Forbidden Fruit (15 page)

‘She’s all right,’ Mr Pahlevi assured me. ‘We get flowers when the market opens, then sell them fast; flowers don’t last in hot weather. Then we walk back to stable. Now, rose cakes, lady?’

I sold him three of the cooled muffins. He fed Serena one and kept the other two. She allowed him to lead her down into Flinders Lane.

The paperboy flung his payload at me, missed, and biked off before Heckle could do more than meditate revenge. I allowed the Mouse Police back in past my ankles and found Meroe with her basket, staring after the donkey.

‘That’s your Serena?’ she asked. ‘Do you know the man?’

‘Mr Pahlevi,’ I told her. Meroe whisked herself and basket inside and shut the door, hard. Then she slumped down in my chair and gulped the remains of my coffee even though she seldom drinks coffee. She was very pale. She needed time to pull herself together so I addressed Jason.

‘Jason, do me a favour and put on another pot of coffee? How are the rest of the cakes coming along?’

‘Grouse, Cap’n,’ said my apprentice. ‘How was the cheesy one?’

‘Fantastic. But the ingredients cost a fortune. Too expensive for the shop.’ His face fell. I hated to disappoint him. I had to come up with something and I did. ‘I was thinking—what say we do a fancy platter, like we do with sandwiches, for executive Christmas parties? One mouthful, easy to eat. Little exquisite muffins, say brie, ham …’

‘Bacon,’ Jason corrected me. ‘Crispier. Zucchini and mozzarella, carrot and apple, walnut and blueberry, perhaps some spicy ones, like your fave Thai curry puffs? Cheese and sweet chilli sauce? And choccie ones, and rosewater and raspberry, Christmas pudding, drunken apricot …’

‘All of those,’ I told him. ‘We’ve already got orders for sandwiches. The Stock Exchange party is next week—they’ve been asking about your muffins. Make up a price list and a menu and we can email it to them. And if you do the work, you get half the fee. And I buy the ingredients.’

‘Sweet!’ He remembered his role as Hornblower. ‘I mean, aye, aye, Captain! Coffee ready, Cap’n!’

‘Pour a cup for Meroe, then, and steady as she goes, Mr Midshipman. Carry on.’

He saluted again and turned back to the ovens. I watched Meroe heap sugar into her coffee and gulp it down scalding.

‘Better?’

She nodded, made a magical gesture in the air and sat up straighter.

‘Anything I can do?’ I asked. It does not do to force the confidence of a witch.

‘Does he come here every morning?’ she asked.

‘Serena does. The donkey. She’s a rose addict and Jason makes these amazing rosewater and raspberry muffins. She’s got away from her owner a couple of times, so now he’s decided to just buy the muffins. Donkeys are very determined beasts.’

‘Yes. I once knew a donkey who loved roses.’

She didn’t say anything else. Meroe, when she has nothing to say, says nothing. I got on with chopping the dates for Jason’s oasis muffins. This took concentration because they had been soaked in orange flower water, which made them soft and slushy. After a while I abandoned the knife and just squished them between my fingers, harvesting the stones.

Jason had racked the cooked bread and was putting the next load into the oven when there was a tentative knock at the Calico Alley entrance. At this, Meroe picked up her basket and actually ran up my inner stairs into my apartment and slammed the door. Jason looked at me. I shrugged.

‘Whatever,’ he commented, and opened the door.

There was Rowan, barely visible behind a huge bunch of irises.

‘Came to say I’m sorry about my friends,’ he mumbled.

‘Your friends are not your fault,’ I told him. Then, as he just stood there, red in the face and melting with embarrassment, I asked, ‘Are those for me?’

‘For Goss,’ he said. ‘I met this man and donkey and I thought maybe she might forgive me if …’

‘I think she might,’ I said. ‘But she got a severe shock. You shouldn’t hand out misinformation like that.’

‘I didn’t … I mean, I wouldn’t … Meroe said … I’m sorry …’

‘All right,’ I said. Poor boy could probably go on like this for hours unless someone rescued him. ‘Goss won’t be up yet. Come in and have a muffin while you wait?’

‘No, thanks, Corinna, I just wanted to say … I don’t think there is anything wrong with companion animals.’

And he blushed himself out, laden down with herbage. Heckle, Jekyll, Jason and I looked at each other.

‘Anything for a weird life,’ said my midshipman eventually. ‘What about carrot and walnut?’

‘How are you going to make little muffins?’ I asked.

I should have known that he would have thought of that.

