The Price of Butcher's Meat (13 page)

At the cottage—after a little delay—Miss Lee answered Toms knock. I was introduced—briefly. She did a little Chinese bob thing—like Pitti- Sing in the musical. She was wearing a sort of

kimono—but close up her face

looked a lot less oriental—more plastic than porcelain—& Id say the almond blossom complexion comes out of a jar. Her voice was pretty neutral—very precise—with the occasional Yorkshire vowel suggesting shed been around the county for some time.

She had a patient—she explained—but would join us shortly. We were standing in a narrow passage with a steep staircase up to the first fl oor—& 2 doors to the right—& another at the far end—open to reveal a kitchen.

Miss Lee slipped through the first door—presumably not wanting us to see T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 8 5

some poor devil stuck with needles like a hedgehog!—& Tom led me

through the next door—clearly very much at home.

I found myself wondering—this alternative medicine thing—does he try them all?

We were in a crepuscular living room—small 16th cent windows in walls a yard thick—bit of a change from bamboo & rice paper—or is that Japan?

Couple of pictures on the wall—prints of Chinese art—& a framed professional certificate—in Chinese characters. No—I havent taught myself Chinese—

alongside it in the same frame was what I presumed was an English version—telling the world that Yan Lee had earned her qualifications—with distinction—at the Beijing Institute of Acu puncture & Moxibustion! (You tell me—youre the familys medical expert!)

Tom settled into a dusty armchair—to read a dusty newspaper—& I wandered around—checking out the bookshelves. Us psychologists can tell a lot from bookshelves! Fiction mainly—chic lit—historical romances—couple of classics looking like they were lifted from school. Nonfiction limited to royal reminiscences—& Delia—plus—which I almost missed—a very tatty paperback—

Teach Yourself Acu punc ture. Set book from the Beijing Institute maybe?

Miss Lee reappeared as I was looking at it—so I quickly shoved it back into place—& hoped she hadnt noticed. Tom chitchatted for a moment or two about local matters—then started talking about my thesis—making me sound like an FRS on a WHO funded research project! Miss Lee listened—

then said—so you would like to talk to my patients to see if I really do them any good physically? I said—no—I would like to talk to those whose physical improvement is undeniable—with a view to understanding the mental processes involved. I have no interest in passing judgment on the status of acu puncture as medical therapy—

She gave me a little smile—like she didnt believe a word of it—& said—

OK—Ill have a word with a couple of them—see what they think—& get back to you—now I must get back to work—

After that Tom whipped me round his aromatherapist—middle aged Ma-donna look-alike—his reflexologist—like an undertakers receptionist—pallid complexion—black skirt & top—probably a Goth in her teens & couldnt yet 8 6

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afford to upgrade—his herbalist—funny little man with a young-old face—

would have made a good Lord of the Rings elf. All happy to help me—after consulting patients first of course—Tom very persuasive—or—more likely—

they see Toms enthusiasm for a complementary therapy center at the manor as their route to fame & fortune—so what he wants—he gets!

(Cynical? Moi? A lifelong beleiver its love makes the world go round?

Love of self—or love of money—of course!) Tried to see Toms homeopath but he was laid up with a bad cold.

—maybe hes treating himself for pneumonia—I said.

Tom thought this was very funny—once hed worked it out—& insisted on repeating it to everyone else we encountered—adding Wildean wit to my other talents. He was still chortling as he led me into the Hope & Anchor—

the pub wed left Mr. Deal heading for. Wouldnt have surprised me to find him still drinking there after what dad said about him—but no sign of him among the tourists eating bar snacks in the main bar—nor in the smaller room we turned into. No food here—just four or five men drinking pints—& one leaning on the bar—in close confab with the barman.

Tom introduced me to them. Barman was Alan Hollis—the landlord—& the other was Hollis too—Hen Hollis—the disaffected sibling—who was the 1st guy Id met clearly not a fan of Toms. Must see him as tarred beyond re-demption with the Denham brush! Talking of tarred—this miserable old sod looked like hed not been near a bathtub since his 21st. If theres any family resemblance—Lady D must have been mighty releived when the pigs et hubby Number 1! Sorry. Shouldnt judge by appearances—specially in my line of work—but hes one of those long rangy guys—mean little eyes in a small narrow head—& a beard that made Mr Godleys look like it had been worked on by Errol Douglas—full of crumbs from the crisps he was stuffing between his sharp yellow teeth. Like a ferret on stilts—I thought—& he didnt like the look of me either—glowering at me like I was the whore of Babylon—I wish!—before he banged his glass on the bar—& left.

