Forbidden Fruit (27 page)

‘Mandarin and pecan, honey and cinnamon, lemon and poppyseed,’ sang Jason.

The bright blue eyes lit up.

‘One of each,’ he said hungrily. ‘But don’t bother about the bread, please.’

Aha. A fellow Winnie-the-Pooh fan. For that he should have all three. But when I handed them over he insisted on paying for them.

‘I’m not a freegan anymore,’ he reminded me. ‘Sonemes are my calling. The rest of the time I write maths CDs for schools. It’s a living. How is the lost girl?’

‘Delivered safely,’ I said. ‘Resting.’

‘Oh, that is good news,’ he replied.

I agreed that it was and went into the shop to give Goss a mandarin and pecan muffin. I got one for myself, too. They were superb.

Rupert took his leave. He had an appointment to record Therese weaving. I hoped that Carolus, her King Charles spaniel, would put in a small (but royal) bark. I felt that Horatio’s voice, right at the end of the recording, had added something extra to the soneme. The Mouse Police seldom spoke, reserving their energy for hunting. And eating. And sleeping, of course.

The gourmet muffins walked off in the arms of a PA from the Stock Exchange. I noted down the orders for the fruit and veg for tomorrow’s treats. Plus a lot of sugar. Jason must have decided to revisit the glacé cherries. He had better get a move on or they would go out of season. Every year I swear I will make blood orange marmalade, and every year I forget until the blood oranges are gone. Fortunately Therese didn’t miss them and the jar of perfectly pink jam only cost me an hour’s work on one of her endless tapestries.

But I had serious business. I had done my census of presents in my head and had come up short. Getting the three remaining Christmas presents meant that—gasp—I would have to brave the heat, crowds, jingles and so on and go out again. And I ought to do it soon. Goss could mind the shop. She, of all people, would understand.

Accordingly, I dressed in what amounted to combat gear, took the hated mobile in case Daniel rang, and, jamming on my straw hat, marched out into the throngs.

They looked so miserable. That’s what worried me. This was supposed to be a feast of joy and jollity and the practitioners looked like they were shopping to avert the imminent execution of their nearest and dearest. Still, with a background like mine, what would I know?

I fought my way onto the main drag, where there were sweating Santas, clanging trams, screaming children, and no air whatsoever. Diving into a big shop at least meant that there was some semblance of cool and, if I stuck to the ‘extremely expensive’ counters, not too many people. I made my purchase of very fragrant gardener’s soap, scrub and hand cream and stuck the gift-wrapped box into my bag. The air was full of exceptional perfumes. I leant against a display and breathed deeply, which was a cue for three nice ladies to pounce and hand me slips of cardboard with the latest scent sprayed upon them. I accepted them all. I put them in my jumper drawer to keep away moths. But these were all too sweet to please me. I liked the sophisticated French perfumes by Guerlain. Which, on my skin, instantly reverted to Coles Bargain Counter. It was unfair.

I found the Roman bath oil for the professor in the same place. I knew that he soaked his aged bones in sybaritic spas and this bath oil was compounded of the same herbs the Romans had used. And, come to think of it, had brought to England, bless them; mint, basil, all my favourites were Roman imports to keep the troops as happy as possible in a land where it rained all the time and dulled their harness, rusted their swords and depressed their mood. This oil contained sage and mint and ought to do our Ancient Roman’s body the world of good.

The cookbook I wanted for Jason, one written in simple language, meant that I had to find an escalator and rise through
the building. Noise, children, people consulting lists, I was glad I didn’t have to go near the toy department. It must be hell up there. I wished there was an equivalent to Hamleys, the famous London toyshop: five quiet floors of excellent toys, and so big that even gangs of children got subdued in it and stopped yelling (unless, of course, their parent was obdurate in the matter of toy purchase, when a tantrum is de rigueur). I had spent happy hours in Hamleys, trying out different games and kissing teddy bears, and had never seen anything to upset me.

On arrival in the book depository I was directed to the toy department as the book I wanted was written for children.

Damn. Up again, rising through heated air, into the stockyard fug of the Christmas Crèche. More dead ducks, I assumed, more miserable stock. I did not want to look at them, moral coward that I am. So I looked.