‘Simple, just allow for the shorter baking time and use these little muffin cases. I’ve been trying them. Burnt the first ones to a crisp. Now I reckon I’ve got it about right.’

‘Good. Nut combinations are popular. Pecans? Pine nuts?’

‘I reckon we’ve got enough nuts around here this morning,’ he muttered.

I had to agree.

Fortunately the rest of the morning was as usual. Kylie came into the shop. She reported that Goss had stopped probing her bosom for lumps and was reclining on the couch with Tori, watching a few
Sex in the City
DVDs. I tried one of the oasis muffins, scented with orange flower water, juicy with dates, and topped with orange icing and crystallised peel. Superb. Customers lingered in the shop, unwilling to go out into the heat again, which made it crowded but meant that they added a little extra something to the parcel or bag while they were waiting. The carrier arrived to take away the restaurants’ bread. The racks began to empty.

Mrs Dawson purchased four of the oasis muffins and told Jason they reminded her of Egypt, pyramids and exotic places without the accompaniment of beggars, sand and mosquitos. She had invited the Professor to lunch and needed sourdough for her smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwiches. Mrs Pemberthy made Jason bring her bread to the door because I meanly refused to allow her rotten little doggie Traddles into my nice clean shop.

The Hollidays came in to advise that they were going on—as it were—holiday, and promised to send a postcard from Queenscliff.
Goss and Kylie were looking after Calico, their cat, mother of Tori. I wished them bon voyage with muffins. Trudi bought two loaves, one for herself and one for the pigeons she attracts to the roof, hoping thus to persuade a kestrel to nest there. So far this has not worked but occasionally Lucifer tries to catch a pigeon. He’s fast, and if he had not been on a harness would probably have flown one to the ground.

Therese Webb bought several loaves of the pasta douro for her craft luncheon. She and Jason exchanged ideas about sandwiches for vegetarians, in which they both became engrossed.

‘Not grated carrot and sultanas again,’ said Therese.

‘Please,’ said a voice from the door. ‘Not grated carrot and sultanas.’ The speaker was Janeen, the Soup Run medical student and one of the singers. I wondered that she could possibly associate herself with that pamphlet.

‘What, then?’ asked Therese, who had not been privy to the argument about the pamphlet and probably hadn’t read the pamphlet. She only tends to read knitting patterns and Tolstoy.

‘What about roasted peppers and onions and eggplant, lots of different sorts of tomato?’

‘Sounds good,’ said Jason judicially.

‘Cucumber, hummus, baba ganoush, grated beetroot, any cheese but goat’s cheese?’ pleaded Janeen. ‘Cream cheese and walnut, my favourite.’

‘Good,’ said Therese.

‘Grouse,’ said Jason. ‘Have a brie muffin?’

‘No animal products?’ she demanded.

‘Well, except the brie,’ he said. ‘I make the savoury ones with olive oil. No butter.’

‘Thanks. Some butter is mixed with lard or GM canola.’ She shuddered at the thought, then bit the muffin, which produced the right expression on her thin fanatic’s face. She actually smiled.
She was quite pretty when she smiled. Jason, who had shuddered at the idea that he might use butter made of anything else but one hundred per cent butter fat derived from milk, smiled in turn.

‘I’m going to the deli,’ Therese told us, and took her wheelie basket away.

‘What can we do for you, Janeen?’ I asked. I was still not impressed with that pamphlet.

‘You’re cross with us,’ she observed.

‘Certainly am. You nearly scared Goss into a conniption. You, a medical student, ought to know better.’

‘I didn’t see it,’ she said. ‘I only read the thing this morning. After the local witch descended on us and nearly cursed us last night.’

‘You had it coming,’ I reminded her.

‘I know. Most of us aren’t idiots, really. Sarah got a delivery of them from America and thought it would be a good idea to spread the message.’

‘Wrong message,’ I said flatly.

‘Yes. Sorry. Really, I am sorry,’ she insisted. ‘Perhaps we can make it up to you? What about a little concert?’

‘I’ll think about it,’ I told her. ‘I’ll ask the others. Did you come for some bread?’

‘Loaf of wholemeal,’ she sighed. I wasn’t going to forgive her yet. Jason, who is a sucker for people who appreciate his cooking, gave her change and watched her go out, her thin shoulders sagging.

‘She really is sorry,’ he told me.

‘Perhaps,’ I said.

‘Meroe cursed them?’ asked Kylie, agog.

‘No,’ I said. ‘She just nearly cursed them. If she had really cursed them, they would not be buying bread.’

‘But catching flies with their tongues,’ guessed Kylie.

‘Indeed.’