Landlord Alan is v different—midthirties—not bad looking—easy to talk with—hard to believe hes related to horrible Hen—no physical resemblance—

hes one of those steady calm-looking guys—the sort you want to see slip-T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 8 7

ping into the pilots seat when the aircrew all go down with e-coli—while Hen looks like hes on friendly terms with most known bacilli! But cant choose your relations—can you? As we well know!

The seated drinkers were fine too. Tom introduced me round—but I only really registered one of them—a man in a wheelchair. Hes called Franny Roote—& Tom made a big point of him being one of his alternative therapists.

Then Tom said—but shouldnt you be up at the hall—lunching with Lady D?—

Thats when it struck me with a shock—this was who Esther Denham meant when she said the legless wonder. What a cow!

—cant have a private life in Sandytown—said Franny—quite right Tom—but not for another ten minutes or so—& I much prefer the presence of new beauty to the prospect of old pork—

Gave me a big grin as he spoke—big attractive grin—so—telling myself Id better check if his kind of therapy fitted into my research area—I plumped myself down next to him—& we got talking—while Tom got deep into some consortium matter with a couple of the others.

Interesting guy—this Roote—something about him thats different—& I dont just mean the

wheelchair—something about the way he looks at you—& the way he talks. I found myself telling him all about me & my plans—not just me either—but you & George & Adam & Rod & the twins & mum & dad & the farm—OK—might be a line—but made me feel he was really interested—gives off a real sense of power—like theres nothing he cant do—sexy too—though maybe being paralyzed from the waist down means there is something he cant do?—need a bit of professional guid-ance here sis!

Youll be thinking I must be really frustrated—going on about Teddy the hunky bart—& now Fran the dishy paraplegic! Could be Toms right—& theres something in the Sandytown sea breezes that gets the red corpuscles bubbling—but I know that really my interest is purely professional—Ive given men up—remember!

Finally I got him talking about himself—fascinating—though as far as my 8 8

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research is concerned I soon realized Franny doesnt fit in at all. His thing is 3rd Thought—have you heard of it? I recall in my 1st year at uni going to a talk given by a guy called Frère Jacques—in dads terms very much a daft bugger!—who founded the movement. Lots in it about modern living making us lose touch with death—the need to establish a hospice of the mind—& a lot of similar gobbledygook which us smart 1st year psych students all rubbished like mad—but the guy himself was gorgeous—had an aura—& a lovely ass. Frannys the same—except his aura aint pure white like Frère Js—more shot silk—changing & mysterious—& I didnt get the chance to check out his ass! Anyway—thing is—with 3rd Thought theres no physical therapy involved—no taking up your bed & walking—not surprising really—guy in a wheelchair isnt likely to get far promising miracle cures. So—nothing here for me—except—I really enjoyed talking to him—& including him in my research gives me a good excuse for doing it again! So we ended by exchanging mobile nos & email addresses before he went off to Big Bums.

Anyway thats it for now. Spent the afternoon—after a sandwich in the pub—meeting the rest of the inhabitants of Sandytown—every single one of them it felt like!—then back here to Kyoto. Quiet night in—reading—& hammering the kids at snap! Make sure you answer this one sis. Dont see why you should get the details of my wild life in Sandytown while all I get from you is a pregnant (?) silence. So—no prevarications—I want dirt—I want dimensions!

Love

Charley xxx

12

FROM:

[email protected]

TO:

[email protected]

SUBJECT:

camomile

tea!

Hi! Still no word. Working on the Headbanger principle that the only thing that travels faster than bad news is crap through a goose—Ive not started worrying—yet!

Here excitement piles on excitement—not sure if Ill be able to bear much more!

Thats called irony by the way—just in case youve completely forgotten everything Mr big-Dickenson at the comp taught you in English—though I dont suppose you heard much of what he said—above the roar of your randy hormones!