Just as bad as before. The calf mouthed hay that I was pretty sure it was too young to eat. The sheep looked dazed, though that is pretty normal for sheep. The ducks were very unhappy, tucking their heads under their wings and hoping they would wake up somewhere wetter. It was more likely to be a roasting dish. The chooks were panicking, running away from the grabbing hands and losing feathers by the moment. More bald chickens for the pot at closing time. The goats chewed and sneered. They, at least, were all right. I found a few carrots in my shopping bag, which was the only one I could find in the bakery when I made my stern resolve, so I managed to decoy the donkey over to me. She nudged me gently. She was dark brown, with the same long-lashed eyes as Serena. I stroked her and told her that soon it would be Christmas and after that she got to go home, and almost anywhere, even carrying flowers for the repentant Mr Pahlevi, would be better than here. At least Serena was a well-fed and cared-for and valued member of a team.

‘What’s your name, darling?’ I asked the donkey. She had a
headstall on, and an engraved name tag which said
Diligence.
It was a good name. A Quaker name to match her peaceable nature. I fed her the last of the carrots as a flying wedge of snotty-faced moppets attacked us, and Diligence shifted unhappily as they leapt under her belly and grabbed for her tail. Another contingent was swinging on her ears. I moved away as a feckless parent held up a frightful child to the donkey’s back.

I hoped Diligence would kick, but she was too used to turning the other cheek …

I got Jason’s book, which seemed to be very useful. Lots of new things he could experiment with, solving the problem of his limited literacy. Then, as I was leaving, I looked back at the crèche and the mistreated animals, wishing there was something I could do. I thought of Beverley Nichols’ vision of the zoo animals freed in the night exacting revenge on the spectators. Each of those crude undisciplined children needed a good kicking, followed by their parents who hadn’t taught them any better. Then Diligence and the goats could move on to the owners of this shop …

Then I saw something which remained with me on the long trail downhill and into the street and all the way back to Insula.

What was Sarah, the vegan of vegans, the Vegie Queen, doing talking on such friendly, even intimate terms, with the man who supplied the animals for the crèche? She had laughed. She had patted his arm. And this a man who mistreated animals, even as he supplied them for a festival and, moreover, exploited them rotten?

It was a mystery.

Meanwhile, I intended to have ice cream. I had never got my cherry ripple and chocolate, so I bought it on the way home. There are deeds which demand a big drink with umbrellas in as a reward. And there are deeds which demand ice cream. Christmas shopping demanded ice cream, and it was going to get it.

The sexual life of the camel
Is stranger than anyone thinks;
At the height of the mating season
It tries its luck on the sphinx.

Trad.

Horatio did not approve of ice cream. His view was that cream should be cool but not cold and he objected to the way the stuff melted on his immaculate nose. I gave him some cream while I spooned out my treat. I had shucked the straw hat, slipped off my sandals and good clothes, and was cool again. Jason and Goss had finished up the banking and my working day was over. Where was my Jade Forrester, where was my cool drink? A little reclining was indicated. The mobile had not rung while I was braving the Outer Limits of Xmas and there were no texts. Things must be all right at the hospital. The choristers were rehearsing.
The words that came through the wall, however, were very rude. Who would have thought that people would still be singing ‘The Sexual Life of the Camel’ (or, as Terry Pratchett interpreted it, ‘The Hedgehog Song’) in the twenty-first century?

‘… comparative safety on shipboard,’ the voices assured me, ‘is enjoyed by the hedgehog alone …’

I ate my ice cream. I drowsed. The indecent songs continued. Daniel, having missed the ‘rude songs sung in pubs’ part of my university education (quite the most amusing part) was puzzled to catch, as he came in, the strain of a traditional MUFS item.

‘See the dingoes in leather jackets, see their Harleys ride (vroom vroom vroom) through the tunnel in downtown Paris, the night the Princess died.’ Then the chorus howled triumphantly: ‘The dingoes did the Princess in, the dingoes did the Princess in …’

‘What are they singing? I thought I knew that tune,’ he commented. ‘It’s “The Lion Sleeps Tonight”.’

‘Was. Let me introduce you to the Melbourne University Falsetto Society, aka MUFS, purveyors of terrible lyrics in the worst possible taste to the gentry for many years,’ I said sleepily.

‘Oh, rugby songs,’ he said, interested.

‘And we don’t need to have the rugby. How are things at the hospital?’

‘Good. Well, pretty good,’ he temporised. ‘For the moment. Coffee?’