‘Euw,’ she commented.

Then we sold more bread. The Pandamus family at Cafe Delicious have invested in a slushy machine which produces a very creditable granita and Jason did a cold drink run for Kylie and me. Grapefruit granita almost reconciles me to summer. Just not quite.

Quite soon it was lunchtime and the bread walked out the door. Summer equals salads and sandwiches and for both you need bread. I lunched on Greek salad, one of the world’s great meals—crispy cucumber, onion and tomato, luscious feta. Jason dined on moussaka (first course) then beef stifado (main course) then five scoops of different ice cream with wafers (dessert). And a bottle of Coke. Kylie averted her eyes and nibbled an undressed stick of celery and three cherry tomatoes.

By the time two o’clock rolled around I was pooped. I loaded the sack for the Soup Run, cashed up and left the banking for Kylie, left Jason with the cleaning and trailed up to my apartment. I was intending to have a wash and perhaps a nap, if Daniel had gone out. Which he had. If he was staying—and I hoped fervently that he was—we were going to have to get a bigger bed. With Horatio and Daniel there just wasn’t room for me as well. Meroe was not there. She must have just been passing through. Why was a stout-hearted witch afraid of Mr Pahlevi of the pin-sharp countenance? Had she known Serena before? What, in fact, was going on?

As I had no answers, I washed and changed. I missed the luxurious baths of yesteryear, before the Big Dry. Ah, I could imagine telling someone’s very bored grandchildren twenty years hence, in the old days I used to have a full bath every day! And they wouldn’t believe me, having been cleansed from childhood with a
wet washer and a cup of warm water. There isn’t water like that, they would say, and what’s more there never was. Such is history.

Sky blue and indigo caftan, shucking the overall. Sandals instead of the strong heavy baker’s shoes. Bliss. I made myself a cool lemon drink and found Jade Forrester again.

She was excellent company for a cool day inside. But even Jade’s fascinating narrative couldn’t prevent me from gently falling asleep on the couch, with Horatio before me on the coffee table, where he appreciated the coolness of the glass top on his furry tummy. And, very strangely in view of the pace of events at Insula lately, nothing happened to wake me until Daniel kissed me and it was six o’clock.

‘I’ve got salt beef and salads from Uncle Solly’s,’ he told me. ‘Come and eat,
metuka
, I have to go out again in a moment.’

‘How was your day?’ I murmured, coming slowly to the surface.

‘Confusing. I talked to Melissa. Well, I tried to talk to Melissa. All she says is “whatever”. I can’t work out if she is an idiot or afraid of something.’

‘Could be both,’ I said, spooning out Uncle Solly’s famed creamy potato and mayonnaise with spring onions.

‘I suppose,’ said my beloved, piling pickles onto his salt beef on pumpernickel. ‘I probably should have loosed Goss onto her. How is the poor girl, by the way?’

‘All right,’ I told him. ‘Almost convinced that she isn’t going to die today.’ I told him about the repentance of poor Rowan and the apology delivered by Janeen. He paused halfway through a gherkin.

‘I forgot to tell you. The freegans called to leave you a present.’ He ate the pickle and rummaged in his satchel. The present was a used paper bag, carefully smoothed out. On it someone had written in bright blue calligraphy
Old Brewery Site
.

‘Cryptic,’ I said.

‘Isn’t it just?’

‘What, do you suppose, this means?’ I persisted, removing the gherkins and holding them out of reach, in order to capture his attention. Daniel considered the question.

‘Possibly it is a freegan joke. Possibly it is a mistake. Possibly it is the hiding place of our fugitive couple.’

‘And so …’ I dangled a gherkin near his mouth.

‘I’m going to wander around there tonight,’ he said. I posted the pickle, which he crunched hastily—presumably in case I changed my mind.

‘But first,’ I told him, ‘we have to see the Lone Gunmen. They left you a message. They have something to tell you about those phone numbers you wanted them to trace.’

We concluded dinner with iced tea and went down through Insula to the lurking place of our very own resident computer experts. Hephaestus was the smith of the gods in the Good Old Days when a deity was likely to manifest himself in every passing bush to every passing shepherdess. He was crippled and cruelly treated, poor Hephaestus, illicit child of Mars and Venus. None of those things applied to our nerds, unless the crippling was social. They really didn’t get on with people, except other computer nerds. In fact, when we knocked at the door, we were greeted by a man in a T-shirt which read
DON
’
T BE AFRAID, YOU
’
RE AMONG GEEKS HERE
. And otherwise only a rather inadequate pair of torn boxers. Not a pretty sight.