Forbidden Fruit (29 page)

There seemed nothing better to do, so we did.

Tomorrow shall be my dancing day;
I would my true love did so chance
To see the legend of my play,
To call my true love to my dance

Trad.

Saturday morning brought no alarms. I like that in a morning. Daniel and I stayed in bed indecently late, then had coffee and croissants and read the newspapers (which were uniformly depressing) and tried the crossword again. Saturday’s is do-able. Sunday’s is impenetrable. We got the Saturday one out. A triumph! The CD player gave out pavanes and galliards. It was lovely. Despite the trouble in the world, the plight of Brigid and a strange uneasy feeling I was getting from the choristers, it was cool and civilised and cultured in my parlour at ten in the morning on that Saturday. I was just thinking of finding some clothes and
getting dressed when the doorbell went, and disclosed, when I opened the door, Meroe, Kylie and Dolores.

‘This is a surprise,’ I said, allowing them to enter. ‘Nice to see you, Dolly. How did you get away?’

‘I just went,’ she said. ‘I’ll be in terrible trouble when I go home,’ she added matter-of-factly, ‘but that doesn’t matter. I’m always in trouble, I don’t worry about it. I had to see Brigid and the baby.’

‘And you have seen them?’ Daniel was putting on the coffee pot again and was pouring a liqueur glass of green Chartreuse for Meroe, who looked like a tragedy queen who had been dragged through a hedge backwards. She sagged onto the couch, took the glass, and drank it off as though it had contained water. Even though she knows that alcohol damages the chakras. And when Daniel refilled it, she skolled it again. Then she raked her fingers through her hair and greeted Horatio.

‘The baby is so cute,’ said Dolores. She had shed her pink persona. Perhaps Kylie had lent her some clothes. She looked like any other young girl, in jeans and an indie T-shirt. ‘Brigie’s very worried. She looks terrible. She thinks Mum is coming to take the baby away, like she said she would. Can I have chocolate milk?’ she added, as Daniel displayed the contents of the fridge for her choice.

‘And that lemon stuff for me, please,’ said Kylie.

‘Your mother has no right to Brigid’s baby,’ I told Dolores. ‘It’s born of her body. It’s hers.’

‘My coven friend had another sister who is minding the situation for the moment,’ said Meroe, who was clearly listening though her eyes were closed. ‘What happens when she leaves the hospital is the difficulty. There are watchers from the Holy Reformed Temple of Shiloh all around.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘But so far, apart from when you hugged them, all they have done is watch.’

‘You hugged them?’ asked Dolores, horrified. ‘I’d as soon kiss a snake.’

‘A good analogy, though snakes are innocent compared to those men,’ said Meroe. ‘Food of some sort, Corinna? Salty, if you can manage it. I didn’t hug them out of affection, but to embroil them in a fight with my exorcists so that Brigid could escape.’

I explained and Dolores and Kylie laughed in admiration as Daniel assembled and cooked a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich and cut it into four triangles so that Meroe could eat it easily. I joined him and we made a few more sandwiches, and then a few more until we ran out of ingredients. Our audience was ravenous.

‘You’re so brave!’ exclaimed Dolores, accepting a sandwich in her turn and beginning on it as though she had not eaten for days. Perhaps she hadn’t. And she had better stock up for the future when she was confined to barracks at home.

‘It was nothing,’ said Meroe, who was sitting up and looking much more alive under the influence of cheese sandwiches and Chartreuse. It was designed originally as an elixir of life, after all. ‘Corinna, what will become of them?’

‘Manny and Brigid? I don’t know. They’ll need somewhere to live. They’re too young to marry, anyway, unless both parents give their permission—and I can’t see your parents doing that, eh, Dolly?’

She shook her head. Her mouth was full.

‘Manny’s mum would love a new baby to care for,’ said Daniel. ‘She’s very good at babies.’

‘But the O’Ryans won’t let her keep the Child of Peace,’ I said.

‘They’ve got lots of money,’ said Dolly. ‘They could afford to buy Brigid a house. They could afford to give her an allowance. And me, too,’ she added sadly. ‘I’d have a room that wasn’t pink
and time to write and no need to hide everything. And I’d never have to listen to Revs Hale or Putnam ever again—
ever.
’

There didn’t seem to be any way out. Then I heard someone knocking very respectfully on my door and I went to see who it was. How were all these people getting into Insula past that expensive security system?

A very different Mr Pahlevi was there, hat in hand.

‘Lady,’ he said. ‘You seen my Serena?’

‘No, but the bakery isn’t open today,’ I told him. ‘Have you looked in the alley? She might be waiting outside the bakery door. She doesn’t know it’s Saturday.’

‘Not there,’ he said, drooping. Even his flowered hat seemed depressed.

‘If she does arrive here, where shall I send her?’ I asked.

He pressed a card into my hand.

‘You call me,’ he said. ‘I’ll come right away.’

I promised that I would call, and closed the door.

‘Anyone seen a donkey?’ I asked the gathering as I came back inside.

‘Serena? She’s missing?’ asked Kylie.

‘Serena’s gone walkabout. Probably in search of roses. You know how she is about roses. She’s a very self-possessed creature,’ I assured Kylie. ‘She’ll be all right. But call me if you see her.’

‘All right,’ she agreed. ‘I’m taking Dolores home now.’

‘Was your father very distressed that Brigid was missing?’ I asked.

‘Dad? He’s never been that interested in us. I mean, we’re at the end of a lot of sisters and brothers. Mum’s mad to find her. But she won’t find out from me,’ said Dolores. ‘Not if they don’t feed me for days. I have a stash. And Sandra’s a lot nicer these days.’

With that they took their leave. Meroe stood up and stretched until I could hear her joints crack.

‘I need a bath and I need to reconnect with my familiar,’ she said, which meant that she needed to spend a reasonable time stroking Belladonna, her cat. And staring into space, which was something Meroe did a lot. And, who knows, she might find a solution.

We escorted her to her apartment and then went back to our own. Daniel wanted to watch the cricket and I wanted to finish the sewing on a rather nice embroidery for a Christmas present, so we were booked for a quiet afternoon. Fortunately I like cricket too, enough to share a sofa and not object to the voiceover like I do with football or racing. Cricket commentary is mostly quiet and calm, with only occasional screams of outrage or triumph. Horatio also likes to watch cricket. Occasionally he is overcome and leaps down to trap the ball under his paw. I have always wondered what I should do if he came away from the screen with a little man in his mouth …

Daniel watched and I sewed, sitting under my light, while the city went on with Christmas and the day wandered towards lunch. I love Saturdays. They are open-ended. I do not have to get up early and I don’t have to go to bed early. My only day and night of total freedom, to spend as I like.

I heard the choristers go out, singing. Poor things had a hard life. Singing songs about the deep midwinter in these temperatures in full concert dress could not be easy. I heard Mrs Pemberthy open her window and snort. I heard Carolus barking as Therese took him for his afternoon walk. The rest of Insula was sunk in Saturday peace. There ought to be more of it.

I drew the last stitch flat, double looped the thread and cut it off. Finished! In these troubulous times it was a feat to have actually completed anything. I pottered off to the kitchen and found—ironies were rather mounting up—that I had run out of bread. I usually have a couple of emergency loaves in the bakery
so I called out where I was going to Daniel, engrossed in the screen, and he waved a hand to signify that he had heard.

The Mouse Police, always glad to see a visitor, bounced up and down at the alley door, insisting on an outing. I opened it. They bolted out, through the marching tread of Christmas Shopping feet, heading towards the Rising Sun Japanese restaurant. I idled about the bakery, checking on the sourdough, totalling the grocer’s bill, waiting for my feline assault force to return. I could have left the cat door open but I was worried about their safety with all those feet and wheels. It was nice to have nothing to do in the bakery, too, provided that the greedy moggies didn’t take so long obtaining their tuna that I found myself something to do. If you have your own business, there is always something you could be getting on with …

Then I heard singing. Rhythmic chanting, in fact, with little drums and finger cymbals. I hadn’t heard the Hare Krishnas in years and walked into the lane to see them.

They weren’t Hare Krishnas. In a long dancing line of tatters, army uniforms, ballgowns, frilly aprons, combat fatigues, rags and feathers, Greek tunics, emo black T-shirts and gypsy skirts came the freegans, chanting ‘Hare Wombat! Hare Wombat! Wombat, wombat! Hare, hare!’ in the approved style. ‘Marsupial consciousness!’ one called. ‘You can’t start a war if you never come down from your tree! Carry your baby in your pouch! Eat gum leaves! Dig in the burrow of love! Live in the burrow of love! Hare wombat! Hare Wombat!’

I was enchanted. After the dancers came a long string of fascinated children, harassed parents, and an opportunistic girl with a bicycle-driven barrow selling ice cream and cold drinks. I ducked into the bakery, grabbed the petty cash, ran up to her and handed over a small wad of cash. ‘Ice cream and drinks for all the freegans,’ I told her. She wiped her eyes and pushed back her
ice-cream hat and I knew her. It was, in fact, my rickshaw courier Megan, lately working the Soup Run, now moonlighting for the weekend. She grinned at me.

‘Corinna! Aren’t they fun? I’m cleaning up following them, I’m almost sold out. Fair enough that they get a dividend. I’ll stop them here in the shade.’

‘How are you going to stop them?’ I asked, as the dancing maniacs proclaimed the joys of life in a tree. She grinned again and made a megaphone with her hands.

‘Freegans! Freebies!’ she yelled.

Immediately the dance coiled around towards us until we were standing in the middle of a crowd of hot, sweating and exhilarated freegans.

‘Ice cream,’ I said. ‘Drinks.’

‘Thanks!’ they said, and selected and distributed the remainder of Megan’s load. Soon all of them were munching and slurping. When the cargo was all gone, they broke off chunks of ice and smeared them on hot foreheads or tucked them into overheated bosoms. Jadis, Queen of Charn, asked me, ‘Is all well with Brigie?’

‘Yes, safely delivered. But she’s trapped in the hospital. Her parents want that baby and they want Brigid back.’

‘To lock her up again?’ asked Ivanova crisply.

‘I’m afraid so.’ Several other freegans joined their commander.

‘Thanks for the drinks,’ said Nigel. He was wearing a fetching blue-flowered toque, just the thing for Her Majesty’s garden party circa 1950. ‘And don’t worry.’

‘Why?’ I asked, as the finger cymbals snapped, the drums beat, and the dance began to move again.

‘Hare wombat! Hare wombat! Wombat, wombat! Hare, hare!’

And they were gone, with their train of children and one puzzled patrol policeman, who was sure that they were doing something illegal and had sent his colleague to a quieter place to enquire, by radio, exactly what it might be.

I went back to the bakery. The Mouse Police had returned and were settling in for a little day-long nap. Obscurely cheered, I took the extra rolls and a loaf of leftover challah and went upstairs again.

The cricket was finishing up for lunch. I made salad sandwiches. I found my next project. I was having such a nice day.

And it turned into a lovely afternoon, full of quiet industry, with no visitors. Then a not-so-quiet and lusciously erotic night. I had had Daniel to myself for twenty-four hours, and I felt fine.

So when I woke to the sound of hoofs in the alleyway at dawn, I just assumed that Serena would wait for me and rolled over and went back to sleep. I thought I had heard something cluck or possibly quack, but presumed it was a dream. Lots of things made a sort of bird noise. And after a late breakfast, when I opened the alley door for the Mouse Police, there she was, grey and calm, waiting for the bakery to produce rosewater muffins.

I would have to get Jason to make a stock of them, I could tell. Serena drank half a bucket of water with her muffin, then stamped for another, which I gave her. She did not have panniers today. She just wore a headstall which was clearly her nightwear. I unlooped a section of light rope which Megan sometimes used to secure loads and threaded it through the ring.

‘Sorry, darling, but you really shouldn’t be alone in the big city,’ I told her. I rang Mr Pahlevi. Then I found the bottle of rosewater and sprinkled some stale wholemeal rolls. We were out of muffins.

Meroe came down the alley, carrying a basket, and I recalled the selection of muffins that I had frozen for her when the pace of events meant that I could not deliver them.

‘Meroe, could you mind the donkey while I go and get your muffins?’ I asked. ‘I mean, can you handle seeing Mr Pahlevi again?’

‘Certainly,’ said Meroe, taking the tether and stroking the donkey between the ears. ‘Merry meet, little sister.’

Serena nosed her. I climbed the stairs to my own freezer, noticing that Daniel was stirring, and went down again to deliver my present. Meroe and the donkey were perfectly in harmony, I saw. They had trapped one of the ubiquitous suits in a corner of the wall and the alley. Meroe had a raised hand and Serena, backing up, was all prepared to kick his lights out.

‘You will leave this watching,’ snarled Meroe. ‘You will leave now.’

‘It’s God’s will,’ he stammered, switching his terrified glance from Meroe’s hand to the donkey’s hoofs.

‘Then God will provide,’ she told him. ‘If I see you here again I will call the police. And I will put a nice little curse on you,’ she hissed. ‘You will itch and itch and never stop itching until you die screaming, tearing your flesh. Lice,’ she purred, getting closer. ‘Fleas. Bedbugs …’