First—Toms sister Diana turned up! None of the strong hints Id had about her oddness prepared me for the reality. Not bad looking—small & trim—full of words & fuller of energy—or so it seemed to me—though by her own—& Toms—account—she spends so much time lying at deaths door—she must be a real hindrance to his milkman!

Death must be on hold today—way she came bursting in at Kyoto like a small tornado.

—I am just arrived—she proclaimed—let me sit down (which she did)—your raw sea air—a tonic I know for some—is too savage for my weak constitution.

Where are the dear children ( jumping out of her chair)—I must see them at once—& this is Miss Heywood—I know you from Toms letters—my dear—its true Tom—a fine complexion—no trouble with your circulation—Tom—how is your ankle?—let me see (here she knelt & pulled up her brothers trouser leg & 9 0

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folded down his sock)—looks fine to me—very little swelling (not surprising as she was looking at the wrong ankle)—you say the Willingdene healer played a part?—an interesting acquisition—too late for me of course—years of misdiagnosis by incompetent MDs have put me beyond hope of healing—

but I work tirelessly for others—

As I listened to Diana rattling on—I began to understand Toms preoccupation with alternative medicine. In his beloved sisters eyes—alternative was mainstream—she was into alternatives to the alternatives!

Finally Tom got a word in—asking where her luggage was—assuming she would be staying at Kyoto—causing Mary to wince before the polite smile formed—but relief was on its way.

—such was of course my intention—said Di—but as you know I have been ever industrious in singing the praises of Sandytown—Tom—& as you may have noticed—I have been instrumental in persuading a freind of mine—

seeking a holiday destination for herself & her teenage neices—to choose Sandytown rather than one of the less salubrious resorts—so I thought I would drop in on her at Seaview Terrace to check that all was as perfect as I had promised—

—& was it?—asked Tom.

—alas no—she said—Unfortunately one of her neices had slipped while scrambling over some rocks on the

shore—damaging her

leg—not too

seriously—but sufficient for her to wish to recuperate at home—& naturally her sibling went with her. I found Sandy—that is my freind—Mrs Griffiths—

undecided whether to follow their example—or stay on by herself. Seeing the danger that her early return might start a rumor that Sandytown beach was unsafe—whereas the truth is—as you know Tom—we have some of the least slippery rocks on the east coast—I immediately offered my services—both as cotenant—& as a conduit into the best circles of the district—both of which offers Mrs Griffiths—that is—Sandy—was delighted to accept. Beleive me—only my sense of responsibility for the good name of Sandytown—& by implication of yourself—Tom—would make me inflict this disappointment on you & Mary—

She looked for applause—which Tom gave her—while Mary managed to T H E P R I C E O F B U T C H E R ’ S M E AT 9 1

murmur something about typical

kindness—& all I could think was—

unaccountable officiousness!

Tom—full of brotherly concern for her frail constitution—insisted on driving her back down to the Terrace—with me invited along too—I suspect in my capacity of St J Ambulance trained physician—in case the shock of the sea air brought on a seizure!

Sandy Griffiths—even though introduced as a “vegan warrior”!—had no onward signs of the kind of dottiness I suspect must be a precondition of chumming up with Deaths Door Di. 40 something—strong handsome face—

with a peculiarly disturbing

stare—I thought she looked pretty good for someone who presumably existed on sprout fricassees & nut cutlets. She made us v welcome. Tea was produced—camomile for Diana—of course!—

Typhoo for the rest of us—plus some v nice cream cakes—which Di thrust aside with a shudder—declaring that one bite would be the death of her. All the more for me! I noticed that Sandy G had a nibble too—so not a total vegan! Nor—it seemed to me—a particularly close buddy of Dianas—which made me wonder how shed let herself be maneuvered into having Di as her live- in guide. Tried some subtle probing—but Sandy G fixed me with her stare—so I backed off. Maybe being called Sandy makes her feel as proprietorial about Sandytown as Diana clearly does!

Tom clearly sees nothing but his sisters good points. He really is a sweetie. I find Im becoming as anxious as Mary that some people might be tempted to take advantage of his good nature.