F. so I reverted to my usual clear-eyed salutation – absent friends.

Archie
absent-mindedly took a sip from his glass and sighed with satisfaction.

“Feeling
a little better Archie dear?” I asked, plumping a pillow into a more comfortable form of padding beneath my back.

“
Mmm, so so,” Archie replied, doing the same with his recalcitrant pillows. He looked around the room,
his
room, with the eyes of a stranger. It seemed that he had been exiled from his kingdom for some while now. I was just about to spread some of the king of cheese onto a slice of apple when there was a shy gazelle like knocking at the door. It had to be Sylvia. I glanced over at Archie, who was gazing at the door with something approaching horror. I gave him a comforting pat on the arm.

“Do
come in Sylvia, we’re having an M.F!” I called as the door swung open.

Sylvia
was wearing what I can only describe as a
peignoir
. Pale pink and beige chiffon draped to the floor in a very fair imitation of a transvestite’s idea of Hollywood glamour circa 1940. I wondered if Candy from Brighton had sent it to her, or possibly she’d been persuaded into buying it on one of her trips around the shops with John Taylor. Whoever had bought it with her ( I would bet all my marbles that she hadn’t shopped solo), it was a remarkable step up from her usual nightwear of cotton Marks and Spencer’s. Archie obviously thought so too from the look of hopeful anticipation on his face.

Sylvia’s
silent stare slid past Archie and alighted on me. She didn’t find it at all odd that her husband and myself were sitting up in her bed quaffing bubbly. She seemed only mildly disconcerted that I wasn’t alone. But with consummate good manners (the thing I genuinely
adored
about the Ambles) she stepped into the breach.

“Oh,
what fun. A midnight feast! It’s like being back in the upper fifth.”

She
smiled at us and I nudged Archie under the covers to get him to respond in the right manner.

“What?
Yes, rather. Do join us,” he said.

“Yes,
do Sylvia,” I joined in, throwing back the covers and moving over so that she could join us.

Sylvia
slid shyly under the covers and I re-arranged the pillows. Archie handed her a glass of fizz and I solicitously gave her some apple and cheese. All that could be heard for a while was the discreet noises of the middle class supping and nibbling. I balanced the plate that held the caviar eggs on my lap and watched as Sylvia and Archie both reached for the last one.