‘Coffee,’ I agreed, getting up. ‘You must be worn out. Whom have you left in charge?’ I felt sure that the freegans would approve of that ‘whom’.

‘Meroe has a witch friend amongst the midwives,’ he said, slumping down and rubbing his eyes. ‘There seem to be witches everywhere. Not that that isn’t good,’ he added hastily. ‘Fine women, all of them. She’s looking after Brigid. Who is recovering
very fast. Manny hasn’t moved from her side. He, however, called his mother. So the secret is out and I am expecting trouble as soon as the O’Ryans hear the news.’

‘Who will they hear the news from?’ I asked, waiting for the kettle to do its stuff.

‘Once a secret is known to one it is known to all,’ he quoted. ‘Old Yiddish proverb.’

‘That is true, isn’t it?’ I realised. ‘Some form of osmosis, possibly—diffusion through a semi-permeable membrane,’ I explained. ‘I remember it because of the words. I can also tell you about endemic dicotyledons. Actually, I can’t tell you anything about endemic dicotyledons, except that they have two seed leaves, but the phrase is instantly memorable, don’t you think?’

Daniel was looking at me. I made the coffee. I gave him a selection of slightly singed muffins. He ate them with suitable expressions of delight. I wondered what we could do to prevent the O’Ryans descending on the hospital in force and just removing Brigid. In her weakened condition she surely wouldn’t be able to do much about it. Manny, however valiant, was only a boy. The O’Ryans were rich and influential and he was poor. Bugger. I went over and looked out the window.

‘Our watcher’s back,’ I said. ‘I forgot to tell you about him. He’s harmless. And I bet he’s melting inside that heavy suit. They could at least have given him a hat. A fedora would have been quite appropriate.’

‘Anything on the answering machine?’

I pushed the button. The same female voice shrieked, ‘
Shiloh! Give up the Son of Peace!
’ over and over until the time ran out.

I shivered.

‘No, I don’t like it either,’ said Daniel. ‘However, the hospital won’t make Brigid see her parents if she doesn’t want to. I have
told the nurses very forcefully that the O’Ryans are not to go near her. Meroe’s friend will reinforce that. It’s when she has to leave that the fun will begin.’

‘Fun,’ I said scornfully.

‘Come and sit down,
metuka,
’ he said kindly. ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.’

And he leant his head on my shoulder and fell neatly asleep. I hugged him for a while, then shifted him by degrees to the pillows of the couch. Poor Daniel, selfish Corinna! He’d been up guarding the baby and the mother all night. He slept beautifully, neither snoring nor drooling, his eyelashes a black line on his perfect cheek.

The least I could do was to guard his sleep. Horatio and I curled up with him. I read the Jade Forrester, recalling 1991 with some horror. Horatio dreamt, I assume, of Memorable Meals, for he was licking his whiskers in his sleep. I bet it was the morning when he had secured all that smoked salmon for himself. I had left it unattended on the kitchen table. After I had got it out from behind the fridge it wasn’t fit for anyone else to eat but Horatio.

Time passed. It started, at last, to get dark. I was in the mood for cooking so I got up carefully and prowled the kitchen. What to make? I was sick of salads. How about a good strong curry? No. What, then? I had lamb chops, didn’t I? Well, then, what about good old-fashioned lamb chops, mash and three veg? And for dessert, what was left over? Half a banana cake, already made from aged bananas, in the freezer. Misc fruit. In the liquor cupboard, a drain in the bottom of the sherry bottle but—aha! A half bot of Stone’s Green Ginger Wine. All right then, trifle it would be.

Because I was not in a hurry, I did it all properly, with no shortcuts. I cut the cake into slices which I soaked in Ginger Wine. I made a jelly with gelatine, ginger syrup and pineapple juice. I made a crème anglaise with three eggs. I whipped a lot of
cream. I chopped glacé ginger. When I assembled it, it was a work of art. Horatio and Daniel slept on, though Horatio woke briefly to assist me with the whipping of the cream.

And the voices sang, at intervals, pub songs of my youth. Through the Wild West show echoed the agonised cry of the OoMeDoodle Bird. Agostino Agostella proclaimed his own form of relaxation. Strange noises came from the chandler’s shop. The woodpecker song was just getting to ‘remove it’ when they broke off and sang, in perfect four-part harmony, the little ditty which I had first heard: