Earthly Delights (9 page)

‘That’s an interesting allegory to tell a businessman,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell it to James on Saturday night.’

‘James? He is your ex-husband? Do I scent a budding re-romance, if that could be called a word?’ he twinkled at me kindly.

‘No, you don’t. He wants to talk to me for some reason, why I can’t imagine, and he’s paying. Besides, he has a doting wife now and I believe that she is pregnant.’

Professor Monk poured himself some more wine in such a pointed manner that I got the hint.

‘Don’t be silly. He likes them thin and drooping, something I never was. Either thin or drooping. He’s up to something. James always is. And then I’m going on the Soup Run with Daniel.’

‘Tell me about him,’ the old man suggested. ‘But first, help me to my couch, will you? The thing I never imagined about Roman furniture, before I had it made, was that it was so comfortable.’

I arranged him in a supine posture and fetched the little table with all his things and put it within reach. Then I reclined on the facing couch. He was right. It was very comfortable, once you got used to the strain on the left arm.

Then I realised I didn’t have much to tell. I didn’t know a lot about Daniel. I could practically see Lepidoptera White folding her arms and nodding at me. I dismissed her as an unpleasant vision.

‘He has a grandpa who told him that the reward for a mitzvah is another mitzvah,’ I said. ‘He used to be in the Israeli army. He’s gorgeous.’

‘Sounds like a good beginning,’ prompted Professor Monk.

‘He has a lot of personal … well, Meroe would call it mana. He told a screaming addict to be a good girl and she became one.’

‘
Auctoritas
,’ said the professor. ‘It works on dogs too. Or so I am told. I’ve never had it.’

‘And I’m going out with him on the Soup Run on Saturday night and I’ll probably learn a lot more about him,’ I added, sounding a bit defensive even to myself.

‘I’m sure you will,’ he said. ‘Nothing like women for gathering information. I’ve always thought it was supernatural. The things your young lady was telling me about our neighbours would have made my hair stand on end, had I any left.’

I made a mental note to tell Kylie to tone down the goss for Professor Dion.

‘She’s failed in one mission, though,’ I said. ‘She doesn’t know anything about the man who’s moved into Lady Diana’s.’

‘I met him in the lift,’ said the Professor. ‘Do you mean that I know something that Kylie doesn’t? I am pleased. His name is Holliday. Retired. Something in the city, I would have said, he was wearing a suit which had once been very fashionable. About five years ago, perhaps. No children, no dependants, no wife and no pets. He seemed sad. Perhaps he has lost his wife. I remember what that felt like,’ he added. ‘He asked several questions about who lived here and I referred him to the residents’ committee, who will tell him more than he needs to know.’

‘What was your impression of him?’ I asked.

‘Tallish, balding, usual number of eyes and ears, I suppose. The situation wasn’t rendered more comfortable by Mrs Pemberthy getting in at the fourth floor and telling me about the sins of your vicious cat. She was also complaining that Mr P spends a lot of time in the garden, which I find unsurprising. How is the delightful Horatio, by the way? Give him my best regards.’

‘Time for me to go,’ I said. ‘Can I turn on your TV?’

Professor Dion shuddered. ‘Just find me my glasses,’ he said. ‘Thank you for a lovely evening, my dear.’

I found his glasses and let myself out. I returned to feed Horatio and the others and put myself to bed after checking that all the locks were secure. I hadn’t done that since the day I came to Insula and it was a little disappointing. That might account for the fact that I woke bright and early at two am and spent the rest of the night on the couch with Horatio, watching a very old horror movie. The whole building was silent. Insula was built with thick walls and internal partitions so unless someone is having a very loud party or a very loud fight, you wouldn’t know there was anyone else in the place with you. At least, I reflected, it was now Friday. After I did this morning’s baking I got two days off.

It wasn’t worth opening on the weekend in my bit of the city. Most of the action moved across the river to the huge Southbank complex, with its gambling halls and restaurants and street theatre. I was in the working district and only the workaholic, the junkies and the wandering madmen came here on the weekends. And they didn’t buy much bread.

It had been a wise choice for my own sanity. Baker’s hours are too unsociable to do them all the time. This way, once I finished on Friday, I at least got to sleep in two mornings and didn’t need to do the Monday baking until Monday morning. When Grandma Chapman had been alive I used to visit her every Saturday. Now I did some gentle shopping, visited a gallery, saw a movie. I had largely lost all my friends when James and I broke up two—no, nearly three years ago now. I didn’t really miss them. I would doubtless make more friends when I needed to. At the moment Horatio and I were rather enjoying being alone.

Though not at three am on a very dark night. Watching a
very spooky movie. The vampire’s mouth opened and he had two thin teeth like hypodermic needles. He had no hair, cat’s slit pupils and fingernails like a Mandarin. Very scary. I was making Horatio nervous and he was making me nervous and finally I got up and gave us both a nice drink of milk. He had his in a saucer and I drank mine, microwave-heated and Ovaltined, from a cup.

‘Perhaps
Nosferatu
was not a wise choice of movie,’ I said to Horatio. He licked up the last of the milk and blinked in agreement. ‘Even if it is a triumph of German Expressionism. In fact, since I am sure I just saw something dark flick past that window, I vote we go back to bed and pull the covers over our heads,’ I said to him.

He beat me to it. Four paws are faster than two, especially if the two have loose slippers on. We fell into an uneasy doze until the alarm clock alerted me to the fact that Friday morning had officially arrived.

I baked, I fed, I washed, I did all the usual stuff. I didn’t feel very imaginative so I made lots of French knots, plaits, twists and baguettes. My muffins were blueberry. I hacked up the herbs for the herb rolls and made the large order of rye bread for the restaurant. Saturday is always a restaurant’s busiest day. If it isn’t, the restaurant is not going to be there for long, so eat while you may. I remember one very experienced restaurant owner talking about her children. She fervently hoped that they didn’t follow in her footsteps. She wanted them to have a nice job, like lawyer or teacher or labourer or gardener, where they had scheduled meal breaks and they got to sit down occasionally. Selling food for a living, she told me, was a mug’s game. And she was right, but it does have its compensations.

Strangely, when it was time, I didn’t actually want to open the street door. It must have been a leftover from that movie. I wondered if something dark and horrible was waiting outside. But the valiant Mouse Police were bouncing up and down, eager to seek for prey, or possibly fish, so I dragged the bolt and undid the locks and they shot out into the alley.

I followed slowly. The sun was rising, which was always a good thing, and a ray fell on my face. I looked around. No bodies on the vent. Kiko’s brother Ian was sweeping. The sound came clearly down the alley in that silence which precedes the roar of traffic. No paint on my wall. Just a quiet sunny morning. Just what an underslept baker needs.

Then someone screamed. Not loudly, but it was a scream and I went around the corner of the alley at a sort of fast creep. I wasn’t going to rush into the middle of anything and if that was Jack the Ripper round there, there was a sporting chance he wouldn’t see me, busy with his latest victim as he would be, as I raced back inside, locked all the doors and called the police. I am not the stuff of which vigilantes are made, as you will have noticed.

But there was no gore—at least, not yet. What I saw was a large man in a suit and sunglasses—at this hour!—preparing to cuff my floor-scrubbing scarecrow of the day before. Again, to judge by the way Jase, yes, that was the name, was cowering against the wall with his hand across his face.

This I could handle. I retreated a little and then came around the corner yelling, ‘Heckle! Jekyll! Puss, puss, puss!’ and then stopped dead as I saw the threatening little tableau. A picture of innocence, I was. To add to the impression, Heckle came skidding up behind me in case I really meant it about the cat food. A gust of baking accompanied me.

The big man released Jase, said something to him in a low voice, then marched into Flinders Lane. I let him go. When I was sure he had gone, I beckoned to Jase and he limped into Calico Alley, spitting out something white. It was a tooth. Oh dear.

I let Jase sit down on the doorstep—after all it was clean, he had scrubbed it himself—and fed Heckle and Jekyll some
kitty treats, since they had come promptly when I had called. Cats are not trainable by any method other than always—always, without fail—rewarding the behaviour you want. If there’s invariably a kitty treat in it for them, they will come when they are called, unless something really much more interesting is happening. Miss one reward and all that training goes the same way as a John Howard election promise about Medicare. They whuffed appreciatively as I drew some hot water, found a cloth and sat down to have a look at the poor boy’s face.

He scooted away from me, whining, ‘I’m all right!’ but I ignored this as he clearly wasn’t. As honorary first-aid monitor at a tough girls school which went in for hockey like other people went in for hard drugs—ferociously, mindlessly—I was used to this sort of injury. I mopped off the blood and found that Jase had a cut lip and a missing tooth which must have been loose, because there was not a lot of bleeding at the empty socket. His mouth was already ballooning up.

It isn’t like this in the movies, I know, but in the real world the victim of a beating looks like they have put a compressed air nozzle into their mouth and turned it on. They look ridiculous which, since they are always in considerable pain, seems unfair. There wasn’t a lot of Jase’s face and now it was going to be all lip.

‘I’ll get you some ice,’ I told him. ‘Then maybe a nice cup of coffee. I suppose you aren’t going to tell me what that was all about, are you?’

He shook his head and winced. I checked and found a bump on the back of his skull. His hair was filthy. He probably had lice. Or not. Only a louse which liked slumming would live in that hair. I had an idea.

When the bakery had been designed, someone had put in
a small bathroom, just a toilet and a shower. I didn’t use it because I lived upstairs. I left Jase and went up to find a bottle of shower gel which was supposed to make me feel focused and which was still almost full. Aromatherapy is a good idea, everyone likes nice smells, but I didn’t care for the scent of ginger on my skin, preferring it in gingerbread. I also grabbed a towel and a worn but clean dressing gown which had belonged to James and which I kept in case I had to do any painting. I also found some old thongs.

Jase was still sitting on the step when I came back, which rather surprised me. I thought he would have run as soon as I turned my back. I helped him to his feet.

‘In there,’ I told him, ‘is a shower. Go. Wash yourself. Wash your hair. Especially wash your hair. I will wash your clothes. Then you can sit here in the warm until the dryer spits them out and then you can go. By which time the bloke in the shades will have moved on. All right?’

I expected an argument but he just murmured, ‘Thanks,’ and took the garments and the gel. Soon some frightful trackies were poked through the door and I heard the shower running. I slung his revolting clothes into the washer, set it on ‘soiled’ because it didn’t have a setting for ‘filthy’ and continued with my bread.

I was almost finished when a terribly clean Jase came out of the bathroom on a puff of steam. He was at least two shades lighter and revealed as a blond. I gave him an ice-pack to hold to his mouth and slid the last loaves into the oven.

‘This is a nice place,’ Jase almost said. ‘Warm.’

‘It’s nice now,’ I said. ‘It’s hell in summer.’ I took a look at him. His eyes were no more dilated than usual and he seemed to know where he was. As far as he ever did.

‘Jase, where do you live?’ I asked.

He extricated his hand from the folds of James’s dressing gown and waved it. ‘Here and there’ he seemed to mean. I really wasn’t going to get anything out of him and it seemed cruel to press. So I just got on with the bread and the washer got on with its sacred duty and Jase sat on my chair, watching me work.

He seemed interested.

‘Wha’s tha’?’ he asked, pointing at my prized bucket of yeast mixture.

‘That’s mother of pasta douro,’ I said. ‘A mixture of yeast and warm water and it has to be fed every day with flour and sugar. Some bakers call it a starter. Yeast is a plant,’ I said. ‘It has to be looked after like any plant.’

‘No flowers,’ said Jase. ‘Just flour.’

This was a witty observation. I looked at him. He was huddled in James’s dressing gown, which went around him twice. He would weigh maybe only forty kilos and he looked as frail as a reed. But he must share some attributes with the city’s indestructible sparrows, who made a living any place they could and somehow were always there when anyone dropped anything edible. Most of my motherly feelings are for cats, so maybe Jase reminded me of an underfed, scrawny kitten that some heartless fiend had shut out in the street.

When the washer completed its ministrations I put the track pants and underwear in the dryer, but the act of washing had removed so much dirt and chili sauce and various disgusting human fluids from the Folsom t-shirt that it had fallen to rags. Jase looked stricken.

‘I’ll give you another,’ I offered.

‘One of yours?’ he asked. I nodded. ‘Sweet as,’ he enthused, hissing through his missing tooth. ‘That has to be nice and loose. Homey. I mean,’ he added hastily, ‘I’m real thin, and you’re—’